Harvesting grapes was the highlight of my trip to Portugal. Our group was given white Quinta Nova T-shirts, a black bucket, and orange-handled scissors. We piled in the back of a pickup truck like 8th graders, and were off to even higher ground. If I had had any idea where we were headed, I probably would have walked. Seriously, even those with no fear of heights would be spooked. We went up a single, one-way bumpy dirt road with the gnarliest turns that had everyone (including me) screaming. You’d scream too if you faced a 3,000-foot drop. But if I was going to be taken from this world, it would not have been the worst way to go. At least I was among new friends and beautiful women; the sky was clear, the sun was warm, and the views – well, they were to die for. When we reached the top we saw farmers of all ages enjoying their work. They chatted easily with each other, wearing wide smiles, as they breezed up and down the rows of ripe grapes. Our task was to help them until we filled a couple of larger bins, placed strategically alongside the road for easy pickup.