"Wine and Wild Blackberries"
Spending an extensive amount of time in the Alsace region of France, my drink of choice has turned into white wine. Alsace is a region defined by its unique character: a little bit medieval, a little bit German, and a little bit more French. Architecture is characterized by the half-timber houses of the middle ages, and German specialties like bretzels and beer make their way onto Alsatian menus. Somewhere between the Middle Ages, when Alsace was covered in castles and cathedrals, and current day, the region became France’s number one spot for white wine. Here it is a sin to drink anything but Alsatian wine; God forbid one would serve a white wine from another region. I have come to think along the same lines.
The abundance of vineyards in the valley between the French Vosges and the German Black Forest are a natural work of art; hues of green and yellow stretch across gentle hills, only stopping when they meet the horizon. A day spent on the Route des Vins, the Wine Road is like a journey through a watercolor painting; colors blend and dance across the landscape.
Vineyards are bordered by small Alsatian villages, characterized from far away by the singular church steeples that rise from the valley. In the midst of greens, villages are small seas of reds and pinks, dotting the landscape.
A balmy summer Sunday, we decide to drive into the countryside. It has rained non-stop for the last week and Mikael says it will be good to enjoy the much awaited for sunshine. I myself just want to escape the city and get out into the country. In the marine blue Volkswagon Polo we exit the maze of city streets and access the highway, from here the city life of Strasbourg is quickly left behind. The office buildings of the city outskirts are quickly replaced by corn fields and road signs for complicated sounding Alsatian villages: Geispolsheim, Innenheim, and Krautergersheim. I am reminded that the Alsatian countryside is not what a stereotypical, truly French village image would lead one to believe.
The air is slightly congested with the pollution that has drifted from the city, making it difficult to see clearly up the heights of the Vosges. A sign indicates that we should see Mont St. Odile, the famous Alsatian convent, on the crest of the hill in the distance, but today, it will stay hidden. Instead I focus on the passing landscape, which offers every once in awhile the single-standing sunflower.
Highway road turns once again into narrow city streets as we drive into the center of Obernai, a small village and stereotypically Alsatian. The car gets parked and we join the throngs of tourists also out for a Sunday drive. The city hall is sponsoring a wine tasting, and even at 10 am, the building has attracted a large crowd ready to sample the renowned white wines of the region. We are however less intrigued by early morning wine, and instead take time to explore the narrow, cobblestone streets and find the best architectural angles for picture taking. Buildings in the center of town explode with color; painted in yellows, pinks and blues and all covered in a sea of summer flowers. Bright geranium plants hang from windowsills and on a golden wall a red-hued rose climbs upwards to the second story.
We have had enough of village sight-seeing, and we decide to drive farther west to find a trail through the vineyards. The Polo makes its way on small roads until we reach the ramparts of Boersch. The village is tiny, and the streets are quite with a Sunday echo. Driving through the center takes no more than two minutes, and we are soon at the back side of the city walls, parking the car next to a gravel path leading into the vineyards.
Bordered by several houses and vegetable and flower gardens, the path feels like an entrance to paradise. Having grown up in the countryside myself, I have had to adjust to city living; apartment buildings with no gardens, city streets instead of green grass and the constant sound of activity. My feet itch to go barefoot and my body yearns to pull up a chair and sit in the middle of the colorful flowers with nothing to do but gaze at the sky. I make my way up the path and pass a large house with an equally sized garden. Tomato plants twist up steel rods, placed to encourage the plants to grow correctly. Sunflowers reach into the sky, topping off at near six feet. I look into the garden and see a large black dog sleeping soundly in the warmth of the sun. I may be in Alsace, but I almost feel at home.
The path continues and makes its way into the fields. To our right, large apple orchards descend towards the village and to our left, vineyards stretch into the foothills of the Vosges. Alsace is not only known for its wine, but also its selection of summer fruit. Throughout the months of July and August outdoor markets and Strasbourg are filled with farmers selling kilos upon kilos of prunes, also known as quetsche, and its sister fruit, the bright yellow Mirabelle. Fruit grown in the region takes on a deity-like reputation, much like the wine. Try an Alsatian restaurant in the summer, and not only will you drink two or three kinds of white wine over the course of the meal, but it will undoubtedly end with a tarte aux mirabelles.
Our gentle walking pace soon comes to a direct stop as we realize we are in the midst of an Alsatian Garden of Eden. We are only steps away from the houses and the path has left the groomed residential area. We are now in the midst of farm country; prune trees hang low to the ground rich with fruit. I scan the surroundings, feeling like if I pick one, a crazy Alsatian farmer will run appear from the vineyards yelling obscurities in his regional patois. Yet there is no one. Mikael lunges quickly at the fruit, stretching his arm high into the branches in order to get the best ones.
We stop our consumption of fruit and walk farther up the path, until I am forced to stop again. Blackberries bushes are intertwined in the branches of the trees. Another childhood delight; sun warmed blackberries that make your fingers drip with juice. I suddenly become a voracious consumer and soon my fingers are covered in the deep purple color. I feel like I have struck gold.
The sun intensifies and shines down upon the vineyards that seem to shine in the light. Mikael gets closer to take pictures and I take a moment to breathe in the clean air. Away in the distance I hear the church bell ring, reminding me that it is time for lunch, and despite my recent over-consumption of fruit, we decide to leave our natural paradise and find somewhere to eat.
Later that evening we are back in the Strasbourg apartment, the beauty of the countryside a mere memory. Fortunately there is a reminder on the dinner table: a bottle of Pinot Gris. From Alsace of course. And I know that the complex taste is a conglomerate of the beautiful countryside that I have left behind. So I content myself with my city apartment and pour myself a glass, ready for the flavor to pull me back into the memory of natural paradise. As I discover I have an epiphany; I now know why Alsatian wine is so extraordinary and worth committing to. This is no simple, dry, white wine. No, this is the countryside in a bottle, filled with the essence of vineyards, mirabelles and sun-warmed wild blackberries.