There, I’ve written a title that sounds journalistic. It probably won’t happen again.

German publisher Meininger has named Cantina Tollo the best cooperative winery in Europe. Cantina Tollo is in the Abruzzo.

The Abruzzo has traditionally been a place from which jugs of cheap Montepulciano d’Abruzzo came to American. Then there was yet another earthquake, then “The American” and now a cooperative winery that beats out the French, Germans, and the fine wines of Chianti and Piemonte. What next?

(Perhaps the judges were influenced by the picture in the upper left of the Cantina Tollo website. I am a pig too. I like it. A slender wine glass nestled between two of those “ample” breasts pornographers like to talk about will make me thirst any time. So sue me.)

What makes Cantina Tollo interesting is the cooperative part. In the US, the word “cooperative” is reviled, especially by the political right wing. “Nobody gonna drink no Communist wine in these states, ya hear!” Nope, we love big companies who hold sway over the population and own their senators outright and make cheap crap.

But listen up, talking about the cooperative:

The farmers own little land individually, partly because of the nature of the countryside, and partly due to family histories and external events. Every grower ekes out his existence on these small patches of ground, working all out. Here lies Cantina Tollo’s main strength : intensive care of the vineyard rests in the hands of those most concerned with the results. At the Cantina the day of the harvest is decided on area by area and grapes delivered to the Cantina. Here they are vetted load by load and sent on their way to their own pressing line. That’s how wine is made, the grapes are given the name of the wine before they are pressed, each lot being assigned its own cycle and process. The wine is subject to only physical processes as wine is a living, delicate substance that must be handled without artifice. ~ Vinitalia: Beyond the confines of the Abruzzo

Isn’t it romantic to think about “intensive care of the vineyard rests in the hands of those most concerned with the results” instead of gross profits?

Oddly, when I registered my Italian presence with the local constabulary last time in Fivizzano, the guy would only talk about the fame of Abruzzesi Earnest and Julio Gallo.

The grass is always greener…

I’ve recently had a nice twitter discussion about “the olden days” in the Cinque Terre, and it brought back memories. I was there then—thirty years ago. Nobody else who uses twitter seems to have been alive then.

(It’s amazing and somewhat disconcerting to realize that you’re old enough to have experiences nobody else has had. Pass the Geritol.)

The web doesn’t seem to have much about the history of the Cinque Terre. At least there’s nothing of any depth. It would be great fun to do an oral history of the place. You’d just pick out some grizzly old fart on a bench in Corniglia and start talking about the old days and record the whole deal. Takers?

There are some self-serving “Readers Digest Condensed Versions” of Cinque Terre history floating around the web. Rick Steves makes Cinque Terre History his own.

Translation of the piece if you don’t want to read it: A bunch of stuff happened and then I came on the scene and changed the place for good.*

I’ve read other things about the tiresome pirate attacks when the villages weren’t really connected well to the rest of Italy, and about the 20th century poverty, when folks laboring hard in the vineyards hoping for a cash crop to get them through the winter were forced to sell to buyers who had them over a barrel—as in, “you can sell cheap to me or you can let the stuff rot because nobody else is coming to your isolated and backwards village to drink this swill…”

You can just hear them spitting, can’t you?

In any case, the Cinque Terre I remember from 30 years ago used to be a very laid back place. I remember two distinct episodes. Once I was walking the trails in fall, and there were people out harvesting grapes. Men and women with grizzled and purple hands were cutting the bunches on the steep slopes and flinging them into big plastic baskets to be balanced upon the heads of eager and sturdy youths who’d take them down the trail into town.

I remember standing on the narrow dirt path, facing a line of youth laboring under these enormous loads and wondering what to do. I quickly pulled off the trail far enough to let them pass, wedging my ample form between vines and waiting. Nobody passed. I peeked out and saw the leader of the group motioning me to go ahead. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t even figure out how the grapes didn’t fall off his head due to the fact he was motioning me forward with a free hand.

Eventually stumbling forward in my stupor over such excessive politeness I edged past the grinning troops, only later to encounter an old woman on the side of the trail with a rickety table upon which was arranged some seasonal fruit. She looked poor. I don’t remember how the poor looked that long ago, but something about her screamed poverty to me. So, given that I had no water or food, I decided to buy a couple of fruits—say they were apples, I don’t remember any more. I took a couple. She turns away. Finally, I ask “how much” in English and she answers something that seems like “whatever you think.”

Hmmm. So I get out 1000 lire, figuring that was enough. At the time it might have been about 75 cents, I dunno, but she looks at me like I’ve murdered her only child in front of her eyes, clutching at her chest like she is about to embark upon an unplanned trip to her maker. So I put out another 1000 lire.

Now she looks at me like I’ve just laid a greasy monkey wrench on her only-for-special-occasions lace tablecloth. I remember being afraid she was going to spit.

So I scrounge for another 1000 lire note. Bingo. I mean, it’s not like she’s smiling or anything, but she takes the money and I’m free to go. That’s like 4 bucks for two apples. Somehow, I think I got taken.

The odd thing is that I was probably the only person who’d had that experience that day. Hardly anyone went to the Cinque Terre. I may not even have known back then that it was named that; I had a rail pass and was just traveling up the coast, stopping when the stopping seemed good.

Things have changed, eh?

——

*You may also wish to read: Rick Steves, His Foreskin, and the Cinque Terre. It’s quite popular here.