It seemed as if these grapes were growing on every hillside in the Chianti Region. And yes, I picked a small bunch and ate them. Sure, sure, if every tourist were to do the same, where would they get the grapes for the Chianti? Since I don't drink Chianti, I didn't give that much thought, all I knew is that I wanted a fresh grape, right from the vine. And what I did think as I bit into that sweet, dusty orb was how it reminded me of my childhood; it tasted just like the grapes my grandfather used to grow on the trellis in our backyard. It was delicious!
The hills, unfortunately not captured by my camera as it was seen by my eye, were covered with a patchwork of beautiful vineyards. Each hill we crested, each turn we took, was a scene more beautiful than the last.
What's more fantastic to me is that people actually live there. In villages that look as if they've been created from pages ripped out of books filled with children's fairy tales; the places where the girl who becomes the fairy princess once lived. Her uncles running wineries, her mother gathering the grapes. It didn't feel quite real, but it was.
I'm not a big wine drinker, as I mentioned, but when you're served a glass of wine which identifies the grape variety on a label attached to the stem of your glass, one that comes from the very region you just drove through before finding the little restaurant you're now sitting in. Well, it kinda makes you want to buy a farmhouse.
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