I’m finally getting it about wine, and it’s about time. There’s a wine bar at Logan where we sat to wait for our flight to Amsterdam two weeks ago. Not only were the Chèvre salad and sausage and cheese a perfect meal but the wine was outstanding, and arrived with tiny slips of paper identifying place, year, and grape. I felt like I’d just awakened and been introduced to my tongue.

Fine paintings–this one a series of Klemt prints hung on the walls of our AMAWaterways riverboat sailing the Danube–have the same visceral burst.

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