A Report From Wine Explorer Diego Samper – Wine with no address?
Paris, France
“History is one long processional of crazy ideas.”
― Phil Knight, Nike founder
Oregon is full of them. The trail west that pulled seekers, explorers, outcasts, and dreamers to the end of the map. Pinot Noir planted in cool valleys where most experts said it would never ripen. A shoe company built from rubber and grit that grew into Nike.
All of it is rooted in the same instinct. To start over. To evolve. To plant something in unfamiliar soil and see if it takes. Sometimes it is a vineyard. Sometimes it is a new life abroad.
First mornings of harvest. That was the report from a friend working in the Willamette Valley. I caught a quick trip to Portland, not to pick grapes or haul bins, but to shake hands at an International Living Magazinegathering. Now I am back in Paris. Oregon still lingers in my jet lag, in my sleep, and in my mind.
A good crowd. People curious about new lives and new places. Which makes sense: you can’t live abroad without liking what’s already abroad. Wine people understand that instinct by default.
Between conversations at the booth, thank you to those who stopped by, I did what any wine obsessive does in a city like Portland. I went hunting for the map.
Not treasure. Regions. What does Oregon claim, and how do its borders on a label translate into what shows up in the glass?
Here’s the fact before the romance. Oregon has 23 federally recognized American Viticultural Areas. California holds the crown with 154. Oregon is rich, not richest. Still, 23 is plenty of nuance for a lifetime of curiosity.
If you’re new to AVAs, think of them as the American way of saying: this place matters.
In Europe, the same idea wears different badges. AOC in France. DOC in Italy. DO in Spain. The spirit is the same. A promise that a wine’s identity is anchored to a patch of earth, with rules about what can be grown and how it can be made.
In the United States, AVAs do not dictate grape or method. They draw a line on a map and let the work speak.
Why bother? Because names get abused when they are worth something. Think of all the “diet,” “organic,” or “natural” claims that blur together in supermarket aisles. Without rules, words lose their meaning. Wine works the same way.
Systems like these defend tradition from copycats, give consumers a shorthand for trust, and concentrate value in real places. The most affordable bottles on the shelf are often as generic as they can get. Made by the millions, machine-harvested, blended for a consistent flavor. Nothing wrong with that, but detail costs money.
When a wine is imported, the rules tighten. If the label wants to claim a foreign appellation, the producer has to prove it with paperwork showing origin percentages and compliance with local laws. Without that proof, the label defaults to something broader. That is why you will often see “Chile, Cabernet” with little else on some value bottles.
As a buyer, the move is simple. Reward specificity.
If a label says Salta or Valles Calchaquíes instead of just “Argentina,” or Willamette Valley instead of simply “Oregon,” it is offering you a trail to follow.
Go deeper. Eola-Amity Hills. Dundee Hills. That is when you are hearing a real story. People who live somewhere long enough to know the soil usually have them. Wines with an address tend to have them too.
To my surprise the city was empty. Labor Day weekend had drained the streets, leaving behind a few stragglers, reminders of the rougher edges of West Coast cities. While many American cities have found their footing again after the pandemic, Portland still carries the weight of a fentanyl crisis that slows its recovery.
So I kept walking, sticking to the pockets that looked safe to my novice eyes.
At the International Living Magazine conference, I thought about the couples I met who were considering Lisbon, or Mérida, or the Dordogne. They are not just chasing weather or cheaper square footage. They are looking for a place with a name, and meaning packed into it.
That is the AVA instinct applied to life.
That is why we show up at International Living Magazine events. People who dream of living elsewhere are already tuned to the frequency of place. They know that a life, or a bottle, gains character when it can point to somewhere and say, “I am from here, and that matters.”
On our side, we do the same work you do with a suitcase and a map. We follow names we trust. We look for producers who can tell you not just “Malbec, Argentina,” but which slope, which wind, which stubborn patch of soil. The wines we choose for the club are not anonymous blends made by the million. They come from people who have lived with their land long enough to tell you its story.
When we ship you a box, it is not just wine. It is a set of coordinates.
And if you enjoy connecting dots across your pantry, notice the pattern. Irish butter. Italian olive oil. Maple syrup from Vermont. Each one carries a place, each one is anchored to land and tradition. Wine belongs in that same family.
The more a bottle tells you about its origin, the more likely it is the real thing.
Oregon did not need to have the most AVAs to make its point. It only needed enough to remind us that borders, when they are honest, are not fences. They are people, cultures, and stories.
The next time you pick a bottle, flip it around. Reward the ones that speak in specifics. They drink like people who have lived abroad and kept the stories that mattered.
Until next week,
Diego Samper
Wine Explorer
P.S. Last week I asked if you’d be interested in a trip designed just for our club members — a chance to explore wine country together. Many of you already wrote back (thank you), and we’re collecting all the feedback. If you haven’t shared your thoughts yet, I’d love to hear from you. Just hit reply or click here and let me know.