Prologue
In four-hundred odd years of traveling, my tired eyes have witnessed many things. Indeed, I have seen and heard much more than could ever be captured in an account of even epic length. The greatest author blessed the most fantastic imagination could not relay a tale quite like mine. You ask my name? I have no name. I am known only by my trade. People call me a merchant, I dislike that. I carry the banner of no great nation; I represent the financial backing of no wealthy family. I have never dealt well with the hustle and bustle of a market and I don’t play well with others. I simply sell or trade wine. But I digress…
I was once called a “wine peddler”. Another title, I dislike titles. Apparently peddlers wander about, selling their product on street corners far away from the market to escape the heavy taxation that most cities and towns impose upon a poor businessman. I cannot dispute the accuracy of the description, but I refute the title nonetheless. I sell my wine and I move on. Thus I have seen much.
Now four hundred years is a long time, and one’s memory becomes somewhat… selective. A friend calls me “forgetful”, I don’t much care for that. With that said, the life of a wine… peddler… leads to considerable consumption of the beverage. A book of notes is all I possess to jog the memory of an old man, and even these are stained considerably by the tint of a fine blush.
My journey has given me a unique opportunity. Wine is a social lubricant. It naturally incites conversation. One can learn much simply by listening and observing. For most of those late night discussions, I spoke very little. Salesmen should be seen, not heard, especially around dinner time. I have heard happy stores and heart wrenching tales. Perhaps now it is time for me to relay some of those to you…
Let me begin…
In four-hundred odd years of traveling, my tired eyes have witnessed many things. Indeed, I have seen and heard much more than could ever be captured in an account of even epic length. The greatest author blessed the most fantastic imagination could not relay a tale quite like mine. You ask my name? I have no name. I am known only by my trade. People call me a merchant, I dislike that. I carry the banner of no great nation; I represent the financial backing of no wealthy family. I have never dealt well with the hustle and bustle of a market and I don’t play well with others. I simply sell or trade wine. But I digress…
I was once called a “wine peddler”. Another title, I dislike titles. Apparently peddlers wander about, selling their product on street corners far away from the market to escape the heavy taxation that most cities and towns impose upon a poor businessman. I cannot dispute the accuracy of the description, but I refute the title nonetheless. I sell my wine and I move on. Thus I have seen much.
Now four hundred years is a long time, and one’s memory becomes somewhat… selective. A friend calls me “forgetful”, I don’t much care for that. With that said, the life of a wine… peddler… leads to considerable consumption of the beverage. A book of notes is all I possess to jog the memory of an old man, and even these are stained considerably by the tint of a fine blush.
My journey has given me a unique opportunity. Wine is a social lubricant. It naturally incites conversation. One can learn much simply by listening and observing. For most of those late night discussions, I spoke very little. Salesmen should be seen, not heard, especially around dinner time. I have heard happy stores and heart wrenching tales. Perhaps now it is time for me to relay some of those to you…
Let me begin…
