They shuttle us to the middle of beautiful nowhere to walk in front of rich people wearing nice shoes and eating family-sized gobs of buffalo mozzarella. The property is an estate from a bygone age when the wealthy owned grotesque amounts of land like British royalty, gardens and horse stables, brick walls and ivy. Through the trees is a house, sturdy and Georgian, with white-painted windowsills and dormer roofs. Soon enough, it disappears and the shuttle drops us off at a big plastic tent, which is so often the case.
The models and generator equipment make unnatural sounds in utopia and I sit in the middle of a large piece of grass praying for the wind to take them all away. Their chitchat and deepening wrinkles. The wind doesn’t listen and instead blows the hair around my face like fading wheat. I watch it take to the landscape invisibly: the blades of green bending with a rubbery pep, the trees groaning in unison. It makes ripples in my watery coffee like the surface of a pond.
An effeminate man wearing rhinestone brocade and a chinstrap beard gathers us round like the dumb chickens we are and provides us with directions. “It’s pretty straightforward,” he begins, following with instructions to simply walk all the way down the runway and back. I want to correct him and say that it is entirely straightforward, but I say nothing. “When you go out there,” he continues, “I want you to have a strong and pleasant coun…” The word I presume he is going for is countenance but he stops short, assuming that its meaning would be wasted on us.