Wineville

When I think of the city I think of sooty air, tall brick buildings lined up close. I think of grey, cement footpaths right up against the streets and the streets cluttered with cars of all shapes, colors, conditions and sizes. And I love it. Each city is its own entity. I love the grittiness of New York and Chicago the most. Once I arrive to Paris I'm happier, because the paths are cobblestone and the buildings are older and more romantic for the eyes. Every city is its own entity and every city draws its own people. I love a city first for its setting and next for its people. The places I love to visit and cannot live are along the open fields and grassy prairies. I am content with these aspirations. But offer me an elegant nook along the rolling hills of grapevines nearby a winery and I might, just might become content away from the soot and old bricks and cement. If the winery were surrounded by cobblestone and palatial buildings that house passionate vintners and connoisseurs I would stay.

Oh, where is my Wineville?

There, people dress like they respect themselves and they respect the fine things life offers. There, music croons through the plazas and back gardens and people dance and love the wine and music and one another. And the wind blows, and the grapes smell good on the vines, almost as divine as they do in the glass. Little back porches provide the peace required for a cup of wine with the moon. Oh, where is my Wineville? Till I find it I shall sojourn among the bricks and pavement and cars and massive people. I will visit little wine hideaways among it all, and uncork a small amount of the passion that my Wineville offers.