IT WAS 9:30 in the morning and I was already tipsy.
He insisted he knew women. He didn’t.
This family affair meant three full glasses of wine—so dark it’s known as shavi gvino: black wine

The hotel was in a village of stone houses and overgrown pomegranate trees.
It has bearskin rugs alongside photographs of David Bowie and Elizabeth Taylor.
He insisted he knew women. He didn’t.
This family endeavor meant bowlfuls of fresh blackberries and moonshine with the flavor of gasoline schnapps.
I felt this spirit of optimism and momentum. Fresh-gathered mushrooms, a forest thick with butterflies, along with sheep’s cheese from the nearby mountains.
He insisted he knew women. He didn’t.
This family affair still meant, the sharp, strong, amber in hue—white wine.

I’d been assured, I didn’t have to worry about him.
I noticed a mossy stone wall. Behind it stood a tiny Medieval chapel. No plaque, no people. Only the insistent buzzing of bees.
I insisted I needed him. I didn’t.
I came across two old men: they poured me a shot and we toasted:
to new friends, to new love.