Yesterday, in addition to creating a Facebook page for this blog and working a 9-hour workday, I survived a persistent mild headache. The culprit: unintentionally enjoying half a bottle of rosé the night before. My friend had invited me over for a barbecue, and being that it'd been oh-so-humid here, nothing sounded better than chilled wine to have with grilled chicken, peppers, couscous, and salad. Apparently the tolerance I had living in Santiago and Strasbourg has diminished. It's been five years since. Go figure.
Looking back, it's also been a good amount of time since I last savored a rosé. Nine times out of ten, I prefer a red; unless I'm by the water, where white seems more appropriate, or the sun is incredibly strong, at which point I reach for a beer. Rosé will always hold a very special place in my heart though. I failed to mention this in the story of my affair, but it's the first bottle of wine I appreciated and drank legally at the age of 19, all because I'd accidentally befriended Mia, a French graduate student at SU at the time.
She was (and is) wonderful. Not only did she help me study for my French language exams, but she also encouraged me to take a weekend getaway with her to Montréal. She had friends studying abroad there. We left Syracuse at 5am Saturday morning.
After spending the afternoon wandering, we went back to their eclectic apartment for pizza and drinks. Then, a night on the town.
We had so much fun, I eventually forgot I was younger than every single person there... and, oh, could hardly speak French.
The following morning, we awoke at a reasonable hour to explore more of the city with a best friend from her French university. (On a nostalgic note, I was in this same spot with my college best friend just two years and four months later.)
We planned on grabbing a quick lunch next, before leaving the city all together. But something happened as we were wandering through Vieux-Montréal. I realized we had no reason to rush; enjoying a leisurely lunch al fresco with a bottle of rosé between the three of us, then strolling through the cobblestone streets until we were comfortable enough to drive sounded so much sweeter.
So, that's what we did.
C'était parfait. I'd had a challenging fall semester that sophomore year of mine, and it was just the escape I needed to remind me of who I was, what I wanted, and how much this world had to offer. I was somewhat of a deep 19-year old, huh? That, or dramatic.
Words by D. Alvarez, Photos by M. Nomalanga Diimbi