Of Le Art du Vin

To close off my postings about the Loire Valley (you can see how much I adored the region on how many postings I dedicated to it). I would like to dedicate a short posting to the art of wine tasting and wine making. France and wine have become synonymous with each other, with the French perfecting wine making down to an art. They invented the study of viticulture for goodness sakes so they do know a thing or two about wine.

The Loire Valley where I visited are known for their white wine, especially the sparkling variety. The best way to get a wine tour is to sign up with a tour company who will take you to a number of different wineries and allow you to get a tasting at each one. All in the course of one afternoon.

I found myself on a very private tour with just me, a French tour guide, and 2 Canadian ladies (who knew less about wine than I did, which was to some relief).

Wine tasting is a delicate affair, full of unspoken rules.



1) The wine tasting is never free. There is always a fee and if you request a tasting, they are going to expect you to buy a bottle of wine, out of courtesy. Thankfully, as part of the tour group, we were not under any such obligations.

2) When the wine is poured, swill it around the glass to let it breathe. Smell it, take in the aroma of the wine in order to pinpoint all of the notes it contains. Like a perfume, let each layer reach shyly towards you.

3) Swish the wine in your mouth to better savor the many flavors within. Take your time, this is not an event to rush but a privilege to be enjoy. A wine is going to taste different every year since the amount of rainfall or the quality of the dirt will change the flavor of the grapes, give it different qualities that it may lack from previous years. Different flavors of grapes will equal a unique wine that can only be found within that particular year.

4) When you are done savoring the wine, spit (that's what the silver bucket is for). Swallowing is fine if you are not driving and you are only tasting a couple of wines. Swallowing is not fine when you have 10 different wines to taste and prone to getting light-headed from the beverage. I speak from personal (and shameful) experience, though in my defense, the only people who spit out the wine was our French tour guide.

Lastly, the coolest thing that I saw were the storage units for the wines. No warehouses and electric refrigerators in France. Here, nature is the master, and only her own refrigerator will do. The quarries underneath the hillsides are deep, rocky, and absolutely frigid. Perfect for storing that 1873 Chinon Blanc (a real wine too, worth 200 euros, which I saw in person, as well as other 100+ year old wines).



I also found my favorite type of white wine: sparkling. Like champagne but sweeter, it is heaven in a flute glass. A wine so complicated that it takes a month to prepare the newly fermented wine for transport to wine shops (a process that includes tipping the bottle, freezing it, then leaving it for an additional couple of weeks for the shock to settle). The result is the only wine bottle I purchased that day, which I cannot wait to drink.

Of Le Jardin

I may have been a bit vague in that last posting about where I was and why and how I got there. Well, let us backtrack. I had always planned on going back to France, if only to visit an authentic French vineyard and participate in a tasting. Lana, one of my travel mates, and I had actually planned to go to Bordeaux - home of French wine - but at the last minute, she decided to take a solo trip to the Isle of Skye, which left me by my lonesome as the only person who wanted to go back to France.

Short of hating myself for the rest of my life for not going back to France, I decided to throw caution to the wind and buy myself a plane ticket to Tours, France in the Loire Valley, recommended by many travel websites for its white wine and chateaux. What commenced was five too-short days traveling completely alone. Why so short? Because any longer and my brother-in-law, the only person in my family who would not kill me for doing this, was the only person who knew.

And because for safety purposes, a 4'11'' Asian girl with a lack of street smarts traveling around for an extended period of time all by herself is a recipe for trouble.

The reasons I wanted to go to the Loire Valley was three-fold: self-examination (ruminated on in the prior post), the wine, and the chateaux, of which there were more than 300 in the valley. Oh to be a rich nobleman in France during the 17th-19th century...or to be his wife...

The first one is the most famous: the Chateau de Chenonceau, out of more than 300 chateaux in the Loire Valley (also known as "Le Jardin de France" because of the rolling green hillsides dotted with beautiful castles).

In the afternoon, I boarded a train from Tours to visit the chateau. Getting off of the train, there was nothing around except for the sound of the birds. Then, I followed a grove of trees which I recognized from so many historical dramas with the main heroine being taken to a secluded mansion in the countryside, hidden by a tree-lined path. That was what I felt like, except my carriage was my two feet and I was trying to look past the trees, to catch my first glimpse of the chateau.

Then, my breath caught in my chest as the trees, like curtains, opened up and presented me with this:

In the late spring sun, with the chirping of the birds all around, I was a lady, calling on the owner. The most beautiful part of the chateau, besides its 3 stories of tapestry filled rooms, where the gardens, filled with the scent of spring roses blooming in every color and arranged in romantic swirling patterns. Everything had that feminine touch of romance, which is no surprise since it was owned by Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici (at different times), who were both involved with French monarchs.

And speaking of monarchs, the next day was the Chateau d'Amboise which I chose as a pilgrimage to the grave of Leonardo da Vinci, who died there. The chateau was located in the town of Amboise and overlooks it like a crown. Prior to coming, I wondered how I was going to be able to find the chateau if it was located in the town. To my surprise, it was not hard to find, as it was my first sight as I crossed the bridge from the train station into the little town of Amboise.

This one belonged to King Francois I. The rooms were a bit simpler than Chenonceau yet elegant all the same, with wooden chairs, decorated pillars, and gargoyles (indicative of a residual Gothic influence).

Afterward, I visited the Chateau du Close Luce, located about a couple of blocks north. This modest house, by royalty standards, here Leonardo spent the last 4 years of his life, at the request of King Francois I, who funded his experiments and art during that time. There was also a tunnel underneath the house that connected it to the Chateau d'Amboise, and where Francois could visit Leonardo whenever he wished.

It is also to this place that Leonardo brought the Mona Lisa when he finished it, not wanting to part with such a unique piece of art. Perhaps that is why the roses grown in the Renaissance-style garden are called Mona Lisa roses.

Visiting these chateaux, filled with so much history and beauty, one can't help but feel a little like royalty. Especially when they are not as well-known as Versailles and as such, you can walk the rooms alone and pretend you are a solitary visitor, a Renaissance noble, calling upon the master of the house. I almost did not want to leave this dream.

The Loire Valley, the photo album

Of Le Voyage Sentimental

The wine glass in my hand is cool to the touch. I examine the bubbles that steadily float to the surface, disappearing only to have a myriad of others take their place. I tip the glass. The wine touches my lips, sweet, a hint of fruit, and the bubbles flutter, a tickling sensation. An inexplicable giggle escapes me. I cannot pinpoint where exactly this pure delight came from. Perhaps it is the wine.

Or perhaps, it is something more broad. A combination of the place, of its sounds and sights. The taste of the wine on my tongue and the salad on my plate. In this place, this time, 8PM in Tours, France, surrounded by a stream of passing dialogue which I cannot understand, I feel something which had eluded me, which I had been trying to find as I rode on long train rides to far off destinations. Freedom. But most of all: invisibility.

Here, in this place, on my own, I am no one. I have no name, no identity. I do not need to speak with anyone nor is there anyone I desire to speak to. I do not need to follow anyone, to make any decisions for anyone. I only need myself and for once, I am comforted by that.

Here, I am just being.

I cannot say what compelled me to make this independent journey, bereft of the companionship of my friends. Perhaps it was because there was no one willing to come with me. Perhaps I did not look hard enough. Or perhaps, in reality, I wanted to do this one trip alone, to prove to myself that I was truly grown up, ready to make my own decisions, lead my own fate.

And this final trip is but a metaphor for my desired state of being.

They say as you grow older, more independent, you become more comfortable with yourself. And I cannot pinpoint the exact moments where I have turned into a different person, a more confident person. There are times where I feel insecure and insignificant. But not now, not at this moment in time. At this restaurant. At this time of night. Instead, I feel at ease, strangely happy to just be me. As the American poet William Carlos Williams once wrote, "I am lonely, lonely./I was born to be lonely,/I am best so!"

Indeed, sometimes, it's the best way to be.