There's a vineyard a mere five miles from my apartment, one I've driven by but not officially visited. It's getting to be grape harvest time, and the vines are all laden with fruity burdens. Vineyards can be very pretty indeed, and rows upon rows of healthy green plants appeal to both my outdoorsy and my mathematical sides (look at all the straight lines - how pleasing!). So I thought I'd go down to the vineyard with my trusty camera and capture some memories of the 2005 growing season.
I'd been meaning to do this for a couple of weeks, but finally got around to it Sunday afternoon. So I made the short drive, parked my car in the visitor lot and then trotted the dozen or so yards to the vineyards. I didn't even have to hop a fence. I was meandering up and down the rows, taking pictures wherever I managed to find a break in the netting used to keep out the birds. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and this particular vineyard has a kind of rustic southern charm about it. I was tempted to eat a couple of the grapes, but I resisted, since I figured the owners of the vineyard might not like that so much. I even made a point to not even touch the vines or look as if I were doing so, so as not to even look like I might be eating the fruit. I'd been perusing the vines for maybe ten minutes when a voice called out behind me.
"Can I help you?"
That question can be such a loaded one. If I'd gone up to a vineyard employee or if I'd been obviously looking confused, then asking me if I needed assistance would have been very helpful and proper. But when I'm clearly not seeking help of any kind, asking me if I need it is only telling me that you think that I do need it. I'm always confused as to how to answer it in these situations. The answer is no, but people don't seem to care for that response. But seeing as I haven't yet found a better one, I still go for that one.
"No. Thank you." I try to tack on the thanks so as not to appear rude. I also explained to the man that I was just walking around and taking pictures, even going so far as to compliment the beauty of the vines for good measure, because I was getting the impression that I was in trouble. The man went into an extended lecture about pesticides and liability. He told me that if someone wishes to explore the vineyards, the person should first come to the sales room and ask permission, so that they can receive the pesticide and liability lecture in advance. That all made good sense, and honestly I felt a little foolish for not thinking of that myself, so I apologized very nicely and promised both not to eat the grapes and to ask permission next time. He seemed to want to say something more, but instead just unsmilingly accepted my apologies and walked back towards the sales room. I got the impression that he had more lecture planned, as if he expected me to resist or argue.
I continued my wandering tour, but found the temperature to be a little much after a few minutes. So I found a shady spot under a tree at the edge of the vineyard, sat down, and pulled out a notebook to write awhile. I was a little grumpy from my encounter with the old man, not because I didn't understand why I had been lectured, but because of his seeming lack of acceptance of my apology. I had said I was sorry and I had been very nice about it, so if there was nothing more, why hadn't he just smiled and let it go? I idly considered some amusing forms of payback, some of them more clever (buying a bunch of table grapes, hiding the bag, and eating them in full view) than others (taking a picture of my extended middle finger).
After another quarter hour, a shiny silver Mercedes drove up and stopped right on the other side of the fence from my shady spot. A woman with platinum hair got out, and there was that question again:
"Can I help you?"
I was really confused now, because the tone was very angry. What kind of place is it that customer service representatives agressively seek out people to help and then yell at them?
"No." I was so confused that I forgot to thank her for her very unfriendly offer.
"Excuse me?" This woman apparently really wanted to help me.
"No, uh, thank you?" Now I was just asking what the right answer was. Apparently, mine wasn't it, as she began a long tirade, very similar to the one I'd just heard, but in a much angrier voice. I was still very confused, but my righteous indigation did not kick in and I did not interrupt until she got to the phrase "refused to leave." I informed her that I had not been asked to leave, so I could have hardly refused it. The statement seemed to take the wind out of her sails, an unforeseen ad-lib in her thoroughly prepared script, like when you prove to a telemarketer that you're already getting a better rate.
Regardless of whether I'd been asked to leave before, I was clearly being asked to leave now. Not content to let me walk through the vineyard back to my car, the woman told me that she would drive me back. Also, she wanted to talk about pesticides and liability some more. When we crossed into the parking lot, she suddenly seemed to realize that I was a member of the grand class of consumers and decided to make nice. She said, "You're still more than welcome to come into our sales room and try some wines. I just don't want you to just leave with a bad taste in your mouth." I thanked her, resisting the urge to say, "Well, I hardly think tasting your wine is going to help that."
I perused the sales and tasting room for a few minutes. I considered buying something to show that I held no hard feelings, but that would have been dishonest, since I was holding some hard feelings. I didn't even partake in a free tasting. The old man who had originally lectured me was giving a tasting, and he asked me if I'd gotten all the pictures I'd wanted. After the required five minutes of browsing, I headed for the door, pausing once more to apologize for the misunderstanding to the Mercedes lady. She was all smiles now, but it was clear that she just wanted to get me out of there, particularly since I was obviously not buying.
Sales room or no, I left with a rotten taste in my mouth, and judging from the salt content, it wasn't just because of my sweat. I was grumpy and pouty. I have a fear of consequences anyway, and when they are doled to me unfairly, I get unpleasant. I tried to make light of it to myself: I'd just gotten kicked out of a vineyard, and I'm not the kind of girl who gets kicked out of anywhere. I realized that in few years time, I'd find the whole story pretty amusing.
But not yet.
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