Ocean Foam or Sidra Foam?

 For those of you who read my blog, you might wonder, “Where has she gone? Has she suddenly lost interest in wine?” Well, the answer is definitively “NO!” however, I have been a poor steward of my blog. It’s been a wonderfully busy month, yet, the hub-bub makes it more of a challenge to sit down and muse about wine. Especially when all of my enological experiences of late are hard to write about in succinct, meaningful posts. Why? Well, I have not visited any wineries or participated in any tasting events per se. I haven’t met any new friends who are directly linked to the wine industry or tried wine from a country that I didn’t know produced it.

Instead, I’ve been celebrating otherwise meaningful moments and wine has taken more of a backstage role, while remaining ever-present. I bid my adieux to those I loved in Alicante over bottles of wine. Particularly on my third-to-last night where we went to a bar called Vino y Más, a place I’ve wanted to go ever since my very first stroll through Alicante. To all of those soon to visit, this little store is a must. If your experience is anything like mine, you’ll get a few free tapas and free reign of the music.

I received bottles of wine as parting gifts, which proved to be challenging souvenirs to take with me. I must have looked rather funny when leaving Alicante on a train for Madrid with 2 bottles of wine perched in my backpack. I had the rest wrapped in scarves and stuffed into a broken bag that I had to carry close to my chest like an infant.

I was able to lesson my load when I opened one of the bottles, a rosé champagne, the first night that I left to celebrate a long-anticipated reunion with the man I love (Who, as a matter of fact, didn’t drink any wine while we were apart as a gesture of his affections- I wonder if the gesture would have ever manifested if I were a beer-lover, his actual drink of choice).

From that moment forward, wine was poured several times a day- it seemed like everything was a celebration. Miguel’s return to Asturias, my presence at his family’s dinner table, the reunion of his best friends, Christmas Eve, our first glass in front of the fireplace in Vibañu, etc. It was as if Albariño and Tempranillo were the friendly ghosts of Christmas cheer that followed our every move.

But, I wasn’t done celebrating. Just two days after Christmas, I flew to Catalonia to meet my cousin. It was in Barcelona that we debuted our two-month backpacking trip through Europe. The first glass we shared together also happens to be the most comical glass I’ve ever drunk. It was served to us in a porrón, which looks a bit like a pointy nipple and spits out wine in an arc that you have to catch in your mouth. Beware of the inevitable chin dribbled that will ensue. As much as I got a kick out of the porrón, it left you no time at all to savor and reflect on the wine because in order to pour correctly you had to simultaneously gulp down the wine. It reminded me a lot of the way that I have to drink water when I have the hiccups.

When Liv, my cousin, and I returned to Asturias, we sort of ran the gamut on beverages. We drank sidra with the villagers of Cudillero, vermut especial with Miguel’s friends, local Asturian beer, sparking hard cider that even his 84-year-old Grandma enjoyed with us, and, admittedly, Jagger-bombs and gin & tonics on New Years Eve.

We’ve since left Asturias and it’s funny how quickly one looses the habit of enjoying good drink. There, it was abundant- all one had to do what reach across the table and enjoy an excellent wine selected my Miguel’s family. Since we’ve left, we have to consider our budget, deliberate and usually make up our righter minds and decline. The life of a 23 year old backpacker is not one of luxury.

However, I was extremely lucky to receive the gift of a dinner reservation at Arzak, one of the best restaurants in the whole world. It’s located in San Sebastián and touts some of the finest haute cuisine known to the modern palate. Olivia and I were speechless… for several reasons. First, the establishment was beautiful and the 16 course meal was astounding and second, because we felt slightly nervous. We whispered and tried to obey all the ‘rules’ that seemed necessary due to the pomp and circumstance that went into making the restaurant seem of highest quality. Slowly, however, that feeling seemed to fade. Maybe it was facilitated by the Verdejo we were enjoying or because the decibel of the entire restaurant seemed to increase when the food started arriving. It’s hard to keep in one’s enthusiasm when you’ve just had the single best-taking mushroom of your life or when your waiter is cracking open a foam shell in order to reveal the sea-bass underneath. Everything about the meal was extraordinary and we savored every minute of it, knowing full well that we might never be invited to a meal so luxurious again in our lives. We were one of the last groups in the restaurant and, obviously, in no rush to leave. But alas, the clock was about to strike twelve and we didn’t want our glass slippers to turn into the hyper-masculine hiking boots we’ve been wearing the other hours of the day.

Now, I’m writing from a train that’s taking us from San Sebastián to Périgeux, Frances capital of foie gras. Seeing as that’s now illegal in California, the home state of both my cousin and myself, I wonder what else we’ll encounter that borders on unhealthy debauchery? What ever it is, sign me up! Je suis bien prête.