But I digress, which all of you who are college grads know that professors are liable to do at any given moment. Back to my wine job.
I flew all night and day to reach Spain today, dealing with public health procedures and forms from three distinct nations (I connected through Germany), so this trip was not without its irksome elements while I was in transit. But no complaining. The process got me to Spain for the first time since Covid hit, and Spain is so marvelous in so many ways.
Spain’s possibilities are best appreciated after some seasoning, and I’m pretty well seasoned after 20+ trips here, including one during which I met my wife. I could definitely stand a lot more seasoning, and I look forward to becoming ever more experienced and comfortable here, but here’s a vignette that give you a sense of what I mean by “possibilities” here.
I’m a terrible sleeper under any conditions, so I arrived in Madrid at 3:30 p.m. local time today quite thoroughly trashed. But the airport was very efficient, and a very nice taxi driver whisked me to my hotel (in a business 
district on the banks of a major freeway) quickly and for just 30 Euros…which seemed like a much better idea than trying to figure out the subway with my cerebral capacity running at about 10%.
Knowing better than to even look at the bed (as I have an early appointment to be picked up but stellar winemaker Isaac Fernandez at 8 a.m. tomorrow), I set out on what I call a “Zombie Arrival Day” walk to secure provisions for the days ahead.
It bears repeating that I’m in a business district that is divided by a giant freeway and its tributaries, but no matter: This being Madrid, there are apartment buildings everywhere, and this being Madrid, the locals care deeply about what they eat.
You can see the results of my Zombie Arrival Day provisioning in the photo included here. Working almost exclusively with little neighborhood purveyors, I was easily able to cobble together the meal you behold in less than 45 minutes, thanks to a baker, a charcutier, (sorry that I only know the term in French), a couple of small grocers, a wine bar that sold me some local favorites for prices far below USA retail (plus their proprietary wine glasses, because the Spanish do NOT like to refuse customers, however outlandish the request), and a couple of utility shops that sold me an 85-cent corkscrew, a 95-cent dinner plate, and flatware in sets of three knives, forks and spoons for the Euro equivalent of 95-cents each.
Circling back to my opening theme, eating dinner in a generic hotel room while zonked out of one’s mind from sleep deprivation and jet lag—over a computer-—is not anybody’s sense of a peak experience. But again, no complaining. The upshot of my afternoon is that there is almost no conceivable scenario in which you can’t eat well in Spain. The wines and foods of both France and Italy remain much more widely appreciated among Americans than those of Spain, but the truth is that Spain remains the most intensely food-loving nation in the Europe—and is arguably the single most fun place anywhere on the globe to eat and drink.
If you want to know anything about what’s on my 95-cent plate or in my glasses, just send me a message at [email protected]
Connect on Twitter: @Michael_Franz