How to Plant Vineyards #1: First There Was a Flash

I wonder how to begin, how to capture this unique moment when I realize I’ll be making wine. But I come to the conclusion that this moment doesn’t really exist, that the very fact that I’m here and now is more the culmination of life’s twists and turns than the result of a single, memorable event.

Besides, this story is meant to be a testament to struggle, a rational description. But how can you write about rationality if, from the start, the entire premise is irrational. A return on investment after 15 years, assuming there are harvests and wine? Crazy! There’s a cliché that to make a small fortune in wine, you first have to spend a large fortune. That’s not far off, in fact, it’s not far off from reality at all. So what am I doing here?

To address this issue, I think I should start with myself and introduce myself. I’m 44 years old and have lived my entire adult life in the city. But that would be too easy an explanation, because if I wanted to live in the countryside, I would simply live in the countryside. We’re talking about something much more here, about a shift towards a different relationship between people, nature, and the environment.

For years, I pursued what I felt passionate about. First, it was politics, then the internet world, then dancing and teaching Argentine tango, and somewhere in between, I wrote for a drawer, sometimes for a bookstore shelf. However, looking back now, all these pursuits took place in a virtual, imagined, even ephemeral world. And that’s where the devil lies. I needed something tangible to be happy, and that’s precisely what viticulture is.

I deliberately write “vine growing” rather than “wine production,” because the deeper I delve into the topic, the more I begin to understand that these are two ends of the same coin, perhaps at the same time. Viticulture is a communion with nature, with its blessings and often its whims. Viticulture is largely about powerlessness in the face of what surpasses us, about understanding that despite our best intentions and efforts, nature will often mock us. For me, viticulture is an attempt to subordinate ourselves to nature, something that doesn’t exist in the virtual world.

For seven years, I spent two months every year in Argentina. Basically, I spent it exclusively in Buenos Aires, learning tango from the masters, while vowing to see more of the country next time. Of course, it was the same every year; before I even considered leaving the city, it was time to return. Only last year did I “escape” from Buenos Aires to Mendoza. On the way, I got the contact information for a mutual friend who owned a vineyard there. Once there, I realized that when he spoke of a vineyard, he was actually referring to a field where he grew vines, and like most local farmers, he sold his harvest to large wineries. Like the rest, he kept a small portion of the grapes for himself to make wine for himself and friends after hours. Incidentally, this is how the expression “vino de casa” was coined.

I recalled that trip to Mendoza because I was struck by how common it was that those who grew the grapes never had any contact with the production process, never touched a bottle, never attached a label. It’s like taking your child to school every day and not showing up for the end of the school year. Only later did I realize that this is the rule rather than the exception in the wine world, not only in Argentina but also in Europe.

Of course, in production we also rely on nature (fermentation, aging), but here nature is more confined to the “laboratory” of the winery. Here, we can brazenly manipulate nature, and how it “turns out” depends primarily on the effort and talent of the winemaker. This doesn’t mean, of course, that cultivation and production are separate. Another well-known saying is that you can’t make good wine from a bad grape. There is an intimate interdependence between the two; they are two sides of the same coin.

And perhaps this is where the secret lies. A bottle of wine on the table is the result of a multidimensional world that inexplicably speaks to me and relentlessly draws me in. Cultivation is a test of patience, of confronting oneself with something greater. When growing grapes, I imagine myself as a patient teacher, almost “by the hand,” guiding my pets. When making wine, however, I imagine myself as an artist who, understanding the rules, is willing to take risks, to add something just a little bit of themselves as a nod to nature but also to my own individual DNA. At least that’s what I tell myself.

PS: Writing about what inspired me to decide to plant a vineyard left me feeling a bit unsatisfied. Naturally, the question arises: why wine and not, say, wheat? After all, what I wrote about cultivation and the workings of nature apply to everything sown and plowed.

Wine, however, is different. Assuming we are present not only at the cultivation but also at the production, we witness first the metamorphosis from fruit into liquid, and then the veritable birth of a unique child (and so it is every year). A child who, under the winemaker’s loving care, constantly changes, acquires character, evolves, and takes on a unique expression of place and time. Provided, of course, that you succeed as a “parent,” you won’t make a mistake, but even if you do, wine forgives and offers a new chance every year.

“But wait, there’s more!”—as salespeople often entice in television commercials. Wine is a civilizational denominator, embodying the course of history from Roman times to our own reality, summing up who we are, here and now. But above all, wine is about sharing the joy of life, a family dinner, an evening gathering with friends, and the prelude to a stimulating conversation. Sometimes it’s also an image of a person drinking alone, because that’s how life should be.