I had been invited to come to the Wallis’ farm for a braai because they had two English medical students visiting. Knowing how difficult finding these farms at night can be, I received double, even triple playbacks of the turn by turn directions. Past Galilelo then Pink Lady then it’s the right turn to Carmel farm…. I surprisingly knew all the markers they were referring to, and I was fairly confident that this could be my one triumph in valley navigation.
So, following the directions, I turned at Carmel and headed up the road to this fantastic, hacienda style house. There were big intricately wrought iron gates and two giant dogs contained there-in that announced my arrival. Next thing I know, a man with a snow white pony tail comes to the gate—certainly not my desired host, Paul Wallis, who is a big, jovial, Irish farmer. I tried to ask him about the Wallis’ but there was a thick accent impeding our conversation. Curious about the lilt in his voice, I asked where he was from and he responded, "Italia, Roma." I was quite surprised by this response, I was pretty sure that I would have heard about an Italian living in the valley, especially one that lived only 4 or 5 farms away. I would have thought this nationalistic anomaly would warrant some sort of gossip...
And when I say he was Italian, he was REALLY Italian. In typical, shifty, Italian fashion, the first thing he said to me was “ooo…. American accent. So sexy on a women.” Then, after a few moments of chatting, he politely told me he had to go because he had a pot of pasta cooking on the stove. I was next expecting him to jump in his ferrari, flip some pizza dough, and call out to some guy named Mario to shine his italian leather loafers. He made me promise to come back for a cappucino, which, if his coffee is anywhere as strong as his accent, is a pretty good idea. Great to know stock characters abound in this valley: first, Aussie Bob, and now, Italiano Franco.
Having left little Italy, I headed to the next entrance, also Carmel. My confidence dwindled quickly, though, when I saw the main road fork into three, equally plausible routes. Trying my luck, I choose the far left until I arrived at a large white house. Once again, a troop of dogs alerted the house-owners to my arrival, and once again a man I'd never seen emerged with a quizzical look on his face. (Not many farms get random 8pm visits...) Luckily, he said that I was almost in the right place, and that the Wallises were his next-door neighbors. So, I pulled my 10th U-ey of the night and headed back down the middle path. The first place I saw, though, had a closed gate and looked to be empty. Thinking I was wrong, again, I flipped another 3 point turn and descended past this house into orchards. Much to my chagrin, the neighbor heard my aimless driving and came to fetch me on his 4x4. (Another advantage to being in the country- it's quiet enough for people to hear you when you get ridiculously lost.) So, led by my knight on a 4x4, I was literally taken up to the gate and led to the very entrance of the house.
While farm navigation at night is clearly not my forté, the confusion is definitely worth the crazy introductions and interactions.
Oh, and as far as the braai goes, the food was amazing, but the Englishman was an infuriating, irritating bit of pomposity. As only a Brit can do, he carried on for most of the dinner alternating between stories of his greatness, admiration for the UK, and mockery of the US. He literally said, the problem with America is that it thinks what happened 60 or 100 years ago is history. I responded that the problem with the UK is their history stops 234 years ago, when they were still a victorious nation. I, too, would want to forget the last 100 years of power-slippage if I were a British "historian;" it's what we call "selective-memory."
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