The Barefoot Butler

 

  

Bendemeer, the stomping grounds of the Barefoot Butler

    

   I vividly remember Heather, the spunky little British girl, turning around and asking me, “Where the hell are we going?” I didn’t know. I had an address for 55 Lake Haynes Rd, New Zealand scribbled in my notebook. I had assured Heather and her friend Jenny that it wouldn’t be too hard to find. They were on the whirlwind New Zealand vacation of a lifetime. I was a bum, hitching a ride from Wanaka to my next workstay, smelling like I hadn’t showered in a week, because I hadn’t. 

Like most folks I hitched rides with, they insisted on taking me to the front door so I didn’t have to find another ride. Two minutes in a car often saved two hours of walking. We turned onto a steep gravel road and bounced our way into the hills. The driveway split and we took the right turn, coming to a locked gate. Back we went to the left and after about a mile, the rutted road popped us out in a luscious, manicured garden. A stately stone homestead complete with enormous trees and flowering shrubs appeared nestled into the hillside. It wasn’t a mansion, per se, but it clearly was a well-to-do spot; the kind of elegance that tasteful rich people show effortlessly. A late model Porsche and Mercedes sat in the driveway.

I was responding to an online invitation. I would backpack for a week in the New Zealand mountains, then seek out a workstay arrangement via a popular workaway website. Travelers like me would swap four hours of garden or house work for meals and a bed for two to three weeks before moving on. Most places were low middle class families looking for babysitters and fruit pickers. Sometimes the traveler sought out the host, sometimes vice versa. With my construction skills, I was accustomed to having several offers in my email when I came out of the wilderness. This time though, only one message awaited me. Desperate for a bed and curious about the mysterious host, I followed the two sentence message. “55 Lake Haynes Road, Two weeks of art and sculpture.”

Jenny turned the car around in the driveway. Heather looked at me askance, clearly wondering how a bum like me was invited to an estate like this. A large rhododendron arch and flagstone path led from the driveway to the front door. I shrugged, thanked both English girls, told them I would see them later (which I would) and shouldered my sun-faded, sweat stained backpack.

The giant front door was hanging open as I approached. Barefoot, with my filthy hiking shoes in a garbage bag tied to my backpack, I leaned into the opening and faintly called out a greeting. Like a whirlwind, two women of a certain age, clad in bathrobes and face cream came flying out of one room, bottle of wine and books clenched in their hands. Unfazed by my appearance, one introduced herself as Charlotte and beckoned me into the kitchen. Uncertainly, I followed, where I found a large, but not overly large, kitchen and a feast in prep phase. 

Charlotte hollered into the abyss, “Annabel and Miranda, your help is here!” and off she went into another room. Two more women, dressed in aprons, came in from the pantry, again not at all fazed by a scraggly bum in the house, and introduced themselves. Miranda was the homeowner, and source of the mysterious message. Annabel was an award winning chef who was in charge of the evening’s festivities. It seemed that I had arrived just in time to help throw a large gala for some of the regions well-to-do; a fundraiser for one of Miranda’s many philanthropic projects. While I would learn much more about my hosts and art and sculpture tomorrow, tonight, I was to be the butler. 

Taken aback at my immediate duties, I looked down at my clothes. Hiking pants, faded flannel shirt and bare feet. I was guessing that I was about to be the most underdressed person at this event. I stowed my backpack in the wine cellar and washed my hands in the spare sink and reported to duty in the kitchen. Annabel was a whirlwind, slicing, dicing and running three burners and two ovens. I lasted a grand total of three minutes at the cutting board before it became plainly obvious that I had no idea what I was doing in the kitchen. Patiently, she called out the door for John. 

Immediately, a dour looking, bald headed man appeared holding two bottles of wine. John was the man of the house, Miranda’s husband, golf extraordinaire and wine connoisseur. Behind him appeared Pau, a Catalonian sommelier. They had purchased an entire wine collection from a house fire at a wealthy home and were attempting to determine the types and qualities of the bottles salvaged from the disaster. All the labels were gone, so they had spent the past two weeks uncorking high end bottles of wine and testing them. I didn’t last much longer in their company. When they realized I didn’t know the difference between white and red wine, I was hustled off to the patio to set out chairs for dinner.

The guests started to arrive. Annabel handed me platters of hors-d'oeuvres and I wandered among the doctors, lawyers, politicians and other members of the ruling class. It was very apparent that I was an object of curiosity. Most folks were dressed nicely, one step below black tie attire. I looked like I had just walked in from the homeless shelter. Everyone had questions. 

My tray of hors-d'oeuvres was taken away and the grilling began. The conversation grew as more guests became curious about my story. Within minutes, I was the centerpiece of the party. I took a seat at the bar, spun my stool around and regaled the guests with tales of hitchhiking through Australia, meeting snake catchers and hiking in the wilderness. Though I felt I was out of my depth with this new social class, they clearly identified with me. Most of them had done exactly what I was doing, decades before and remembered those times fondly. One after another, these scions of business kept telling me to just keep going. They didn’t care at all that I hadn’t showered all week. Hours flew by. 

Eventually the party came to an end. Dishes were piling up and I had to excuse myself from my admirers. Elbow deep in soapy water, I scrubbed away as all the guests thanked the hosts and then walked past me and said goodbye to the barefoot butler. What had started in the late afternoon as a fish-out-of-water question mark had become a life highlight. Weeks later, I would meet strangers at various other social engagements who had heard tales of the “Barefoot butler.” But those tales are going to have to wait for a future article. 

I hesitated to tell this story for a long time because it was impossible to maintain the privacy of my hosts and it always felt like bragging. I had a hard time describing the joy of spending an evening entertaining the wealthy without making my ego seem huge, or making me feel like a curiosity to the rich and famous. But it wasn’t like that at all. They were a bunch of very nice, interesting people who happened to be rich and having a dinner party. I was an unexpected guest who happened to be on a wild hitchhiking adventure and had stumbled into this party by accident. It still makes me smile to remember how the flagstones felt on my bare feet. Many people I met that evening went on to be good friends and I am excited to write more stories about them in the future…