rooster and hen
The man was probably in his late forties. A stocky build that would have shown his love of drinking had he not come from a family of giants. The lack of balance in his stride was almost too relatable as he crossed feet multiple times. He had a wide smile. Genuine in his approach.
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He told me the history of the building I was in; an old white home that reminded me of the Yuhasz farmhouse. Small, but purposeful. Wood-fire stoves and handcrafted furniture that dated back many a moon. The walls were like clay; textured. A deep green color on wooden doors and shutters.
Vine and weed crawling the cracks.
Cat and bird searching for snacks.
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His excitement for my arrival to the garden was palpable. For a tourist to choose to travel out of Vienna to visit the botanical gardens was a delightful surprise. His thorough history lesson spilled out through broken English and structured arm movements for a considerable amount of time. I honestly don't remember much, which is simply to say that my memory is poor and stupidly selective. The passion of his storytelling was engaging.
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At the completion of the lesson he led me to another building that wasn't part of public access. It was a house of decent height; its foundation dug into the dirt. A large green door prohibiting entry by padlock. There came a story of a wedding that took place when the structure was young, where the wooden beams were used for a purpose I can't recall. The building had been saved over the years and rebuilt, but the beams were original. He emphasized such strength to these beams.
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Unprovoked, the man unlocked the door and led me into an open space with a high ceiling. Massive wooden planks stretching in cardinal directions and a well-kept dirt floor. He proceeded to point out the lengths of wood and smile with admiration.
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The pride in those beams.
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I was entwined in his story to the affect that I have no images to corroborate my story. I have no pictures of the man. No pictures of the beams. No pictures of the farmhouse interior or of the doors.
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No pictures of the bottle of wine that he gave me.
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His history lesson now complete, the boisterous educator began to give me a glimpse of what the building was now being used for. Simple storage of machinery, a resting place for corrugated squares, and a newly stocked refrigerator.
He raised a finger to induce a pause. He reached and opened the door to the makeshift cellar and removed a portion of its contents. A bottle of white wine.
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I grabbed the bottle and gave it a look. My head cocked askew like a dog who can't hear.
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"Is this ... is this wine from here?"
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He nodded.
I examined the label and stumbled the enunciation like a professional tourist. We had a chuckle and I found myself surprised that a botanical garden would have a reserve of wine. I went to hand the bottle back and it was reciprocated with head shake.
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I look at him with absolute confusion.
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"Are you giving this to me??"
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His smile once again became wide. He moved to grab ahold of a support railing and tripped over his feet as his excitement provoked him to stumble. Composure regained, he nodded in confirmation.
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I just started at him.
Then I looked at the wine.
Then I looked at him.
Then I looked at the wine.
Then I looked at him.
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Then I opened both my arms and we hugged.
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I thanked him countless times before departing the garden and taking the train back into the city. I have regrets of not getting his name or a picture of him. There's no information that I can find about any wine that the botanical garden ever produced, let alone stocked. It's like it didn't happen.
I drank the whole bottle that night.
I don't have a single image of it to look at.
I don't have a single notation of it to read.
I don't have any recollection of it's name, nor do I have any remembrance of its taste.
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But what I do have are these shots of a rooster and hen that I took next to the garden farmhouse.