How did he, whoever he was, get a hold of my telephone number and then know when my phone would be switched on? Normally it’s switched off when I’m in somewhere far removed from home like Marlborough/NZ, but suddenly there was a voice saying in a tone that I thought was seriously sarcastic, “so you’re finally here? Are you going to meet me at Xxxxx Tavern at 6pm today, or don’t you want to know the truth about this place?” Although it sounded as insulting as it did challenging there was no way I could turn it down. When I told him that I’d be there he laughed a bit too loud and said something that looks innocuous written down, but sounded distinctly threatening: “be seeing you!” Clearly, I would have to watch my step.
I got to the Xxxxx Tavern about 6pm and ordered a beer. All these Taverns look alike and after I’d gone in I suddenly wondered if I really was in the right place, so when I ordered I checked with the barman. He was surly and his response that I was in the right place also sounded a bit insulting, however, as a journalist you get used to being treated all kinds of different ways ranging from fawning and groveling to outright abuse. It comes with the territory as does inspecting your surroundings however dull, and that’s what I did while I was waiting for my conspiratorial meeting. Of course, they were banal and tacky, pokies (“slots” for everyone in the outside world) bleeping away to themselves, but let’s face it that the inside of most bars around our planet are no better. Wine bars are different, because they are enlivened by the wine ethos, or working hard to be damned cool.
I was half way through my beer – it didn’t taste of much, but I was thirsty and the first beer always calms me down – when someone came in who I though might be what was clearly either going to be an informant or a complete waste of time. He ordered a beer and sat down in a corner in silent thought. Clearly, no information was coming from that direction. I turned back to my beer and was also lost in thought – going over the day’s four wine tastings and yesterday’s four tastings – and suddenly there was a young winemaker sitting next to you who’s appearance I later promised to keep as quiet about as his identity. I can’t even say which sex she/he was. Anonymous is the name.
“Well, now I’m seeing you and you are seeing me,” Anonymous snarled in a voice I recognized, and I wondered why it wanted to talk to me. “I’m telling you this because nobody else will,” it continued, “Marlborough is already in trouble, many people would like to feel free to say it out loud, but nobody want’s to be overheard saying it, because they know they’d get into trouble.” In my heart I knew what was coming, and, of course, there’s a pleasure in having your expectations confirmed. “We’re over-Sauvignoned in a major way, but there’s denial, the whole place is in denial. Sometimes denial and marketing are the same thing.” That didn’t seem so risky, but then I had to promise my source anonymity in order to be given permission to use his words.
When I left the Xxxxx Tavern I didn’t feel relieved though that a local person had confirmed what I’d been thinking for a long time. No, the fact that I’d tasted some good Sauvignons during the last couple of days made me feel a bit fearful in this the most beautiful end of the world I know. I hurried nervously past churches with spires, cute bungalows and too many supermarkets for a town this size to get home. Someone had told me that I’d be safe on Safe Street, but I wasn’t convinced. I wrote this with an invisible cloud hanging over my head.
