It was around noon on a sunny autumn weekday when I first walked into the Enoteca di Cormons, hoping to get directions to a nearby winery. I’d sought out the town’s wine bar after a two-hour train ride from Venice, where I was living while writing a novel.
A Venetian restaurant I frequented had served me a Pinot Grigio from an Italian region called Friuli Venezia Giulia, situated to the east, next to Slovenia, so explained the waiter. The wine, made by a small winery called Venica, was so delicious that I decided I should visit it. That was the sole purpose of my journey to Cormons 25 years ago. I was not primed for any deeper discovery. I was not looking to change my life.
