Some Things Money Can’t Buy

I did it again.  Put my foot in my mouth.  In my exultation and enthusiasm for this place I call home and which is so intricately stitched within my heart, I forget to look at the downside of giving authenticity away.  The Sheepfarmer tells me that in my efforts to be liked I sometimes forget one crucial element, whether or not one or both parties WANT my help.  I refer to my previous blog entry and wanting to introduce my shepherd friend who makes his cheese for himself and his dearest friends…

He would probably hate my bringing strangers to meet him.  And I would hate to have brought anyone that does not deserve his special gifts.  I overstepped my bounds.  This same type of incident happened to me once before and I swore it would not happen again.  

Several years ago I worked as an interpreter for a Belgium filmming crew that was doing a documentary in the back country.  I made all the arrangements and coordinated all the day’s activities (for a week).

At one point in a day we were to break for lunch and I calmly reminded the director that we needed to stop filming somewhere between 12 and 2pm.  He gruffly responded by telling me that it was they “who paid” and that they would eat when they wanted to.  There were about 12 of them filming, sound, lights etc.
I explained to him that “no" we needed to give the little auberge an approximate time for lunch or that I would have them prepare sandwiches we could eat at our own convenience.  This is France, restaurants are not open around the clock, especially in small back wood villages.  He screamed at me that they would do as he says because that is what they were paid to do.
I again told him “No. This restaurant has been in the same family for a couple of hundred years.  They have no mortgage or credit to pay.  The vegetables are grown in the garden, the meat cured on site, the chicken and ducks slaughtered when necessary."  Everything came off the “farm auberge”.  The sheep were milked.  The cheese was made.  The eggs were gathered…
The director was livid, but I held my ground and told him I would not remain in their company if my wishes were not respected.  I played hardball.  He could not remain in the back country without my translating Basque and the documentary had a budget and therefore a deadline.
They breaked at noon.  Drank wine like there was no tomorrow, chopped the half wheel of cheese in obscene disrespect (bread and cheese are revered here, a sign of the cross drawn upon the virgin piece of food in a jest with the blade of a knife just prior to cutting into it).  They left the platters in shambles.  The linens and the tables a mess...
I was so embarassed.  I profusely apologized to the proprietors, but they were too kind and told me it was not my fault.  That day  I vowed to myself that I would ALWAYS make sure that "whomever I introduced to what", would be deserving…I made a promise to myself.
There are just somethings money cannot buy. A shepherd’s cheese made in his little stone hut is one of them.