When we were nineteen, my best friend and I backpacked through Europe from Germany to Greece, ending our epic adventure in Athens. In the final days before returning to the US, we found a bottle of rose–not rosé–wine and took it to the rooftop hostel where we drank with bats swooping over our heads. The dark floral richness, like theatrical curtains opening on my tongue, stuck in my imagination as a pallet-expanding experience that busted through the confinement of the …