The Wrath of Grapes

The following morning, I arose from bed and could stand straight. After three days, I no longer needed my morning pain pill.

At the same time, something else changed. By midweek, I was no longer the American curiosity but "Robess" -- my name in Alsatian.

My last hours of work that week were particularly difficult. That afternoon we attacked a long, steep ascent of about 200 yards of pinot blanc in the rain. We worked without break for three hours -- tired, muddy and straining as each water-sopped bucket grew heavier than the last. The idea of a luxury wine tour was sounding not so bad.

As we finished work, the rain stopped. Fog blanketed the floor of the valley below and the sun broke though the clouds above.

Back at the winery, I was saying my goodbyes to the team members when I felt myself lifted up high by several hands from behind. I flew up to the lip of a trailer of grapes and was dumped in and rolled around. The juice went everywhere -- burning my eyes and sticking to my skin.

Baptism by grapes is a tradition here.

Having experienced it, I can now tell you: Diving face-first into about three tons of pinot changes a man. Raising a glass will never be the same.

Robert V. Camuto, a writer living in the South of France, is a frequent contributor to Travel.