I opened a bottle of wine two nights ago. It gave off an unpleasant smell. A tiny sip confirmed that it was corked. It happens. I took it back to Chris, he gave me a replacement bottle, and all is well.

But it brought back something I think of every time this happens.

We’re in Rome a long time ago. I’m having a terrible time (I know—poor me). We wind up in a small hotel that is having disgusting plumbing problems, random people on the street keep pestering us aggressively for money, I get my pocket picked by a gang of feral children. All sorts of downers. I’ve had it with Rome. On our last day, we stop at an osteria in Trastevere for lunch and order a bottle of Frascati. It comes in a flash, the waiter does that amazing fast corkscrew thing, pours for us, and hustles off. We pick up our glasses, take sniffs, and realize immediately that the wine is corked. For me, this is the last straw. Screw it. Lets just drink the bottled water and get the hell out of town. But another member of the family is made of sterner stuff. A quick glance at the phrase book, an imperious wave to summon the waiter, and: “Questo vino sa di tappo.”

No drama. Bad bottle swept from table. Good bottle delivered immediately.

It’s possible to feel proud and ashamed at the same time.