Jolanta phoned. "We love your Katie" she said, in her rich, almost incomprehensible Spanish lilt, "she taught us so much, the difference between night and day. She spoke to us for two and a half hours, taught us how to open the bottles, how to serve. And we tasted wines. Wonderful. I love Katie, she's a lovely person, so funny and so clever." I asked her if the staff had made notes as to the characteristics of the wines, what dishes to recommend them with and so on; "Yes, yes, we all made notes. Everything is so much clearer now, I realise we knew nothing".
The conversation continued thus for a few more minutes, then suddenly she said "Toby, I hate this heat, it's too much. For me the perfect temperature is 21 degrees." I replied with words to the effect that not only was that an admirably precise figure, but that she was surely used to much higher temperatures in her native Spain. "Spain!" she replied, laughing "I don't come from Spain - I was born in Siberia, I'm used to temperatures of minus 42!"
"Ah" said I, mumbled some weak apology, and recalling that Portuguese had once sounded very Eastern European to me, concluded that I'm possibly better at identifying grape varieties by their accents than humans by theirs.