Decide What to Be and Go Be It

     The days of me solo in Europe are coming to a close.  Tomorrow is the day I head back to the good ol' US of A.  Traveling alone, and with the vast portion of my traveling being in a country where I didn't speak the language, I've spent a lot of time with me.  I know a lot more about me now than I did before beginning this journey.

I now know that I'm actually pretty good at figuring out how to get places...  I know that even though I know I'm good at it, I will always be nervous about not being able to figure out how to get places...  I know that I will always arrive way too early for an event that may be remotely important, like catching a plane or train...  I know that I have the worst sense of direction...  I knew that before hand, but I didn't know I was this bad.  I know that I over pack...  Especially when it comes to toiletries and underwear.  I know that I can be content in awkward situations and not allow the awkwardness frustrate me, which is very important...  I know that I can live in harmony with spiders...  I know that I can learn a lot of things by simply observing...  I know that I don't want to spend my life doing something I "don't mind doing"...  I know I don't want to settle in life...  And I know I don't have to.  I still don't know everything about me though.  I hopefully still have a lot of time of growing and learning and adventuring left in my life.  So, there's no need to rush things.

On the plane from Boston to Dublin, just starting this trip, I was sitting there, like ya do on a plane, listening to my iPod and the song, "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" by The Avett Brothers came on and the lyrics really struck a chord with me.  "There was a dream, and one day I could see it.  Like a bird in a cage I broke in and demanded that somebody free it.  And there was a kid with a head full of doubt.  So I'll scream 'til I die and the last of those bad thoughts are finally out." But the words that really hit me and had me thinking about this transitional phase I'm currently going through in my life come right before the chorus, "Decide what to be, and go be it".  I may not know what I'll be doing in ten years or even where I'll be doing it.  But for right now, I wanted to go to France.  So, I went to France.  I wanted to volunteer with WWOOF and experience a different way of life.  So, I did that.  I wasn't the easiest thing to do by any means.  It would have been easier if I had chosen an English speaking country, but I didn't.  It would have been easier if I had a familiar person with me to lean on, but it was just me.  But I can't let certain aspects of life or situations stop me from being who and what I want to be.

There is another song on the same album by The Avett Brothers, "Incomplete and Insecure".  That song is the complete antithesis of Head Full of Doubt.  It opens up, "I haven't finished a thing since I've started my life.  I don't feel much like starting now."  It exemplifies what I strive to never become, incomplete and insecure.  I never want to look back and wish I had done something but chose not to because of convenience or comfort.  If I miss out on something amazing it had better be because I am creating other and possibly better memories.

So, in my search for my perfect theme song, I have come to the conclusion that maybe "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" may not be the song that will define my entire life, but for right now I think it fits.  And even though I will always have a head full of doubt, I can not and will not let it discourage me.  And since "nothing is owed, deserved, or expected..." you have to choose your own path determining whether or not your life will be "Incomplete and Insecure", or a "Road Full of Promise".  The choice is yours.

The Avett Brothers - Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise

I See London, I Saw France, I'm Coming Back with Only Half of My Underpants

     Here I sit, in an old courtroom in London where Dickens once sat.  Well, possibly.  He apparently worked somewhere in this place.  It's only a week until the Olympics are set to start here so the city has been prepped and cleaned before the mayhem of tourists and press and obviously athletes will inevitibly destroy it.  And as cool as it would be to attend an olympic event, I am so glad I will not be here for it.

But I am glad I decided to extend my stay in Europe to visit here.  I actually really like London.  The season of Summer does not exist here but you do get quick glimpses of sunlight and they are very enjoyable...  The rain is blah, but it's not unbearable.  It seems like there are actually more cyclists here, braving the rain, than there were in Paris.  And here people actually wear cycling helmets.  I thought it was kind of strange that in Paris I only saw a handful of people wearing cycling helmets.  Here you only see a handful without one.  

Getting here was a pretty enjoyable experience, as well.  Two thumbs up to the Eurostar people.  Comfortable seat, quite trains, not over booked and over crowded.  The train ride from Toulouse to Paris was 5 hours of crap.  It was overbooked so I didn't have an assigned seat so I spent half of the time sitting on the floor by the cafe.  I felt like a stowaway.  On the Eurostar I didn't even have anyone next to me.  So, two seats!  Woo!  

Repacking in Paris was an event though.  I always overpack when it comes to toiletries and underwear.  Two items you never want to run out of.  So I pack them like I'm supplying soap and underwear to small villages along my journey.  For some reason I highly overestimated my soap usage before this trip and I ended up leaving two unused bars of soap at the farm.  I'm still using the same bottle of liquid soap that I've been using the entire trip...  I also wasn't certain of the clothes washing situations I would run into so I packed pretty much every pair of underwear I own.  You can rewear a lot of things.  Underwear is not one of those things...  And it was a good thing I did that because that is the situation I've found myself in currently.  I was able to wash my clothes while at the farm, but now with staying in quaint hotels and hostels, clean laundry is something I haven't smelled in a couple of weeks.  But, being the panty hoarder that I am, I was left with a laundry bag full of dirty underwear and a pack full of dirty clothes along with plenty of clean underwear! And who wants to carry around a laundry bag full of dirty underwear???  No thank you.  So, I trashed them.  And look, I just made a little extra room in my pack!  

London, with the exception of Westminster and Buckingham Palace and places like that, isn't as picturesque as Paris, but I guess it's quite unfair to start comparing every city to Paris...  Unfair for the other city, I mean.  Paris is amazing.  I really loved it there.  I can't wait to return.  There is so much I didn't get to see!  And lots of stuff I didn't want to stop looking at!  But there are still so many other places in this world that I have yet to see and experience.  I can't wait to see more and can't wait to find the next "Paris".  I think I can find things to love about every place I go.  Except Sasebo, Japan of course.  That place just blows.  

First Night in Paris

     Life on the farm has come to an end.  The language barrier may have been a struggle at times but I am very happy I decided to take the plunge and actually go through with it. It was a great experience and I made memories that I will keep with me forever.

Now I sit in a quaint hotel room at the Hotel Edouard IV off the historic Boulevard du Montparnasse in Paris.  I've always dreamed of coming to Paris and now I've made it a realization.  Even though I've been in France for well over a month now, I feel like I'm in a different country again.  The differences between the south of France and Paris are enormous.  And as much as I like the laid back feel of the countryside, I always feel more at home in the heart of a bustling city where movement is constant and noise is abundant yet I can feel so still and alone with my thoughts as I sit at a street-side cafe with my coffee or glass of wine and watch the city as it passes by.

Last night I went walking around the neighborhood of Montparnasse, wandering aimlessly and just taking in everything there is to see.  Wandering aimlessly is something I am very good at.  Wandering with a purpose, that's another story.  I possibly have the worst sense of direction known to man.  Even with my iPhone and Google maps, I went in the wrong direction at least ten times.  There was even an instance when I was trying to head south and ended up going north and after realizing that I turned around.  Five minutes later I checked again and I somehow was headed north again...  Tricky streets of Paris...  But I did manage to stop at a little place called Le Doucet on Rue D'Assa for dinner.  I had the tartare de boeuf, salade, et frites.  Paired with a fantastic glass (actually two...) of vin de Bordeaux.  It was a superb meal to welcome me to this lovely city.

With so many sites to see and my brain working overtime trying to take it all in, I was finding it more difficult to focus on my route back to the hotel as I can sometimes become easily distracted.  Take for instance when I was walking down the street and I came across two GIGANTIC sparkling green doors with HUGE golden door knobs in the center of each door.  First thought that comes to my mind... "That must be the door to the merry ol' land of Oz!"  So then I had the song, "Merry Ol' Land of Oz" stuck in my head...  Then that sparked an internal debate of, who's gayer? The Tin Man or The Cowardly Lion?  Then I started thinking about how different the characters where from The Wizard of Oz and Return to Oz...  Then "Interpol" zoomed by and I wondered whether they were chasing Catherine Zeta Jones or Matt Damon...  Then I realized I was going in the wrong direction again.

But getting lost isn't without it's perks.  I got to take in more of the architecture and I came across some awesome statues that I wouldn't have seen if I had known where I was going.  I didn't know I was walking towards the Eiffel Tower since my hotel was the opposite direction and, Wham!  There she was.  All lit up and glowing in the night sky.  Beautiful.

Paris is beautiful!  The architecture, the sculptures, the high-fashion boutiques, the people hanging out at the cafes, everything about it.  I've been here not even 24 hours and I know why everyone falls in love with Paris.

The countryside has the natural beauty.  And it's amazing.  But Paris is where the beauty of humanity is celebrated.  C'est beau!

The Good Terrorist

Today I am sitting out going to the market in Montbrun Bocage.  Not really because I wanted to, but because I'm lazy and didn't wake up until 9am and Marie leaves at 7am to get there with plenty of time to set up.  It's a really fun market to go to.  Lots of different people from all over Europe go to it.  There are always lots of hippies from the area that are either doing their weekly produce shopping or selling whatever they have to sell.  Also, there are always lots of bourgeois tourists from the UK on holiday that come I guess just to check out a different way of shopping from what they're used to, i.e. supermarkets.  So it goes from one end of the spectrum all the way to the other.  From hippies in jalopies to well off tourists in Land Rovers.  I like to think I lie somewhere in the middle of that spectrum.  I've been called a hippie by lots of people in my life, but no, no.  Not a hippie.  I like to shower too much.  

Last Sunday when I was there I had a very interesting conversation with two guys, one of whom was British and the other was from Nicaragua.  Byron was the guy from Nicaragua and I forget the British guy's name so we'll just call him Jasper, because he reminded me a lot of the character Jasper Willis from Doris Lessing's novel, The Good Terrorist, a squatter who was trying to revolutionize the world and an avid believer in the ideas of Marx and Lenin.  Byron was a very easy going guy who sounded more like he was Jamaican, and was very friendly.  Jasper, on the other hand, was very outspoken on his views of the bourgeoisie tourist who flocked to Montbrun Bocage.  He was very articulate on why he didn't like Americans and the British (he, being British).  He talked about overconsumption and the unimportance of money.  He grouped me in the category of over consumers based on the fact that I had taken a plane from America to France and the amount of gas that planes, cars, and trains use is disgusting.  While I agree with him somewhat on that statement, I didn't understand him excluding himself from that category after taking a plane to France based on the fact that he had been in France for four years…  So, according to him, if I were to stay here for a certain amount of time without flying anywhere I could possibly be excused as well…  Hmmm…  

He also complained about the majority of the British and Americans being mono-linguistic.  So I brought up the question of, if we are to only travel as far as we can walk or bike, how the hell are we going to learn other languages???  That made Byron laugh and Jasper just reexplain the importance of stopping over consumption.  It was fun to find holes in his theory of a new, better life that everyone should follow and watch him get flustered and make Byron laugh again.  It's not that I didn't agree with him, because I do.  It's just his ideas were just a tad extreme.  On the topic of the unimportance of money, he didn't need money and had gone a long time with hardly any of it.  He didn't even have to pay rent.  Because he was a squatter and lived in an old building illegally.  He may have even lived in the ruins of the castle that I would go up to every time I was there.  I didn't ask about what he ate.  He just talked about people growing their own food for sustenance.  I had a feeling he himself did not grow his own food.  Oh, and with him you had to grow your food a certain way.  No gas using machines could be involved.  To say the least, it was a very interesting conversation that lasted quite a long while.  Byron, being the friendly one, even offered a few drags off of whatever it was he was smoking…  And since I didn't want to be rude…  

So we three, a Brit, a Nicaraguan, and an over consuming American, sat there on the steps of a church that was built thousands of years ago in the south of France smoking and discussing the woes of the modern times.  I'm not exactly positive what we were smoking since everyone here rolls their own cigarettes, but I was feeling very relaxed for the remainder of the afternoon.  

Nice Day for a French Wedding

Yesterday I went with my little French family to a party celebrating the recent marriage of two of their closest friends. The location was beautiful. It was at the couple’s home, which was tucked away in a small town in the Pyrenees. We had a reverse view from what we look at each day. From Marie and Alain’s home we see the mountains; from Christian and Mariam’s home (the newlyweds) we see the small villages in the valleys. It was a fun time, even though I, of course, couldn’t speak to anyone. I let them talk about me and answered any questions they had which were translated through Alain or my fellow WWOOFer, Lilly, who’s French is fairly decent. They mentioned how brave I was to come WWOOF in a country here I didn’t speak the language. I wanted to reply that I thought it might have been more stupidity than bravery that made me chose to do it. But I guess sometimes the line between the two can be quite thin at times.

It was really great to be in a very intimate setting with people of a somewhat different culture. But I guess it doesn’t really matter where you are in the world, a wedding celebration is basically the same for any culture. It’s something to be celebrated amongst your closest friends and family. And possibly a couple of random foreigners… But the food was great (roasted pig on an open fire pit), and the wine was great (duh). We even had a little bit of impromptu entertainment. One of the older women (there were a lot of them, after all, old women love weddings) got up and sang a little song for the couple. Even though she didn’t have the best singing voice, she wasn’t off key and everyone seemed to know the song. They all sang the chorus along with her. After her little showing, one of the old little shrinking men started talking and even though I couldn’t quite understand him, I could tell that he was trying to get one of the other older guys to get up and sing, saying he had the best voice in all of the Pyrenees! The man was a bit reluctant at first, but after being put on the spot like that he sang a song and it was beautiful! I don’t know what it was about, but I’m sure something about love was involved.

So, yet again, it was another moment here where it started off really awkward for me, but in the end it ended up being quite lovely. The wine does help a bit… But just being able to sit back and observe people is what I’ve come to really enjoy. I do that quite a lot here… I feel a bit like Jane Goodall. :-)

It was quite odd that on the same day that I went to these strangers’ wedding celebration, my little brother was, in fact, getting married to his long time girlfriend, Kayla. As much fun as I had being with a bunch of strangers of whom I cannot talk to, I’m really upset that I wasn’t able to be at Zach and Kayla’s. But your wedding gift is in the mail! I wish you two the best of luck and many years of happiness together!!!

Rhythm is Life and Life is Rhythm

One of my favorite parts of my daily routine here is when I get to water the greenhouse in the morning. It’s not because I like the humidity in the air inside the greenhouse or the mud I have to tread through from one end to the other. It’s because I get to listen to my iPod on full blast with no one around me but the plants and music. I get to zone out from the current menial task at hand and lose myself in the music and lyrics of whatever song may have popped up on shuffle. Some people think better in complete silence with the noises of nature around them; some people think better in a group of people in a collaboration; I think better when listening to music. It’s like The Dirty Heads said, “I turn up my brain up in my headphones.”

Music sets my mood and attitude towards a lot of things in life. I use it as therapy of sorts, therapy that doesn’t involve talking, just singing and thinking. So when I feel like I’m too out of place here and feeling a little unsure of what I am doing, or especially about my future, I can just walk, take in my surroundings, put on the right song, and my attitude drastically changes for the better. It can be a song that I have listened to a hundred times and it never gets old, like “What a Wonderful World” by Joey Ramone (I like a lot of covers of this song but Joey Ramone’s is my favorite), “Soulshine” by The Allman Brothers, or something new and a bit corny like “Good Life” by OneRepublic. It doesn’t have to have uplifting lyrics, it can be something with a great beat and that’s fun to sing along to, like The Dirty Heads or even Kanye West.

I also love when Alain and Marie’s youngest son, Marjolain, is home from school on the weekends because he is always practicing his piano playing skills. That is the time that I am grateful that the floor of my upstairs bedroom is a very simple wooden plank floor, without soundproofing. The piano sits right below my bed and the sounds resonate up to me, it is happening now as I type this. He plays everything from Chopin and Schubert to Beethoven and Debussy. It doesn’t bother me at all when he misses the right note or has to repeat a small section over and over again until he gets it right. I love the classics and I love the piano. I wish I had learned, but I am far too old to get remotely close to the point that a 16 year old is at if I started now. If I have a child, they’re playing the piano. I don’t care what they want to do… hehe… Just kidding…. Sort of…

But what I love most about music is that you can find inspiration from all types of music, and sometimes in the most unlikely of songs. Take for instance, the title of this blog. I’m sure some of you reading this know exactly where those lyrics came from and others are trying to place them right now. It’s the all-so-wise lyrics from “Regulate” by Warren G. Yes, “chords, strings, we brings, melody, G-funk. Where rhythm of life, and life is rhythm.” I doubt Warren G knew he was makings such a bold statement with that, but he’s completely right. There’s music all around us. Some of it not very appeasing.. (just as I was typing that statement, the damn roosters had to pipe up with their out of tune singing…) But music is out there to be enjoyed, appreciated, and shared. You just have to keep your ears and mind open because your song may be in the most unlikely of places.

And remember kids, if your ass is a buster, 2-1-3 will regulate.

A-yack-nophobia

So, I wouldn't really categorize myself with those who are afraid of insects or bugs, I'm just not a big fan of them. Entomology isn't really my thing. But if it were, this house would be like hitting the jackpot! And my least favorite definitely has to be spiders. and they pretty much have the run of this house... As I sit here typing this I'm not even looking at the monitor or keyboard, I'm staring at a huge spider that's just crawling about in his/her web roughly four feet from where I lay my head at night... And no one seems to pay them any mind here... So, I'm trying to fit in and accept them... Also, earlier we were talking about how I have to watch out for ticks here so I don't get Lyme Disease and die. I'm just hoping to survive my stay in this bedroom. I do have some type of bite on my arm.. (On Olive actually... And when she gets bit, I get bit). It's not a spider bit, I know that. I don't have a clue what it could be. It's not too bad yet so I haven't really begun to worry about losing my artwork, uh, I mean arm at this point.

But today has been a very interesting day on the farm. We killed two chickens. It as supposed to be three but one got away. It was a pretty intense moment and I don't really know how I feel about the whole experience. I didn't kill any chickens myself, I just watched and helped out where I could. But I did have to submerge them in hot water over a fire to loosen the feathers and pluck them. Lots of feathers on those things... The image of feathers being pulled out of skin is still haunting me. But it's a part of life, and you never know if you'll ever be in the situation where you'll need that knowledge to survive. I'll look at it as being in the presence of Bear Gryllson Man vs Wild and it's just a lesson on survival.. But, yack! Hey, that's two less roosters cock-a-doodle-doo-dooing constantly... Heh??

After that traumatic experience, we took a break for lunch with some rice, a cream sauce (that was made from a bunch of plants that I don't know but it was really good. There wasn't even cream in it, it was a type of plant that made it creamy... blew my mind...) and pork sausage. That was the first time meat had been served since I've been here so I guess meat was the theme of the day. I went and retrieved three plates, three glasses and three forks. I couldn't find any knives to set out because they don't have very many. And since they don't have very many, the same ones are used for a lot of things... But as I sat at the table outside waiting for Alain and Marie to come out with the food, Alain saw that there were no knives to cut the sausage with . So he went back inside to get some. In the last post, I mentioned that they don't exactly take the time to properly wash the dishes, especially utensils, so when I saw Alain come out and set a knife at each setting, I saw I had gotten the same knife that I had cut the flowers with, I had sliced my finger open with, and the knife that Alain used to "clean" the chickens with just one hour before. And when I say clean, I'm assuming most people know I mean take out all of the organs out of the chicken.... I could clearly see that it still had not been washed. I barely touched the handle and could feel slime from the chicken... I was NOT using that knife. I just let it sit right by my plate as I used the side of my fork to slowly saw the sausage into bites.... Yack!

Another thing I just wanted to point out about this place is that there is not refrigerator... The yogurt that we got at the market on Wednesday (it's Friday) is just sitting on a shelf. The cheese which we also got at the market is on a separate shelf. The chicken carcasses are in a pan, covered by a piece of cloth, sitting on top of dishware, on yet another shelf... And it's not going to get cooked until tomorrow or the next day... Why am I not doubled over in stomach pain? How is stuff able to be left out like this? Are we just overly protective about what we put in our mouths for no good reason? I mean, I know there is a good reason but.. HOW IS THIS WORKING???

So between the ticks, the spiders, and non-refrigerated food, I'm either going to defy cushy American logic, or I just may as well die... We'll see...

To be continued...

Those Are Some Sweet Buns

Those Are Some Sweet Buns

Today was bread making day to sell at the market in the park in the village of Le Plan. It’s a long process that begins around 7 in the morning and doesn’t end until 5 in the evening. By 5:30 all of the bread has been sold, all of that work for such a quick turn around! It was a crap ton of bread, too. Lots of mixing, kneading, shaping, kneading again, and shaping again; it’s quite tiring work. And each one has to be in a perfectly uniform shape, which is not easy to do. The entire thing is a hands on process. There is no Kitchen Aid mixer, just your hands, from start to finish. From mixing the flour and water all the way to burning your hands while grabbing the loaves off the paddle when taking them out of the giant wood-fired oven. I’m really hoping to be able to make it when I get home. I know the ingredients; it’s just that there are no measurements… I need strict instructions when it comes to cooking. Not to mention, I will also be missing the awesome, wood-fired ovens so I know I will not get the same product as I am getting here… But, dang it, I’m going to try!

The best part of bread baking day is that it’s also pizza baking day! I have had that ratatouille pizza four out of the five days I’ve been here and I hope the trend continues! It is so amazing. And the wine that is paired with it… Oh. My. Gawd!... I really hope I am able to bring some home with me. However, I know that even if I do find the same bottle from the same house in the states, it won’t be the same…

I also can’t wait to try and make the elderberry flower drink. It’s tasty. There are a lot of plants here that are also in Southeast Texas so I think my chances of finding them are pretty good. I was so excited today when I came across a honey suckle for the first time in FOREVER. But every time I tried to get the nectar out of it, there was nothing there. All dry… The last one I tried before giving up had so much hope. I picked it at the right point off the stem, I had a hold of the perfect spot on the pistol, and once the head of the pistol was almost out, I could see there definitely something coming out with it (imagine my excitement)!!!! And… it was a bug… Whah, whah, whah… So, I gave up…. I’m going to get one though. I had to explain to Alain what I was doing because they apparently do not do that here. I’m hoping to be able to have him try it.

Whilst failing at reliving a childhood past time, we were out collecting the elderberry flowers so we could make more of the drink the next day. I had my shear in hand (which was the same knife that I had used to cut my pizza at lunch. I’m sure it was not washed since then because their dish cleaning system is quite different from ours.. as in it hardly exists) crawling through he most painful bushes and trees known to man, which just so happen to want to grow right on top of the elderberry trees… Well, to make a long story short, while crawling through the woods with a knife, I cut my finger open… I didn’t want them to make a big deal about it so I didn’t tell them. I just became a bit more awkward than I already was and pretended like nothing happened. Every time I had the chance, I was applied pressure like you wouldn’t believe. I just had to stop the constant flow of blood so they wouldn’t notice it dripping everywhere. Somehow, with lots of pressure, and maybe a bit of “the force” (cause I was staring at it ever so intently, ya never know) it stopped. I don’t think they noticed, although they may have been talking about it right in front of me, even to me for that matter, I wouldn’t have had a clue. But as soon as we got back to the house I nonchalantly went up stairs to retrieve a band-aid from my little First Aid kit I had brought (I knew I would need it), went back down stairs for dinner. Which was ratatouille pizza again, and there at my place setting was the same knife that I’d used for my pizza at lunch, cut down elderberry flowers with, and sliced my finger open. And it still had not been washed… F@#k it. It’s just a little bit of germs….

Day Three

Day Three

Jour trios. I’m learning a tiny bit more French everyday. As long as I learn more than I knew the day before I’m content. Even if it is only one more word, it is still progress!

Today was an easier day.  I’m getting more and more comfortable here with Alain, Marie, and their sons. Marjolain is 16, very respectful and plays the piano beautifully. Timothee (accent over the first e) is 18 and is at that tender age where he likes to show off in front of girls. Me included. It’s ridiculous, but funny. He has no desire to learn English but we have both studied Spanish so we try to communicate via broken Spanish. Neither of us is very good at it. But the good thing is that I have noticed I have stopped asking myself, “What the hell are you doing here?” I woke up around 8 again, filled the water jugs to take to the horses, and helped Alain weed some grass that had taken over his potatoes. There was a lot of grass to root up, but it was raining a bit so we weren’t out there too long before we headed back to the house.

Once we got back, we saw two mama hens with their chicks on the side of the road. Not exactly the best place to let your babies play, Mother Hen… Then we saw that one of the cats was creeping up through the bushes towards the baby chicks. Instead of witnessing stock footage from Animal Planet, we intervened and had to run around catching all of the baby chicks and the mama hens to put them in a cage away from the cat. I was okay with crawling through rose bushes to catch the chicks but after Alain had caught one of the hens and just threw it at me to hold, I was a bit apprehensive. There I was, holding on to the hen’s wings for dear life. I didn’t want to drop the damn thing so he would have to catch her again. She was trying to flap her wings to get away, and I was scared that I was going to be missing an eye shortly…. Baby chicks are cute and soft. Adult chickens are scary and look at you like they are going to kill you.

But after that episode, there was a bit of a lazy mood in the air since it had been raining off and on. Alain, Marjolain, and I just sat around the table while Marjolain put wood into the oven to heat up not only the amazing ratatouille pizza, but also his pants. The pants were placed on a rack above the oven to dry. The pizza was obviously inside the oven. We ate he pizza, drank some amazing Bordeaux, and just talked. We talked about the difficulties of the English language as well as the difficulties of the French language. They did not like that the words three, free, and tree all sounded the same. They were blown away by the example sentence I gave them of, “I saw a man saw a log.” And I thought French was hard…. We talked a little about current events with the U.S. and France and I showed them a few pictures of San Diego on my phone. It was a very nice interaction.

Things are getting easier here everyday. Thank goodness…

Day Two

Day Two

Day deux. I had no idea what time they got up in the morning. I was hoping for a relatively late start since we didn’t go to bed until about one o’clock. To be honest, I just didn’t want to get out of bed. I was still feeling awkward being here and didn’t know what to do or what time to be ready for more tasks… So I didn’t get out of bed until around 8:30 when I heard the tractor already running. Crap! Alain was already loading the van with the plants to take to the castle for the day’s art fair. I didn’t want to waste anymore time, or have them thinking I am completely useless if I am going to sleep like that. Instead of taking my preferred (and much needed) morning shower I opted for a quick change of chonies, a splash of water to the face, and brush of my teeth. Waalaa, I’m outside, ready to do whatever is needed of me. (BTW, being in the most rural setting I have ever experienced, I felt like a complete a-hole with my Sonicare toothbrush buzzing away, hoping no one would hear it and come to investigate a strange noise because then I would look like a giant a-hole. Luckily, I brought a back up…)

I didn’t think much of the not showering situation since I knew we would be going to the art thing later that evening and I knew I would be able to shower before then. So, I was instructed on how to water the plants in the greenhouse. Got it. Done in twenty. Next, load up the car with water for the horses. I knew they had horses on a separate property but I wasn’t aware that we had to take them water every day. Sometimes twice a day. I’m not the most comfortable around large animals (and they can smell fear, right?!), of which whom have the potential of breaking many bones with one swift kick to the whatever and whenever. So once inside the fence with these gigantic animals, I’m emptying the jugs of water into the tub while they were getting too close for comfort and were nudging me with their snouts. I really didn’t want to be there.. and the only thoughts running through my head was “they can sense your fear, they can sense fear” and “how does a horse eat an apple?” And I knew a real horse’s mouth wasn’t going to my knee and it damn sure wasn’t going to tickle….

We finished watering the horses and loaded back up to go pick up their youngest son, Marjolain (try pronouncing that one!) who was at piano lessons. We pick him up, and off to the castle we go… wait, off to the castle?? No shower?! Maybe we we’re going early to finish setting everything up for the even later? Nope. We are here for the actual event. I’m in muddy hiking boots, cut off shorts, a blue t-shirt complete with horse slobber, hair piled on the top of my head, sweaty, smelly and hadn’t showered. But after a while, I didn’t care anymore. I realized most the people I had met on the previous night were still wearing their clothes from the day before. And, let’s be honest, deodorant isn’t the most popular toiletry in France. Compared to them, I wasn’t doing too bad. But, I was still the awkward American that could not speak the language. No one realized it until they were a few sentences into the conversation and I was finally able to cut them off and let them know I had no clue what they had said.

I’ve always heard things about the French, about how rude they are, blah, blah, blah… let’s face it, I think we all have. I can tell you first hand that it isn’t true at all. Everyone wanted to talk to me but then came the awkward explanation that I could not understand nor speak the language, then it was “ahhhh, merci.” And then it would happen again… I’ve met so many interesting (or seemed to be) people and there I was… the inept American mute, alone with my thoughts whilst surrounded by people, hearing their words and not understanding a thing…

But as awkward as it is for me, it is still really freakin’ cool to be here. In the garden area there was an old man with a bushy, white beard playing Spanish songs with a classical guitar. There was Marjolain playing classical compositions on the piano. There was their eldest son, Timothee (accent over the first e) carving things out of wood logs on a carving machine. Beautiful paintings are hung throughout the place, with lots of pottery and other crafts. Two rock bands are set up in a room that had a wine barrel in it the size of my old bedroom. Literally. It was huge. There was even a chick sitting in a tree in the garden singing opera! However, that was a tad strange and I couldn’t help but giggle when I saw her. I couldn’t understand the conversations but everyone understands music. Music is international. You don’t have to be from Spain to appreciate Spanish guitar music. You don’t have to be from Austria to appreciate Mozart or Beethoven. Most of the people don’t know more than five words of English but 90% of the songs the rock bands preformed were in English. They had written the songs themselves, which was apparent because they  didn’t make any sense and they just repeated themselves over and over… But that isn’t what matters. How does it sound? How does it make you feel? I can sing along with Andrea Bocelli in Italian.. Edith Piaf in French… Richie Valens in Spanish! That doesn’t mean I know what I’m singing about (I do know the translation of the song, La Bamba by the way) but I know I like how it sounds. I like how it makes me feel. And that’s all that matters. 

Day One

Day One

First day on the farm was quite an adventure. The husband, Alain, is still in the process of learning English but it is coming along very well with the help of fellow American WWOOFers. I was picked up from the train station at Cazeres sur Garonne by Alain and we made the awkward trip to the farmhouse where Marie, the wife, had already begun making the butt loads of bread they bake every Thursday for the week. I walk in, “Bonjour,” Bonjour.” “Je ne parle pas Francais” … “Eh, non Inglais” … Awesome. To say the least, there is a lot of silence between Marie and I….

As soon as I arrive, I am given my first task: to prepare the pizza. For everyone that knows me, knows I do not cook. It scares me. But, ok! Prepare pizza! It was easy! I poured a ratatouille on top of the dough and shredded fresh cheese (important to note, it was from the cupboard, not the fridge) with a grinder thingy and folded the remaining dough back onto the pizza. Done. I didn’t screw it up! Whew! By the way, that pizza was amazing. Note 1: I must learn to make the dough and ratatouille AND the homemade elderberry flower soda. Note 2: Find out what elderberry flower is.

Second task: Help Marie take the bread outside to the gigantic wood-fired oven that was so large I was half expecting to see the charred remains of Hanzel and Gretel inside… All of the mounds of dough were in a row along a big wooden plank. I take one side, Marie the other. We walk it outside. Easy. We’re not even out the door when you hear a loud CRACK! And everything goes crashing to the floor. Dough flying about, onto the might-as-well-be dirt floor. It wasn’t my fault whatsoever but who’s side was it that broke?? MINE… of course. I hadn’t even been there an hour…. F@#k. Eh well… Not a big deal. Pick it back up, don’t even try to dust the dirt off the dough (because that is not going to happen) and into the oven they go. They were still good! I probably ate that piece today! Or we sold it… Heh…

Third task: Help load a piano and woodcarving machine into the van to transport to the castle… castle? Quoi? Yes, a miniature castle (aka giant mansion) that was built during the Renaissance (complete with a moat!) for a little art fair on the following day. Okay… We get to the castle and there are only the artists, crafters, friends of theirs, and of course the people who live there setting up for the event. And there I am meeting everyone, ever so awkwardly, with a “Bonjour.” “Bonjour.”… kiss, kiss.. “Kristen.” “Insert name.” “Blah da blah da Frenchi blah” … “Eh, je ne parle pas Francais” … “Ehhh, oiu.” And again. And again. And again. I didn’t think people whose cheeks I hadn’t pretended to kiss would ever stop piling out of this castle. Made for a slightly awkward time.

Once the piano and wood machine had been set up in their respective places, in the courtyard of the castle, we said our au revoirs and headed back. Well, we tried to… We ended up getting stuck behind a small precession of kids dancing, adults carrying small torches, and a little marching band. It was the celebration of the village saint, Saint Jean… ehhh…. Leubleau (last name not remembered. It’s not Leubleau) Alain, who was driving, became slightly annoyed by not knowing about the parade, just wanted to get home. I, on the other hand, thought it was the cutest thing ever. A tiny little parade complete with a marching band and kids dancing in the most picturesque village in the South of France?? Eh, oui. But this was at 10 o’clock at night, mind you. And this was the pre-dinner parade. That has been my only qualm with France thus far, aside from not being able to communicate with anyone. Not eating dinner until 10 o’clock or later… That is usually when I go to bed. Not sure. I don’t go to bed until 1:00 or 1:30. By the way, I need a nap.

My One Way Ticket to a New Life

 There I was...  Sitting in the terminal at Charlotte International Airport waiting to catch my flight to Boston, starting my series of three flights which will eventually land me in Paris, France.  I purchased a one way ticket on a whim, trying out my newfound spontaneity.  I'm usually a very methodical person who requires lists and itineraries in order to feel at ease.  So, to say the least, I was far from at ease right at that point.  One hour before departure and I'm getting more nervous by the second.  I'm alone, flying to a foreign country where I do not speak the language, I have to find my way through airports, train stations, hotels, taking me all the way to Cazeres sur Garonne in the south of France to live with complete strangers doing odd tasks of which most I have never done.  The excitement is building more and more as I type this.  And when I say excitement I mean nervousness.  There is a small part of me saying, "WTF. What am I doing right now??"  And it doesn't seem that small right now.  But hey, maybe it's not nervousness at all.  Maybe it's just the double shot of espresso I had just downed...  Why did I do that?!?  My stomach can't handle that right now!

   With flight one down, Boston looks awesome from the sky!  I should have just vacationed there!  They speak English!  Well, sort of...  I was wandering aimlessly through the wrong terminal (of course) and once I finally did break down to ask for help, nope.  No help whatsoever.  Instead I found a younger guy was kind of attractive once you got past the Boston accent (not a fan).  But I do remember him smelling amazing!  I think it was the two pizzas he was carrying and I had not eaten much on the plane...  But he pointed me in the right direction and I was off again.  

   Flight two was the long one but it wasn't too bad.  But really, what is it with me and long international flights and getting the one freakin' seat that doesn't recline?!?  They always recline!  Unless I would really like it to...  But I got past that and watched "The Artist".  Of which I really enjoyed it.  And it being a silent film I wasn't too upset at having to listen with just one ear since I did not have the stupid two pronged headphones that are required to planes...  But overall, a decent experience.  

   Landed in Dublin...  Well, to make a long story short...  You have to go through security all over again for a connecting flight??  Really, Dublin??  Dumb.  So I barely had time to shop for a fridge magnet that implies I've spent time in Dublin when obviously, no I haven't.  Eh well...  Next time.  

   Then Paris!  Talk about an amazing customs department!  "Bonjour, bonjour."  Stamp.  Done.  Awesome.  But then it hit.  Nothing is in English!  It's an international airport, why is everything only in French??  The effects of the double espresso came coursing back through me as I was trying to find the right train that would take me where I needed to go.  But as it turned out...  That was easy.  The hard part was getting on the right train since nothing was in English and you don't know which platform your train will show up until it's already getting set to leave the station.  

   The past 24 hours has been a hazy, sleep deprived blur, but somehow my ass is sitting in the room I reserved for myself in Toulouse in the south of France.  I survived day one!