We’re back on the Wine Walkabout bus, still buzzing from Portugal’s sun-drenched slopes. I’m slamming the pedal to the floor, careening over the border into Spain, where the air smells of dust, rebellion, and jamón that’ll make you weep.

But let’s get one thing straight before we dive into this glorious mess: leave your wine snobbery at the door.No pinkies in the air, no waxing poetic about “bouquets of blackberry” or “whispers of unicorn tears.” No pinkies in the air, no waxing poetic about “bouquets of blackberry” or “whispers of unicorn tears.” Wine in Spain isn’t a flex—it’s breakfast, a birthright, the pulse of every rowdy meal since the Phoenicians schlepped vines over 3,000 years ago from the eastern Mediterranean coast. Spain’s been fermenting its soul into every bottle.

And w

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