Right here in the vineyard, next to swaying bushes bursting with flower buds, the soft voices of women are heard. Their sentences are long, unhurried. Only the bubbles of champagne in deep crystal glasses are slower than them. Lazily rising and disappearing into nowhere, they break the last rays of the hot sun. As the golden evening sets in, swaying bunches of lychees fill the breath with a dense sweetness. Time stands still. The air is foaming. It's time for the glasses to speak for what they are touching today. "... a scent that heralds sweet toasts for the day."