What the Valley Taught Me
On WSET Diploma exams, Robert Mondavi Winery, Inglenook, Walt Wines, two graduations, a wildfire, and what Napa is becoming.
I sat down at a table in a room full of strangers, picked up a pencil, and started writing about wine.
Two and a half hours. Two exams. WSET Diploma Units 1 and 2 (viticulture and winemaking), then business and wine marketing, back-to-back, which I have already established was either efficient or optimistic. The verdict on that is still pending.
What I didn’t expect was to enjoy it.
The room was full of people in the same condition. Some worked in the industry and still couldn’t remember. Some had studied for months and felt like they’d retained nothing. One person said what everyone was thinking: I just wanted to love wine. I didn’t know it would be this hard. We laughed. We commiserated. We picked up our pencils and did it anyway.
My wrist gave me more trouble than my shoulder. The handwriting was ugly. When I put the pencil down, I felt relief so complete it was almost physical. I couldn’t wait to get out of that room and into the valley.
Then the road opened.
The Day Before. When Napa Said Hello
The tastings came first, the day before the exams, which was either inspired planning or a very good excuse to drink wine before a test. I’ll call it research.
A rental car with low tire pressure, a quick fix, and then the drive up Route 29. Stags Leap had closed by the time I arrived. The Oxbow was fuller and busier than I remembered from 2010, stuffed with food and life and chatter, nothing like the quieter version I’d seen before. Walt Wines was tucked into what was once someone’s home, three small houses where people actually lived when I last came through. Now it’s a tasting room with the door wide open and no reservations required.
I spent over an hour at Walt talking with the staff about wine and Napa and history. I took home a 2025 Walt Rosé, a 2024 Baca Stargazing White, and a 2023 Walt Sierra Mar. The Rosé I can find at the Hall tasting in Palm Springs. The other two were harder to come by. In wine country, where everything requires a booking three weeks out, Walt leaves the light on. You walk in, sit down, and talk to people who actually want to talk.
Then Inglenook.
I’d been before, in 2010, when Rubicon Claret was the wine to take home and the estate was fully open. This visit was different. Tastings run Wednesday through Monday, advance reservations required. I wandered in without one.
What I found was somewhere between a winery and a museum. Velvet ropes cordoned off much of the space. But I kept walking and found what I was looking for.
A grand staircase draped in deep red carpet, dark wood banisters, and a stained glass window at the top, catching the afternoon light. Unchanged from when I last walked it in 2010. Some things deserve to stay exactly as they are. Nearby, a vaulted stone cave, a crystal chandelier hanging over a long wooden table, the ceiling arching overhead in the way that makes you feel small in the best sense. A private wine library room, dimly lit, bottles lining every wall, floor to ceiling, velvet chairs around a table set with glasses. The kind of room that makes you wish you’d made a reservation.
Francis Ford Coppola bought this estate with Godfather money in 1975 and spent fifty years buying it back piece by piece. The château. The vineyards. Even the name, which had been sold to a jug wine company. He paid as much for the name as he had for the original house. The Italia Cave, 23,000 square feet underground with 120 fermentation tanks, I didn’t get to see. You sign up for that separately. I’ll be back.
And then Mondavi.
The Sitting Area Faces To Kalon
I didn’t know what to expect. I’d read about the renovation, studied the details, and written about the history. None of it prepared me for being greeted at the entrance by staff with a glass of wine already poured.
They walked me to the pairing room. Floor-to-ceiling windows on every side. The sitting area arranged so that every sight line leads directly to To Kalon vineyard, one of the most storied pieces of agricultural land in California, stretching out beyond the glass, unhurried, indifferent to the renovation around it. Outside: rustic, historic, green, alive with trees and colorful plantings, and the particular quiet that old vines carry.
Four wines. A 2022 Sauvignon Blanc from Stags Leap District, a 2022 Fumé Blanc from Oakville, a 2021 Cabernet Sauvignon from Oakville, and a 2023 Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. Each one precise. Each one rooted.
The food arrived in courses. A citrus salad I will never forget: butter lettuce, Castelvetrano olives, mint, citrus vinaigrette, and blanched pistachios. The chef’s full hand is a mystery, and I didn’t try to solve it. I just ate it and was grateful. Then, handmade ricotta capelletti with Genovese pesto, English peas, and pecorino romano. Then hazelnut gelato with chocolate crumb.
Most wine pairings seat everyone at a communal table. Mondavi gave each party their own. I was alone and expected to feel it. I didn’t. The staff were present without hovering, warm without performing. They gave me time with the view. And at the end, a small mercy, a taste of a To Kalon red that was simply one of the best things I’ve put in my glass. I won’t pretend I remember every note. I remember the feeling.
That evening, back at the River Terrace Inn, a spicy basil Paloma, a mushroom and cheese empanada, a platter of hummus and olive oil, cucumbers, olives, and tomatoes. Dante set me up. Victor put me in a room on the third-floor patio overlooking the Napa River when I arrived. The water moves slowly there. Green and cool. The opposite of the desert in every way.
I slept well.
Wednesday
Two exams. Two and a half hours. A pencil. A wrist that had opinions.
Afterward, the group that had tested gathered at the Napa Valley Wine Academy. D1 through D4 candidates, plus teachers. The winemaker from Lodi and the Willamette tasting staff who had sat those same tests that morning brought their bottles to share. Generous of them. The kind of thing that happens when people who love wine are also good people.
It was a jolly good time. The fear of the morning dissolved into wine and conversation, and the relief of people who have done a hard thing and lived.
I found Los Agaves on OpenTable and sat outside. Ordered a skinny margarita with a Grand Marnier float, my reward, earned, non-negotiable. Chips, salsa, and a taco plate with Chile Morita built into the sauce, a dried, smoke-cured red jalapeño smaller than a chipotle, with a deep, fruity heat that arrives late and lingers. The owners and chef are from Mexico City. The menu reflects a city that knows how to eat.
I drove past the Napa River Inn, where my sisters and I had stayed in 2010, walked through, and discovered a shortbread chocolate candy that had been developed just days before my arrival. I bought enough to bring home to the family. Keeping chocolate from melting while traveling is its own test. I passed that one.
Then the Road Again
Carmel first. My sister, my nephew, his middle school graduation, and recognition from his teachers that made everyone proud. I missed the ceremony because the exam conflicted with it. I was there for the celebration. That’s what matters.
Then, Highway 1 south to San Luis Obispo. My niece graduated from Cal Poly with a gold cord for academic excellence. We stayed at Petit Soleil, a French inn that served pastries, thoughtful breakfasts, and afternoon happy hours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The graduation was on Sunday. The tradition that preceded it was a 6am bar with the graduate, The Libertine Brewing Company, Olivia’s choice, the right choice. A band, pool tables, espresso martinis, Bloody Marys, and Screwdrivers, parents and kids dancing and trying to remember how to play pool. It was exactly what a graduation should feel like.
The Drive Home
Nine hours. My mom in the passenger seat, not feeling well. I drove, didn’t talk much, and let the miles pass.
An hour from home, the sky changed. Smoke. Orange light on the mountains. The Short Fire had started alongside the highway, and by the time we pulled into the desert, the air tasted like it. The smell stayed all night. The fear of it, too.
Archie was fine. The sitter was wonderful. He had clearly enjoyed his own vacation, complete with a new toy from the sitter. He was overjoyed to see me and has spent the last week sleeping in my bed. He is not subtle about his feelings.
What the Valley Taught Me
Napa is changing. Not just in hospitality, though the hospitality is extraordinary now. Something deeper.
The wineries I visited are leaning into regenerative agriculture. Planting heirloom trees. Sourcing locally. Building authentic connections with the land and with the people who come to experience it. The wines are backed by a belief system, a concern for the environment, and a respect for what the earth is actually doing when no one is managing it.
Napa outpaced Southern California’s wine regions because it never stopped believing in the vine. It didn’t build freeways over its vineyards or convert its agricultural land to housing developments. It kept its eyes on To Kalon and asked what the land wanted to become.
Standing in that pairing room, watching the vineyard through floor-to-ceiling glass, I understood something I’d been circling for years. The difference between Napa and the regions still trying to get there isn’t money or scale or prestige. It’s intention, sustained over time, against all the easier options.
Robert Mondavi opened his winery in 1966 because he believed California wine deserved a place at the world’s table. Francis Ford Coppola spent fifty years and a Godfather fortune restoring one estate to what it once was. Walt leaves the door open because wine should be welcoming, not exclusive.
That’s what I brought back to the table.
I write about what’s worth preserving. Food and wine are the way in: a recipe box almost thrown away, a name half-remembered, a dish reconstructed from someone else’s handwriting. New posts are always free. Reader-supported, like public radio, with the full story archive and more for supporters. Pull up a chair.
Next Time
Back to the vines. The 257 Years series continues. Today is the summer solstice.
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I guess we are! It was a nice break away from the desert heat!
It sounds like both you and Napa are undergoing a life-changing transformation. Thanks for the memories.