Isabella Mancini
Working at my father’s wine shop in the heart of Rome, Italy, feels like living two lives. On one hand, I’m his daughter, helping him select the perfect wines for our customers, hearing him talk about the regions, the grapes, and the vintages as if they were old friends. On the other hand, I’m an observer, standing at the edge of something that feels bigger than just wine. I’m 26, and in the final year of my journalism studies, and lately, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something unsettling about it all.
My father is a true expert, his knowledge of wine respected all across the city. But there's another side to him. For as long as I can remember, wine hasn’t just been a passion for him—it’s become a necessity. Every night, bottle after bottle. When I bring it up, he waves it away, says, "It’s just the Roman way." And it’s true. Here in Italy, in Rome especially, wine is life. A glass with lunch, another with dinner—it’s as natural as breathing.
But as I’ve been learning more in my studies, I’ve started to see it differently. Alcohol is still a drug, even if we dress it up with beautiful bottles and ancient traditions. The line between enjoyment and dependence is so thin, and yet no one talks about it. I see it every day in our customers—friendly, knowledgeable, just like my father, never seeming drunk but always with that slight haze from constant drinking.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate wine. I do. I love sitting with friends, sharing a bottle, the way it opens up conversations and makes life feel a little softer. But the more I think about it, the more I struggle with what we’re really selling. I’ve started confronting my father about this, but it’s like talking to a wall. He says I’m being dramatic, that I’ll understand when I’m older.
Maybe he’s right. But the more I learn, the more I feel like I can’t ignore the darker side of wine anymore. It’s a part of our culture, our history in Rome, but maybe it’s time we started being honest about what it really is. I want to write about it. I have to. Because this isn’t just about my father, or the wine shop—it’s about all of us.