Italy: Hiking Hills Drunk and Hot

Wine, grappa, and the steps of a convent

After spending several days in Rome, which was cool, but not overly impressive to these two New Yorkers, my husband and I boarded a train to Florence.

Now this was more our vibe! Art and students everywhere. A sandwich shop with no tables, just little shelves outside where you could set your wine while you took a bite. The thrillingly ancient Ponte Vecchio. We ate and drank and gazed our way through until we deemed it time to hit up wine country.

Tuscany. The stuff of legends. My husband was a budding wine connoisseur. I just liked to see every corner of every place I go. The problem? We did NOT want to rent a car.

First off, we didn’t drive in our day-to-day life — New Yorkers, remember? Second, witnessing firsthand how Italians drive made us fear for our lives. Third, we wanted to DRINK.

No problem. There was a bus. The proprietor of our B&B refused to say anything to us except “No English” but somehow my husband got his hands on a bus schedule.

Taking buses is fun, mostly. It’s how the locals travel, and you get to see the countryside without thinking you’re about to crash. This was no different, and the bus driver was even kind enough to alert us to our stop.

We peered out the door. “Are you sure?” There was nothing really around. “Si, si.” Finally, we spotted a sign for “Castello di Verrazzano” at the end of a driveway. A driveway that went up a very, very big, long hill.

We started walking. And walking. The gravel road was dusty and it was hot.

It was beautiful too. The higher we got, the more of Tuscany we saw spread out before us. We passed tall, green hedges that gave us shade. I trailed my hand along them and was shocked to discover they were rosemary. I’d only ever seen rosemary in a pot. I couldn’t stop touching it.

A car went by, kicking up a cloud of dust. Then another. There was a group tour and lunch that we had a noon reservation for. Time was ticking. We walked faster. We sweated harder.

We huffed up to the winery, gross and slightly panicked, at approximately 12:03. All of the other patrons appeared to be newly retired Americans, looking cool and demure in sneakers and tank tops. One woman smiled at us. “That looked like fun! I almost stopped and offered you a ride but I’m sure you were enjoying yourself.”

“Yes, us too!” another couple chimed in.

We were too busy searching for water to ask them why they didn’t ASK at least.

The proprietor arrived to show us their (blessedly cool) wine caves, tell us the history of the place, and show us around the property.

“Those woods,” he said, pointing to the trees at the rear of the property, “ are full of wild boar. We will have some for lunch now.”

He wasn’t kidding. The lunch was in a large room inside the building. We had wild boar sausage, olives, pasta, cheese, and all the beautiful things Italy offers.

He showed us the proper way to taste wine, according to him: after pouring a small amount into his glass, he put the base of the glass on his palm and gripped it this way. He held it out away from his body at a slight angle. “And then you swirl, you see?” His Italian accent brought authority and romance to everything he said. “And you let your hips go with it.”

We all stood up and swirled our wine and our hips, laughing. To this day, I swirl my wine like this before drinking it.

Then, instead of walking us through a careful tasting of a few ounces of each wine, the staff set six full bottles of different wines at our table of six people and walked away.

Now, I have met plenty of retirees who can happily throw back a bottle of wine each. Apparently, however, this was not that crew. They all tasted a bit of each wine, dabbed their mouths with napkins, and got up to leave.

My husband and I, on the other hand, were in our late-20s. We had virtually emptied our bank account to take this trip. No way were we walking away from a bunch of half-empty bottles of incredible wine.

We did our best.

After most of the guests had already gotten up and left, Mr. Glass-and-Hip-Swirl came in again. “And now, grappa.”

I have only the vaguest memory of the grappa — a bit like rubbing alcohol with a hint of fire.

After that, we abandoned the rest of the wine. We still had to walk DOWN that hill. We wandered around the property, trying to sober up. There is a photo of me sitting on a stone wall there, looking over the Tuscan countryside. My mother-in-law printed and framed this because “you look so pensive.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was too drunk to see straight.

We stumbled down the hill, a much easier trip despite being deep in our cups, and caught the bus back.

After twisting and turning through the countryside, inhaling exhaust, and smelling all the smells of people and produce on a public bus, I looked over at my husband.

“I’m going to throw up.”

He looked around in a panic. Finding no toilet or trashcan handy, he unzipped the backpack full of our stuff he was carrying and handed it to me. To throw up in.

In his defense, he was also drunk.

I shoved the bag back at him. “We need to GET OFF.” At the next stop, we staggered off the bus and collapsed on some stone steps, waiting for it all to come up.

Then he nudged me and pointed at the building behind us. We were sitting on the steps of a convent.

I took the open bag back again.

In the end, the fresh air helped enough to keep all the wine down. We had no idea where we were, but a long slog back to our B & B helped to sober us up, followed by an afternoon nap.

Just in time to get up for dinner.