Allyson Walther writes Allyson Walther is a wine enthusiast currently residing in Sicily, Italy. She just shipped 405 bottles of wine from Italy to the US as part of her upcoming move back to California
A Sicilian (re)birth
My body was spent, lips parched. I was tired, unwashed, barely functioning. I haunted the nights, was auto-piloting the days. All around me, life beckoned, but I was unable to fully answer its call. These were the first weeks of motherhood and I was pouring, literally and figuratively, everything I had into keeping a small, helpless creature alive. Yet, I did not feel alive. Everything was foreign—my body, the small creature, the soil on which I lived and the language being spoken around me.
Having lived and traveled all around the world, childless, for almost 40 years, I now found myself suddenly thrust into an unfamiliar rhythm in Italy, our home for three years, with a newborn and an isolating existence. The usual connections I had to the world—though work, travel, family—were upended overnight. I had nine months to prepare, but is there really a way to fully prepare oneself?
Born just before Christmas on a military base in Sicily, my son emerged tiny, pink, demanding. Once we got home, I was nearly on my own, with my husband, a pilot, returning to work. The days, as they say, were long, the weeks short. After only a week at home, largely alone, I was itching to return to a semblance of the life I had cultivated in Sicily. Long walks among the vineyards on the slopes of Mt. Etna, cappuccino in the square, leisurely late-night dinners at the village’s Osterias. Now, it was all I could do to wear pants with a proper waistband, hair unwashed, infant demanding my body and time.
My mom flew out to help. We traded time in the rocking chair, infant asleep on our chests. I was able to leave the house for walks with the dogs, trips to the fruit vendor, brief escapes before returning to the rocking chair. My body was sustained with nourishment prepared by my mother, as I nourished my own child.
Slowly we ventured out of the house and further afield. A small town so my mom could pick up handicrafts, planned carefully around naps, feedings and infant logistics. The military base for doctor appointments, weigh-ins, American groceries. Then finally, something to nourish my soul. A return to my passion. A return to the world around me, to the living, it felt. A winery. On the northern slope of Mt Etna. One to tick off on my list of places to visit.
I packed the stroller, the diaper bag, the carrier. Layers for the chill of the cellar. A hat for the vineyard walk. The visit and tasting were orchestrated around a complex coordination of what were now routine daily events. Things I’d never had to think about at a winery before—where to change a diaper, where to nurse the baby—were now forefront in my mind.
Though the cellar manager was adept at English-lead tours and tastings, the most demanding guest was the baby. I had to duck off to nurse on the sofa of the (admittedly beautiful) tasting room. The manager’s carefully honed explanation of varietal, contrada and tasting notes were punctuated with infant squeaks, squeals and meltdowns. I was flustered, uncomfortable, yet somehow in my element.
I was with my mom and husband and brand-new son. I was sitting in a picturesque location sampling wine whose fruit was grown and nourished by nature, just as I was nurturing my own baby. I could see Etna smoking in the background, awake and alive, just as my body and mind were awakening from the fog that is the fourth trimester. I felt connected to the land, to my body, to my family. The visit to the winery represented more than just tasting wine. It represented a return to normality, an engagement with Sicily and the strengthening of my connection with both baby and body.
Photo caption: 'Baby’s first winery'.
