32 MARCH13, 2022
he didn’t know how to ride a bike. Estela couldn’t understand
François’ reticence and hopped on her bike and took off down the
hill. “Are you going to be okay?” I asked François, then also began
pedaling. Behind me, about 30 seconds later, I heard François
shout and turned around to see him falling and crashing the electric
bike. I explained to Estela that François would be sitting this one
out. When I returned an hour later from the tour, François said,
“Next time, we ride horses. Like real men.”
I
t was a few days later, after François had returned to his life and
responsibilities in Madrid — no longer de Rodríguez — that I
tested positive. During my siesta isolation in Haro, I left the
apartment only twice. Once, triple-masked, to stock up on food and
wine at the store. The other, on Day 7, in a fit of cabin fever, I walked
directly to my rental car and drove to the outskirts of town. Alone,
under the midday sun, I hiked the Hondón Trail, a path along a
meandering section of the Ebro River. No electric bikes, no horses.
Just my own two feet.
My destination was first a medieval necropolis, and then the
remains of a Celtic temple. The Celts made wine here long before
the Romans arrived. And before them, the Phoenicians, who
arrived around 1200 B.C., tended their grape vines. But there was
civilization here long before that. All along the Basque side of the
Ebro valley, there is a series of dolmen, huge stone tombs built
3,000 to 6,000 years ago, as well as the remains of an entire
Neolithic village. Outside the village of Elvillar sits La chabola de la
Hechicera — the Witch’s Hut — a 3,000-year-old mini-Stone-
henge of huge stone slabs where, legend has it, a witch can be heard
singing on the morning of midsummer’s day.
I stopped for a long time at the ancient hilltop Celtic temple,
overlooking the vast spread of vineyards under the sweltering
sun, with human-made indentations in the rock that archaeolo-
gists believe were sacrificial pools. It felt deeply spiritual. The
time spent in isolation, in a foreign country, on this pandemic-era
trip, was changing me. Once upon a time, looking across the Ebro
Valley or observing a quiet Spanish square, I would have
remembered a pithy quote from Hemingway’s “Hills Like White
Elephants” or “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” or “The Sun Also
Rises,” but not now. Instead, I thought about something a
septuagenarian winemaker had told François and me the week
before. “At best, you have only 30 or 40 harvests in your life,” the
winemaker said. “What keeps me alive is that I’m always looking
for the best harvest of my life. But, of course, the best harvest
never comes.”
The next morning, I drove to a clinic in Bilbao to be tested again.
This time: negative. I could now return home whenever I wanted. I
was so relieved that I could physically feel the stress leave my body,
my muscles loosen. I returned to Haro and stopped at a winery,
López de Heredia, ordered a half bottle of red wine and a plate of
jamón and olives, and sat in the sunshine, enjoying my freedom
from the virus.
I was happy. I felt extremely fortunate to be alive and healthy,
with all my senses intact. I felt very lucky to be a vaccinated
American traveling in Spain, eating Spanish food, drinking
Spanish wine, being on a crazy Spanish schedule, estoy de
Rodríguez. Though I wasn’t the same young, adventure-seeking
traveler that I may have been in years past, I felt a sense of peace
about that as well. That afternoon, I took a long, deep, satisfying
siesta.
Jason Wilson writes the newsletter Everyday Drinking. He is the author of
“Godforsaken Grapes,” “Boozehound” and “The Cider Revival.”