He was one of the Italians I traveled with this week in Ohio. He is the agent, the broker, the finder of wines. And his specialty is wine of the Veneto, just to shred the lettuce even finer. Michele reflects a complex portrait; a subtle neuroticism that reflects Woody Allen and a head that stands in for Il Duce, a sexual appetite that rivals Mastroianni and a dollop of Uncle Fester. Michele struggles with an existential problem: He loves wine but he loves women even more.
I admit I like the guy. He doesn’t lie about who (or what) he is. He isn’t in control of all of his emotions, who is? But he recognizes his desires and he laughs at them as easily as we make fun of them. In other words, Michele doesn’t take himself too seriously.
What about his wines? He seems more interested in the (former) adult actress’s Sangiovese, among other things. I think he sees wine as his job and women as his passion. Maybe he doesn’t have it all that wrong. Wines come and go, but love, well isn’t love forever? In Michele’s world, forever might be a sequence of nights strung together like lights that line the yacht in the harbor. But my sense is that he just hasn’t found the depth in wine that he seeks in women, or love.
We should all have such engaging passions.
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