Charlotte: being safe on the metro.

It is evident that I have become a lazy blogger, but it is in the interest of my devout readership that I have not been posting often. I’ve been bored and I have had nothing interesting to tell you. However, over the past week or so, I’ve come up with enough events and thoughts of note such that I can justify another entry.

I went to Madrid and discovered a love of German Expressionism. My goodness! I could have spent days in that particular wing of the Thyssen Museum…that is, if it they didn’t charge €8 for admission; one day is enough for now. I stayed with Irene, a Spanish women I know from Santa Cruz, who now lives with her family outside of the capital. It turns out that I did not fall madly in love with Madrid, but the art and the company were splendid.

I got back to Barcelona in time to catch some French friends who were here for a few days. It was Charlotte’s birthday, so we went out for drinks and food and more drinks and some sweet soul music and wandered home in the early morning through the quiet, cool streets.

Found this one on the bathroom wall.

I have not lost my mad bike messenger skillz (sic) as proven by my recent hunting, capture and transport of a bicycle box. I rode several kilometers through the traffic-clogged and narrow streets of Barcelona and Gracia (respectively) with an oversized cardboard bike box under one arm. Ain’t no thang.

Now, I am packing my stuff, disassembling the bicycle. I have one day left on this continent. Then, I will spend twenty-six hours in transit between the house where I’m currently sitting and the house where I grew up in Santa Cruz. And then, returned. On with the rest of my life…

In the late afternoon, in the deep corners of Spain, there is a ruined church and the end of the earth.

I’d already been to Salamanca and honestly, it’s not worth another visit: full of college kids and too turisty. I came back for companionship. I’ve been gone for so long now that my desire to see new places is overcome by my need to be in comfortable surroundings. I made friends with some kids in Salamanca back in April, kept in touch, and Andre invited me back. So I went.

Yesterday we escaped from the city, me on a beater mountain bike borrowed from his friend. We rode out of the city, across the freeway overpass, down a two-lane highway and finally turned off into a small village. We intended to visit some people Andre knows there: a preist and a dairy farmer. Neither of them were home. So, we visited the cows and then turned our bicycles onto farm roads and rode out into the country of wide, flat, grassy land. In places it’s so flat and open and then the earth dips and rolls into groves of oak trees and dry ravines. It seems so like California in parts, and then so different. For example, off in the distance we see no mountains nor ocean. And at the end of the road we arrive at the ruins of a church hundreds of years old. There we lay down the bicycles and tromped through the stones, pondering allowed what it would be like to build a such a structure so long ago. We talked about the undeniable and/or dubious existence of God. We talked about languages. And we talked about nothing at all. The light was dull and golden, making everything look more beautiful then it really is.

Back in the little village, we each drank a beer out of a can on the sidewalk across from the church. The sun set and turned the belly of the clouds a highlighter, guava shade of pink and we took off towards the city, racing the daylight. The horizon that had devoured the sun glowed more and more as the rest of the sky darkened. Back across the overpass and we rode up into the heart of the rosy stone city and home.

Old and new friends: our own quiet afterparty on the sidewalk.

I’m already back in Lyon, but early this morning I was still in Paris, hanging out on the street with Eva and some other folks. This was the other reason to return to Paris: an old friend from home, Eva Salina Primack, was on tour with Slavic Soul Party, hitting up Paris.

I pose for photos.

They arrived late and I tagged along to sound check. Eva and I talked shit and told stories and laughed and hugged and repeated over and over again how happy we were to be together so far from home. I left to go meet Alice (pronounced Aliche) for Algerian food a few metro stops away. We rushed through a delicious and fairly priced meal of couscous, kefta and lentils and speed-walked back to The Bellevilleoise to catch the show. Of course, they started late, and played again after the second act, but I didn’t want to miss anything. They played. We danced. We drank. We danced. A few other new friends showed up and we all went out to the terrace in between sets: smoking and joking and speaking five languages on top of each other and really, really high on life. There was more music and more dancing and when they finally kicked us out we sat on the sidewalk under shop awnings in the rain, still to energetic to admit that the evening was done. We strolled downhill for greasy crepes and kissed our goodbyes. I followed Eva to her hotel down the street. Exhausted we were, but still we gossiped and watched videos of obscure soul musicians on the interweb for several hours before we fell heavily to sleep.

Oh, and I went out to dinner with my Cuban-American, English-teaching, Squat-inhabiting, tour-guiding, new friend at a fab little bistro, somewhere rive droite.

I am back in Paris. On a whim. It’s been a strange and wonderful time already; I’ve been here less than 48 hours. It’s been like this: I dropped off my bags as the sun was setting, no time to bathe or nap, I’m off to the other side of the city; there are artists awaiting open microphones and small beers for which to exchange small coins. The guys who started talking to me on the street seemed nice enough, so I brought them along. There is nothing like a cheap meal, cooked in bulk, giant pots of healthy things concocted in co-op kitchens. La musique est froid, but the crowd is totally high; I am high on speaking french with Africans, the way they sing the language and throw in some yo! wassup! every now and again. And again. The subway is humming and never open as late as I wish it were. Sometimes fun is better than sleep. And sometimes it isn’t. The morning disappears after nights like those and the afternoon drags; smoke something and look out across the roof tops of Paris; so many little chimneys and balcony window balconies rising into the cold blue sky. There’s something about having the TV on mute while some music is playing that is strange but not ugly. Spicey immigrant food, is nothing like bread and butter. I had been craving to see Brian’s film since we first went out for drinks after he got back to Santa Cruz, and he seemed like he was, maybe more wise than he was before. And it was as beautiful as expected, reminding me of my own bike excursions through strange lands. I probably would have cried, but it’s not so easy to smile like that and cry at the same time. I sat with a lovely math nerd and we had a beer together after the show, wading through fixed gear bicycles and mess’ bags, I felt oddly at home despite how they spoke mostly German or British English. We escaped to a quiet bar du quartier, mellow and cheap. Someone sent me a text message about cheese and another read “REGAE SOUND SYSTEM BAP BAP” so, do I need to tell you which I chose? Thirty minutes in the metro, maybe more and the tiled station names fly. You know, there is some music that makes a part of your body move, that’s the way the rhythm works. But, also, there is music that is everywhere head-to-toes music, intoxicating music; no need to think and follow steps music. You know? No, I don’t want a beer, they were playing California when I walked in the door and that’s enough for me. Hey, can I crash the couch if we stay later than the metro, dance danser rebellution. And then there’s a cold walk that still feels rhythm, now bumping tinny through mobile phone speakers. J’ai sommeil, ma sœur. I could sleep for a long temps. And I do. And in the morning I drift out, quiet and blissful from coffee and the good sort of fatigue, into another day.

The less poetic version of things is that I’ve made some new friends and they’ve all taken me along with them to do fun things. Perhaps the most exciting thing is that I’ve met people with very different backgrounds, who experience Paris in very different ways. I’m staying in a vaguely artistic squat in the south of Paris with a kid I met through couchsurfing. I’ll be here until Wednesday so that I can see Eva sing with Slavic Soul Party. There are a few more touristy things I’d like to do while I’m here, but who knows what sort of adventures will show up en route.

The Caletti at the border between Centre and Rhone-Alpes.

So, I made to Lyon. Actually, I’ve been here since Friday, but there was laundry to do and dance parties to attend. I’m staying with some very cool and creative kids in the urban part of the city. I met them in Barcelona way back before I went to Egypt! First they came to the bike workshop at G’s co*op and then we saw them play a show at a street festival later that night. Four of the folks from Lyon perform as a group called TuDanseMonChou, which I think means “Would you like to dance, my little cabbage” but I could be wrong about the cabbage part. Anyway, they set up fake portable computers and pretend to be techie DJ’s. But, really, they’ve picked the playlist in advance and they just ham it up and dance around, while playing an epic mix of mambo, marimba, soul, funk and old rock ‘n’ roll. It’s more than a little brilliant. They had a show on Saturday night and they we had a dinner at the house where I’m staying last night that escalated into a dance party. Last night, I chose the music, starting with James Brown and later on (after almost everyone had gone home and the neighbors complained about the noise) we played 2Pac, Snoop Dogg, Selena, TLC and Bel Biv Devoe at a reasonable volume. The French kids were glued to the computer screen, transfixed by the exotic videos of 1990′s America. Cultural exchange at it’s best.

My love for the music of James Brown is sometimes more obvious than others.

The ride into Lyon was lovely, despite the rain. Charlotte met me at the summit with a picnic and escorted me into Lyon. It took six days between the farm and the city, although I only rode for four days. The first two days were short rides of about 50km with perfect, cool, foggy weather. I surfed a network of organic farmers along the Loire and Allier rivers, intending to camp in unused corners of the fields and always being invited to sleep in the spare room and stay for dinner. One of the farms was a large operation near Moulin with 20 employees and the owner offered to pay me if I wanted to work for a few days, and I did. It was strange to see and participate in the workings of a larger operation. They used ten times as much land as the farm where I’d lived for seven weeks and provided a significant portion of the domestic, organic vegetables for the Paris markets (most comes from other countries, however). I met some really cool people, and folks that were unlike what I’d been exposed to thus far: working class people, among others. As usual, they were friendly and generous. After two and a half days of work, I rode away from Moulin and across more farm and pasture land. That day I passed through rolling hills and it rained all afternoon. I stayed at a hostel in Roanne, warm and dry. The last day, Friday, was the big one: 110km and the most elevation change I’d experienced in France. It was very damp in the morning, but the roads were lovely. I saw two young men touring on a tandem, zooming down the hill in the opposite direction. I saw them coming, smiled and hollered “bonjour”, but I immediately wished I’d yelled “arret” and chatted with them about their tour. I’ve seen exactly zero people on bike tour ourside of the flat, boring, touristy river paths, so it was exciting to see a few of them in the hills outside of the busy tourist season (and on a tandem!).

Today and tomorrow I want to explore the city a little bit and get ready to continue on the bike. Among other things, I’d like to find a book in English, see a film in English, and visit the textile museum.

Teeth-Brushing Party with Nat and Luna.

Luna is a little terror. She talks loudly, screams often, throws dishes, and does this droning hum while she’s eating (through no fault of her parents as far as I can tell). Nonetheless, I really love the poor thing. I made her something like a doll or a quilt out of all the fabric scraps I’d accumulated over the past few months (turning my Middle-East appropriate wardrobe into a Europe-appropriate wardrobe). Over the past 6 weeks, I’ve ome to feel at home here. I feel like Soif and Nat and Luna are my friends, or even something like family. We talk about “when I come back”  or how we’ll meet up in Argentina even though it may never happen. This is the most difficult thing about traveling: you can’t take everywhere and everyone home with you. And you can’t stay everywhere you visit.

So, I’m starting to feel sad about leaving the farm; it’s been lovely here. I finished my last day of work yesterday: harvesting green beens and squash, stacking wood. The intricacies of the routine we’d developed seemed poignant, and we lingered over our yerba mate more than usual.

Today I’m putting things in order and baking an apple pie and tomorrow I’m off. South. And East. On to the next etape.

Soif and the tractor and a load of squash.

The dry, rocky, and now quite flat earth.

When some French person who doesn’t speak much English and some American who doesn’t speak french very well are charged with installing the winter fixtures on the greenhouses and spend the morning working together, some amusing linguistic constructions (not to mention gestures) will inevitably occur. For example, the title of this post. Indeed, when the earth is not flat and you want it to be flat, you should use a shovel or perhaps a pick, if the gound is too hard. And then the “earth” will be “flattened.” Or perhaps the “ground” will be “leveled”, but that’s really not the point. The point is that today it was cool and it will be getting colder. Winter is coming and the green houses that were left mostly open during the Summer need to be closed up so that the folks here can still grow stuff during the freezing months to come. I spend the morning working with François and his brother-in-law Patrisse. We held the walls in place while one of us installed screws and then hanged the door and rearranged the earth so that there weren’t gaps under the walls and the door could open freely. We stopped for lunch with Nat and her sister, Melissa, who had spent the morning making and jarring ketchup (I introduced ketchup to rural Central France!), chutney, and jam. We eat french things. We eat slowly. There is cheese and dessert and coffee. And a nap. In the afternoon, once the end walls and doors of the green houses were installed, we planted leafy things and watered. After my required (and never really kept-track-of) five hours, I picked black berries to make a pie and slowly read fifteen pages in Mario Vargas Llosa’s Lituma en Los Andes. A good day’s work.

I’ve been here at the farm called “La Huerta” for exactly one month. It’s been grand and it’s been quick. Working with François and Nathalie is interesting, challenging, and enjoyable. I’ve developed a reputation for making good desserts, usually employing the fruit that would rot on the ground otherwise. I’ve been plowing through books in several languages. And plowing through dirt too, which I never expected to do. A plow seems like such an antiquated thing that I did not imagine that it would be used nowadays even on a back-to-the-land dream sequence like the one I’m currently living. Perhaps one of the most interesting things about living and working here is the constant stream of visitors who come to stay for a few days…and work. They aren’t “WWOOFers” like me, but friends and family members of Soif and Nat. They’re on holiday and yet they put in a full days work when they’re around here. Or, almost a full day. Understandably, they don’t want to sit around while the rest of us are busy and doing stuff. This is vacations farming. I’m not putting in a full day’s work either, according the the United States Department of Labor. And I must say, it’s much more enjoyable to work only five hours per day. It doesn’t feel like work. It’s kinda fun. What I’m doing is not the typical farm worker experience: it’s educational and it’s not back-breaking, manual labor. However, it does give me a healthy respect/outrage for the folks who spend more than eight hours per day picking green beans. That is not vacation farming. And that is another story.

After tearing out some Summer crops to make way for the Fall, craddling the refugees in my hand.

Man. I’m tuckered out. This is exactly what I wanted. I wake up early; I feel the cool morning air and the dampness of the earth. I am working. Hard. And my muscles are fighting eachother. The ones I use for cycling are not the ones I use for squating in rows of herbs and lifting boxes of tomatoes. It doesn’t feel bad, but I can feel my body moving in a way to which it is unaccustomed. Calluses are developing on my hands. At the end of the day I feel like I deserve dinner and  I want to go to bed early.

Les Bouteille.

Last weekend we went wine tasting at an organic vineyard operated by some client of François and Nat. It turns out that “pinot noir” is just some rock…or maybe I just don’t understand French so well after 6 small glasses of wine. And then we went for a pique nique by the river. Lovely.

Looks like a pierre to me.