Wine and Monuments: Everyday in Italy, Extraordinary in California

In Rome, monuments are part of the background. You pass by a Doric column on your way to buy bread. You step into a church for Sunday mass without thinking that a Raphael or a Michelangelo painting is hanging above you. As a child, I went each week to a church on the Appia Antica, an ancient building surrounded by history. For me it was just our parish. Only years later, when I brought three American friends there, did I see their eyes widen. They walked slowly, asking questions I had never thought to ask myself. To me it was familiar. To them it was extraordinary.

Wine in Italy feels much the same. At home, it was always my father who opened the bottle. Often a Vermentino from Sardinia, sometimes a Pecorino, or a Primitivo when we wanted a red. There was no discussion of vintages, no ceremony. My mother set the table, my father poured, and we drank together. The glass was often just an ordinary tumbler, the same one used for water. Wine was not luxury, it was company.

In a trattoria, the ritual is slightly more refined, but still simple. You ask for the house wine. You don’t ask which vineyard it came from. You drink what is poured, and you enjoy it with the food. That is enough.

Here in California, I have noticed how different it feels. At a dinner with friends, when someone opens a bottle of Italian wine, the room pauses. The cork is admired, the label is passed around, the wine is served in proper glasses. People want to know where it is from. They are amazed when they hear “Sardinia” or “Puglia.” Wine here is not just a drink, it is an experience.

Sometimes this makes me smile. Italians walk past ancient ruins without a second glance. Americans stop and marvel, taking in every detail. Italians drink Vermentino or Primitivo as if it were water. Americans turn the same bottle into the center of the evening.

And yet, when I am here and I see a Vermentino di Gallura on a menu, I can’t resist. I order it, and suddenly I am back in Sardinia. I remember long summer lunches with my family, the sea breeze, fish grilled and served simply, always with a Vermentino on the table. The taste carries me home.

Maybe this is the gift of distance. In Italy, wine and monuments blend into the everyday. In California, they are celebrated. Both ways carry truth. Perhaps the real beauty is not in choosing one over the other, but in holding both — to live with these things so closely they feel like family, while never losing the ability to see them again with fresh eyes.

The image shows a Roman church interior with tall columns and polished marble. Soft natural light highlights the detailed altar. A few people sit quietly on benches, some praying, others reflecting. The serene atmosphere invites peaceful appreciation without an active mass.