fruitful days

I am beginning to know the seasons according to the fruits they bear. For the past two years I have looked forward to the Fall for the grape harvest, one which I whole-heartedly participate in, picking, stomping and eventually, drinking the wine. Now, as Winter has turned to Spring, the last of the oranges and many a lemon fill the landscape, ripe for the picking, and tasting. The olive trees patiently await their turn, as do the grape vines, barren of any signs of life.

As I busy myself picking the most succulent of fruit, careful not to step on a strawberry patch as I admire the view of the sea, my Italian’s father carefully grafts the grape vines, anticipating the upcoming harvest. He returns daily to the land, to nurture seeds he has planted, or to plant new ones. I am fascinated by the evolution taking place before my eyes, and understand well what drives the soul to the seed. Very simply, it’s the satisfaction of assisting in the miracle of creation. And certainly, enjoying the fruits of your labor.

In the coming months the yellows and oranges will be replaced by the reds of strawberries and cherries. These blossoms will have metamorphosed into peaches. And I will be there to pick them.

scenes of a village

I first discovered Monterosso during my trip around the world over 3 years ago. It was a seredipitous encounter, completely unplanned. I fell in love immediately. It’s hard not to, being surrounded by so much natural beauty. Little did I know, it was a place I would come to call home.

These days, my Italian and I are settling into life in a village. Home on the Mediterranean. Spending time with family, making wedding arrangements and taking time to taste the oranges hanging in the trees and listen to the sounds of the church bells. It is these scenes that currently compose my life.

Paris feels very far away.

tribute to the girls

Recently I read an article that confirmed my belief in the importance of girlfriends. It proved something along the lines of how women find comfort in other women much in the  same way that a man finds comfort in his wife or partner. This I believe, having formed several lasting female friendships throughout my life. Most of whom I am still deeply connected to.

A few weeks ago, two such dear friends and I met for a quick jaunt in London. Unabashed girl time. Karen was flying in from Istanbul (where she is living her own adventure), parting with her little girls in order to spend time with the big ones. I hopped on the train from Paris, and we both met at the home of Brandy, whose wedding we attended last Spring in a castle in Scotland.

Karen and I have been friends since the high school days (we won’t mention exactly how long ago that was…) Brandy we met during the university years when she and Karen shared a room. On my way via train I thought about our many journeys together. A spring break when Karen won a luxury trip to Jamaica and rather than inviting her then boyfriend, she brought me. (That is friendship!) There too we met Brandy for the less luxurious yet equally exciting chapter of our Jamaican holiday. (Ah the stories we can tell!) I also recalled our travels in Italy in which we drove (or can I say sped) all the way to Croatia. And never will I forget our millenium spent in Amsterdam where another friend Anna joined us, as did many a random adventure. The list of girl bonding goes on…

Rarely did we all ever live in the same city, yet both Karen & Brandy called my first NY apartment their home. So many chapters of our lives we have shared together, and continue to. Next stop Italy!

London in the rain proved the ideal background for colorful conversations and carousing…

It is friends like this that become the family we are not born with. For them, I am grateful.

vintage lives

Recently I attended an event at the newly opened Rose Bakery in the 12th, well situated within the walls of contemporary art space La Maison Rouge. It was not the tasty appetizers nor the wine that whet my appetite. Nor was it the ‘tous cannibales‘ exhibition spread throughout the space. (Quite a shock to the senses for anyone attending!) What most captured my gaze and provoked many a thought was an exhibition by Chiharu Shiota entitled, From Where We Come and What We Are.

Hundreds of beaten up suitcases constructing what appeared to be a house; a form of shelter.

I could not help but to think of the lives of and behind these suitcases, where had they traveled, on what journey had they been, when and for how long. These vintage bags had many a story to tell, as did those whose hands they had passed through.

Chiharu asks ‘Do memories help construct us or do they prevent us from moving on?’ A good question. Personally, I choose the former.


warm sentiments

I’ve returned from the eternal sunshine known as Florida. At least in body. My mind is still filled with palm trees and the cries of seagulls. It was beneath such a landscape that we spent a warm and memorable Christmas in the company of my mom. Many days of calm, conversation and characters. It was ideal, this welcome jaunt into what felt like another space and time.

Rather than fly to NYC and brave a pending snow storm (hadn’t we had enough of that already in Paris?), we ventured to Miami. What better place to celebrate the New Year than South Beach?

I’ve never been a big fan of New Year’s Eve, as reality always seem to take an opposite turn from my expectations. A lesson in letting go perhaps. It’s the beginning of the next year that I welcome. Rather than make an ambitious list of resolutions as has often been my habit, (and usually recycling them the next year), I decided instead to be clear and mindful of my goals. Most of all, to be aware of what is most important in life. Family. Friends. Health. Love. To name a few. Day 7, so far so good.

And now, being back in the cold and grey of Paris, those days in Florida feel like a distant blur… 

homage to the grape

This past week I learned how to harvest wine grapes. In Monterosso. With my Italian and his father, who has been harvesting for decades. Last year, I merely assisted in stomping the grapes, surely as much fun as it sounds (and largely a tourist attraction I might add). This year, I became a true laborer of the land. Little did I know the travail of such sweet work. And the fulfillment that follows.

Harvesting began at 8am. The view itself was worth the early rise. Acres of stepped land, locally referred to as poggi, covered by vines and olive trees. I was wide awake, as were all other forms of wildlife, namely flies resembling wild mosquitos and sneaky little salamanders. No fear. I took to the task at hand and in meditative rhythm the grape cutting began. With intermittent tasting, to ensure quality of course.

The picking continued for three hours, filling over 12 huge crates. We had finished one piece of land but two more remained. It appeared this harvest was much larger than the last, though the grapes were not as high a quality. Thus sciacchetra (my favorite local dessert wine of Cinque Terre) could not be produced. But white wine would flow!

After a well earned home-cooked meal of pasta and fish followed by a nap on the beach (harvesting is exhausting!) it was time to press the grapes. This part I love. I feel fortunate that my Italian’s father has not modernized the technique. It’s still a very hands on, or in this case, ‘feet on’ experience. 

With great care we crushed the grapes as my Italian’s father collected the juice to add to the 300 liter boiler. Almost as quickly as we finished our grape dance the container was filled. Soon the boiling would begin.

The following day our ‘homage to the grape’ continued. Picking. Eating. Stomping. In 3 months time we drink! I will forever appreciate a glass of wine. Especially one from the Poggi Harvest of 2010.

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