From grapes to wine-divine...

First you see the vines. The bus rounds a bend or crests a hill, and there they are, growing toward each other across furrows of rich dirt. Then a villa rises from the green, and you make out a sign of a name you have seen on bottle labels.

You have time to wander through the vineyard. It's a vineyard-there is always time. You stretch to shake off the bus ride and walk toward the fields, taking a right at a particularly sunny row. You can hear the teams of workers picking grapes by hand somewhere in the distance. Later, giant machines will press the fruit they gather into juice, and the vineyard owner will taste it at intervals until he deems it ready for the world.

There's no reason to wait that long. You pick a dusty grape off the vine and shine it on your shirt before popping it into your mouth. The skin resists, but when it pops, the sweetness is fresh and tart. It seems unfair that no one will get to taste the next grape for months-so you eat that one, too.

Every autumn, vineyards throughout Tuscany harvest their grapes and press them into wine. Heavy rains ripened the grapes a few weeks early this year. When a photography professor proposed a class trip to photograph the harvest in his friend's vineyard, some friends decided to stay in the villa for the weekend.

The owner gave us free reign over the fields. I do believe the grapes I ate outnumbered the photos I took, but that's to be expected. In the vineyard, as with anywhere in Italy, food plays a major role. Lunch with strangers can turn into a three-hour affair. One man across the table told of his two-week stint in an Afghani jail, while another diner made sure we met our obligation to finish several gallon-bottles of the very drinkable house red. And when they were empty, he insisted we get another.

Later, when the wine moved from tabletop to countertop, we left the tasting counter to tiptoe through the warehouse. Wine glasses in tow, we wandered around metal and wooden wine casks in the darkness. We took over the villa and all its faded grandeur that night. The last thing I saw before drifting away was the crystal chandelier.

Time moves differently in the vineyard. Honeyed seconds drip by at the same pace as maturing wine. Some people who come to the vineyard decide to build their lives around the place. One man we met has dined at the vineyard every afternoon for the past several years. It's easy to see why-the interaction effects of so much air, light, wine and honest laughter mean there is nothing like a Tuscan vineyard on a sunny day during the harvest.

The bus back to Florence took us over the same grape-covered hills and around the same breathtaking bends as the first time. As the familiar streets and sights came into view, it did feel something like coming home.