“Wait, no, this isn’t it. You need to turn around. I am sorry but I think it’s back there”.
He rolled his eyes and laughed a little as he put the car into reverse and backs up into a small clearing between the vines. It is a dirt road that is surrounded by vineyards in every direction. The grape leaves are turning and it looks like a wine wonderland. A blanket of color draped over the landscape; patches of red, yellow and gold stitched together with little threads of greens.
This is the best time of year to be in Burgundy. It is breathtaking.
He turned us around and headed to the fork a few hundred meters back down the road. The gravel beneath the tires is loud and made it difficult for us to hear one another. He is positioned upright with both hands on the wheel like he just learned to drive. I laugh and make fun of him a bit about it but Vincent manages a coy smile and lifts his eyebrow little and says, “I am not the one managing the map, perhaps the wrong turn could have been avoided”
Within a few moments, we had arrived at Domaine du Duc de Magenta also know as the Abbey de Morgeot.
I got out of the car and push open the large wooden door of the gated entrance. We walked into the courtyard and it reminds me of country scenes from Jane Austen films I used to watch with my mother on lazy Sunday afternoons back in Seattle. I think about how much I miss her. And what she might say to me if she were still around about the bizarre French life I’ve been leading over the last year. I actually don’t think she would be surprised but more gratified that some of her audacious spirit continues to live inside of me.
We are greeted by Arnaud Million and his assistant, a young brunette woman. He started his tour, explained some of the histories of the Abbey and she followed behind him. The abbey was originally founded by monks in the 11th century. All but the medieval wine cellar and stone walls that surround the vines were destroyed during the French Revolution. With this information I looked around and see the scares of war. They appear on the buildings and serve as reminders of France’s complex and painful divided between its spiritual faith and that of intellectual enlightenment in the 18th century.
Sensing I could understand only about half of what he was saying he asked if I’d like to switch to English. I am relieved. My companion is French but his English is much better the my French. I feel guilty sometimes when everyone around me switches to English on my behalf. I do my best and continue with my “toddler French” in an effort make everyone around me comfortable.
Arnaud walked us through the courtyard’s square that separates the farmhouse and winery. The leaves crackle under my feet as I step over them in my white tennis shoes. I notice the roses climbing up the front of the house. I can see a printer and stacks of papers through the window. I assume this Arnaud’s office and think about my step-Father, Todd. His office and the disarray it was always in. I smile to myself. Todd was a wine importer in Seattle specializing in ports and fine Italian wines.
An older man with a wiry build and sharp facial features is resting against one of the large pieces of farming equipment just outside the winery. He looks directly at me and I manage a meek, “Bonjour” just before Arnaud interrupts to give us a quick introduction. “That is Jean Philippe, the domaine’s winemaker”. Jean-Philippe says nothing, turns back to his work and walks into the winery. It is a classic French interaction that I have begun to appreciate in its beautiful stereotype.
When I walked down the steps into the abbey’s wine cellar there is an overwhelming feeling of solidarity. Each stone placed there by the hand of a monk. I imagine silhouettes of these men walking through the cellars and racking the barrels that I see in front of me. Men that might have resembled Jean-Philipe. Sometimes when I visit cellars like this I feel like an archaeologist rather than some wine obsessed geek. It is part of the magic for me.
The Domaine had just finished their 2017 harvest and the juice was still singing as it fermented inside the barrels. I remove the round burlap patch on top of the barrel, kneel down and listen to the acoustics. I think about the life of the vines, the berries they produced that year and the wine they are transforming into inside the barrels.
We walk into a separate room adjacent to the barrel room. It is empty except for a single upright barrel on the dirt floor with corkscrew made from an old grape vine. Traditional style with a lacquered handle. Vincent comments that his Father has one just like it. I sense his own feelings of nostalgia for his family and childhood. Arnaund asks if we would prefer to taste here in the cellar or inside the farmhouse above. Without hesitation, we both say inside the cellar. It seemed like an obvious decision. Arnaud leaves us for a moment to retrieve the bottles from inside the farmhouse. I look around and take in the cellar once again admiring the brinks, their texture the eerie energy they give off as I am enclosed inside.
He returned after a few short moments, places the bottle in his right hand and begins to twist the lacquered vine top of the corkscrew. We are tasting through three of their wines: 2012 Chassagne Montrachet 1st Cru, 2015 Bourgogne Rose, and 2015 Bourgogne Pinot Noir.
We start the tasting with Arnaud and his assistant. She is young. Maybe 19 or 20 years old. It is clear he is showing her the ropes of welcoming guests and the business of wine. It reminds me of my Step-Father again. I was 23 when I took me under his wing and emerged me into the world of wine. She sips the wine, runs it over her tongue and with expert persuasion discharges it into the spittoon. I am impressed.
The conversation began to fade as I could only concentrate enough to gather bits and pieces of it. The three of them laughed shared thoughts about the wines. They would swirl their glasses and stick their noses in then repeat the process again. Every once in awhile I would catch something like framboise (raspberry) or “pomme vert” (green apple) in their conversation.
It is moments like these that force me to be alone amongst the company of others. It is strange, isolating and sometimes painful yet overtime has become something I have begun appreciate and even crave. It has given me the ability to truly be present in my own experience. It is the reality of language divide. I feel like a ghost caught between two worlds, straddling cultures and language.
Reality blurs and it is just me alone in the cellar holding the base of my glass. I look down at the pale white wine, swirl it around and bring it to my nose. It smells like fresh lemon, lime, and unripe pear. It is crisp in my mouth. I am transported back to a few moments before outside the cellar, in courtyard of the abbey where the leaves on the ground are crisp like the wine and crackle under my shoes again. Then back into my mom’s embraces on those Sunday afternoons.
