Saturday, November 3, 2012

Day 2 and 3 of My November Novel

College promised to be the promised land of opportunity. All the movies displayed the copious amounts of interaction and sex that was guaranteed to lead to the commitment of a longterm relationship. For me the promise of the party held true without the ending of a desire fulfilled. Much like high school, the need to display a sense of masculinity took president and hoped to attract a mate through shear force. In college the sporting arena was replaced by the garage, rundown house or basement of the college party. Within these confines, card games provided the window for uncontrolled consumption. Nights became filled with noise. The other sex was viewed in glances of absence from falling clothing and the occasional saliva filled grope session. When reality returned from these booze soaked evenings, rejection through indifference usually followed.

For some college served as the proving ground. High school relationship were put to the test of distance and the numbing sensations of drugs and alcohol. Since I had no relationship to evaluate, I made only brief attempts to impress my objects of high school attention and/or try to lure the feminine half away from her suitor. For me, the break though of a kiss after much build up would lead not the onslaught of passion that I expected but rather a quick retreat of shame. Left on the many outdoor stairways, porches or stoops, beer and future vomit would be my solis.

Needless to say, I lived my life to the fullest but out the fulfillment of the relationship that absorbed many others. It was not that I was not looking but that I had not found. Reasoning and logic had defied all of my attempts to justify one girl over another and simply left me.

When I finished my degree in accounting, I headed south from my university town of Madison to the big city of Chicago. That is where I was when I saw my fixation for the first time. The small coffee shop was a often frequented out of pure connivence. Despite my dislike of the chain, it was hard to avoid a caffeine fix located in the bottom of my apartment building.

Lately, the coffee shop had become a place to escape. It was as if the walls of the apartment would shrink in the few waking hours that I would spend in the place that I was supposed to call home. Each morning, I would awake to her appearance. Despondent and devoid of the signs of life, Kristen would sleep on as I prepared and departed for my office job. In the evening, I would return to the minimal acknowledgment from her silhouette against the light of the lap top screen. Dinner was prepared and eaten in relative silence. Time on the internet or reading concluded the day.

It was the vacancy of passion that would drive us downstairs into the coffee shop. In this well lit and uniformly trendy designed environment at least life existed. Even if it was contained outside of the bubble that contained Kristen and myself. I would slowly sip my chai and watch the others from the outside.

For me the entertainment that I derived from watching others could be isolated to the analysis of the relationships that were shared. Why is she with him? Whoa! Look at the pomposity of that man-child and the self delusion that he must suffer from. She is so unattractive but it must work for him. All blanket judgements, I know. I find this to be my search for truth rather than judgement. When my peering eyes have left their world, it is they who return to each other arms and leave me stranded.

With a particularly happy couple who painlessly flaunt their pleasure, my focus becomes two part. First, I focus on their faces. I notice the joy and warmth that is conveyed solely with expression. A smile is all it takes to inspire a laugh. Eyebrows lift in anticipation. Little insignificant details in speech inspire such anticipation.

After my brief facial examination, my focus returns to the face of my companion. Brow furrowed with intensity. A scowl begins at the crest of the upper lip and cascades forth pulling her cheeks over there protruding ridges. Her expression is not one of anger. Anger would show too much emotion and betray her indifference to the world. Under her eyes shows the dark circles that indicate a lack of sleep even though she slumbers more than she is awake.

Active and in motion, my analysis returns to the hands of the couple. The woman's dominate hand always seems to venture out but return faithfully to her face. Here it rests. Delicacy in touch highlights the angle of the chin as she brushes it softly. The motion created to flip a stray hair behind her ear continues down the side of her face. The weight is transferred to her elbow as a sigh releases her to a closer examination of her desire. His dominate hand has been placed gently between her thighs with modesty. Here it is clinched by her in a way that could only display a desire to be closer. His other hand smoothly transitions from his drink to cradle her weight bearing hand.

Kristen's hands hold action but action that is far more brisk. Quick flips of her magazine pages allow for the only revelation of skin from bundle of clothing. Her hand is withdraw just as fast as it is revealed to the world. Where her hands return to within her cloak of warmth is a mystery. I can only assume that they caress and hold those parts of her body that she longs to have held. The habit of loneliness has left her to become self-reliant when it comes to touch.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

First Entry for the November Novel

This month I will be attempting to write a 50,000 word novel. Hopefully this will spark more writing on my part. (I know that my writing has been lacking) I hope to post my writing here for your enjoyment or pain and misery. Please note that this is my first real attempt at fiction. This will be a very rough draft with lots of errors and misspellings. Proofreading is so December.

My goal is to take the basic plot structure of a short story from a Herman Melville short story called Bartleby the Scrivener and repurpose it into a modern tale of relationships. Time will determine my success at this effort. Chapters and organization will be absent. With your own desire for punishment acknowledged, read on...

The first thing that I noticed was the lively tap of her toe against the coffee house table. It was a tap that betrayed the rest of the image that she was attempting to project. Jumping from one side to the next, her oversized boot indicated a liveliness and energy that the rest of her posture tried to place under a veil of nonchalance.

Following the motion northward. She wore European style tights that pulled close to her legs and moved the eyes further. The tights allowed her to wear a shorter but not over revealing skirt that defied the cold snap that had landed over the city of Chicago early in November. She wore a plain white V-neck T-shirt over a half buttoned sweater. Her glasses were thick framed to match the trend but still cut in a unique fashion. Red hair fell softly from back point of control in front of her face. Large headphones provided her the halo that would highlight her beauty.

As she embraced her drink in a manner that gathered its warmth and displayed a sense of endearment, she focused solely on a small paperback. All around her motion and noise attempted but could not penetrate her focus. I remember feeling a sense of jealously towards the written characters that could capture the attention of someone who seemed so interesting.

What!

"Have you not been listening to me?"

Ah ya, I'm listening. You were talking about visiting your parents.

"Like I was saying..."

Oh I forgot. I should tell you that even though my attention is sitting at the table with my new found fixation, I am sitting a few feet away. Here I sit captured with my current live in companion. She may have been the exact opposite of my fixation. Her name is Kristen. Although I am focused a little more to her story, my eyes still betray my attempts to focus. I seek the respite of my new interest but force myself into an understanding nod.

Kristen speaks in a low, monotone voice that openly displays a lack of commitment or energy. As she drones on, her gaze slowly looks up and to the left while her face still projects my direction. As she speaks, the fingers of her left hand slowly pulse up and down on the table.

This cold snap has taken its toll on Kristen. Even though she is always cold, the winters of the midwest ensure that she wears a collection of layers that transform her slender body into a shapeless collection of gentle sloping cloth ridges. Her body crosses itself in as many places as possible to seal in the little warmth that her body produces.

Before I enter into this tale of attempted love, I should tell you a little about myself. First and most importantly, I am no expert in relationships. I am like all of you out there. I am seeking the one word that seems to allude most of us, happiness. It is not that I am unhappy but that I feel that I would be betraying you if I said that I was happy.

I grew up in the Midwest with the typical working class family. I lived most of my life in a small former industrial town of 10,000 people. Traditional sports controlled my youth. Late nights under the diamond lights soaked up my summer vacations first as a spectator and then as a mediocre catcher. The crisp fall weather brought the aggression of the football field and the eventual pursuits of the middle linebacker. When the snow began to fall, I would teach myself to jump once again and pound the basketball court. Spring brought the only sporting respite as I was always to big and slow for track and too uncoordinated to hurl the shot or disc.

My parents always had a loving marriage that could only be acted upon in the cracks of the Midwestern work ethic. They sacrificed everything for me and my brother to be able to pursue whatever venture we sought out. In exchange for this sacrifice, we would embark on week long summer vacations that consisted of painfully local museums to satisfy my Dad and shopping to satisfy my Mom. It never felt like we had money but we also never struggled. Sure we were always unable to compete with that one kid that has everything but creative work arounds usually brought satisfaction.

Through life in a male dominated family and sports, the opposite sex was something that was considered but never the fixation. Adult friends could always predict that I never had a sister from the hidden mannerisms I wold regularly display. I had my middle school flings. Holding of hands and phone calls about nothing always lead to little more than nerves and embarrassment. Misunderstanding is the word that would best describe my understanding of the desires of the girl.

High school provided new display techniques of masculinity through sports as an attempt of attracting attention and betraying this misunderstanding. Playful violence against other males and to a lesser degree to females drew notice but not a mate. This was the first of the periods of life that leads to coupling that passed me by. Most waited until legality endorsed their union but a few children ensured a relationship status and a healthy dose of Midwestern shame. This was multiplied if another race was involved and betrayed the values that were intended to be held above the feelings of desire.

I followed the traditions of the typical high school student. Plenty of sweat accumulated on my palms as I participated in the rites of passage. Organized dances defined and redefined the thin veil between friendship and a relationship. Nights were covered with stupid humor and movies as an attempt to conceal the desire to grope and be groped. No one ever wanted to admit anything that could possibly be interpreted as reality. If you displayed actual feeling, you would be held to that position and more than likely ridiculed.

I lost my virginity on a dirt road outside of a cheese factory. Returning from a date with the girl from the next town over, I had stopped for an innocent viewing of the stars. This stop held a different meaning for her. Innocence faded quickly and with more confusion than pleasure. Reality had betrayed the plots of movies with uncontrollable movement and passion. Instinct replaced sentimentality and lead to a silent drive to her house. Just as quickly, I was replaced by another with more confidence and skill.

College promised to be the promised land of opportunity.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Struggling to Write


I'm on the second week of traveling since leaving the farm and I am struggling with the act of composition.  It is not because of a lack of ideas or experiences but rather the general malaise that sets in when the turn of a phrase will not come. (Perfect example: turn of a phrase will not come.). I sit down to write at a cafe, in the hostel or on the train and only struggle.  Self-doubt plagues the page.  Spelling becomes a stumbling block as vocabulary becomes only as good as spell check's translation abilities.

I know that part of my problem is the lack of focus that holds this trip together.  At times, I know and understand my purpose but later erosion is all that remains.  I find myself to be most satisfied when I retreat to self-determination but suffer from the loneliness of this isolation.  The occasional attractive female that gives a little attention, leads to acts that lack deliberation, quickly become beer soaked and are usually left marked by longing and lust.

I have trouble balancing the now with the then.  Every Euro spend now is a more than a dollar less to spend then.  Then is holds many questions.  Where do I apply for grad school? Do I get in? Should I spend money when I return to meet those who will determine my fate then, now?  What if I don't want to be poor but rather hold the advantages of wealth?  Are there even any paths for this option?  Could I live abroad?

One of the biggest questions that dominates my thoughts is the return to the sorrowful Midwest.  I say this statement at the expense of my family but with the past filled with unrewarded passion.  In traveling, I have the hope of proximity with the female species.  Drinking with money that I don't have in the Orangeville bar leaves little in the way of comfort foreseen.  (How do I even go about reentering the dating scene at 32 in a environment where 19 is the marrying age?). Even if the exception turns her attention in my direction, will pure desire deceive with a failed promise of future happiness?

With all of these thoughts, I bring to you a plea of honesty.  I desire only to find meaning along the path.  I will work to live deliberately.  Seek to control the lust and thoughtless action that seeks only pleasure.  I make a recommitment to defining, elaborating, reflecting and composing.  May the page reflect my life and hold my truth for inspection.  

With these thoughts, I travel on.

NIC

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Finding Writing to Break the Block

I'm struggling to bring back the discipline of writing to my travels. In order to revive myself, I am hoping to use the writing of others bring it back. I have selected for this post and may continue to select other pieces of writing that I read on the road with parallels to my existence and are stated more clearly than I can manage at the moment. (Cite this last sentence as a prime example.)

This is a reflection of the Levin character in Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. I purchased Anna Karenina in Edinburgh, Scotland. My hope was to finish another Russian masterpiece on my travels. So far I read about half with great enjoyment. There are certain methods and arguments that make Tolstoy's writing transcendent.

This section displays the thoughts of Levin. He is a noble that proposes to his true love only to be rejected. He recovers from this denial by redoubling his efforts at farming, physical labor and the pursuits of writing. In this scene, Levin has just awoken from a night sleeping in a meadow on a stack of hay.

'Well, what am I to do then? How am I to do it?' he said to himself, trying to put into words all that he had thought and felt during that short night. All those thoughts and feelings were divided into three separate lines of argument. On was to renounce his old life, his useless knowledge, his utterly needless education. This renunciation gave him pleasure and was simple and easy for him. Other thoughts and notions concerned the life he wished to live now. The simplicity, the purity, the legitimacy of this life he felt clearly, and he was convinced that he would find satisfaction, repose and dignity, the absence of which he felt so painfully. But the third line of arguement turned around the question of how to make this transition from the old life to the new. And here nothing clear presented itself to him. 'To have a wife? To have work and the necessity to work? To leave Pokrovskoe? To buy land? To join a community? To marry a peasant woman? How am I to do it?' he asked himself again, and found no answer. 'However, I didn't sleep all night and can't give myself a clear accounting,' he told himself. 'I'll clear it up later. One thing is sure, that this night has decided my fate. All my former dreams about family life are nonsense, not the right thing,' he said to himself. 'All this is much simpler and better...

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Found Writing Paris- Shakespeare and Company

I found this poem while reading in the library of a book store called Shakespeare and Company in central Paris. This is a bookstore often frequented by Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein.

We Live Our Lives
Marcus Reichert

We live our lives as we choose,
here on the street, without pride
or grievance, or longing for much.
We drink our drinks and smoke,
we say only what we must, or
what we will, in our abject euphoria.
The sun shines and the wind blows,
cars pass beyond a distant window,
legs adjust, feet stop and start.
Someone just spoke to me, but
I don't know what he said, only,
conceivably, what he didn't.
His face in profile is the face of
a ruined king, a lachrymose cardinal.
Now when he turns to me, if he does,
I will know him utterly as himself,
without his work, without his wife,
without his children, or his dead father.
His mother is beckoning from the hill,
calling silently for him to make her meal;
these are the things they've grown
in the garden they share with their God.
Their Gos speaks through this man
in mate testimony to all that is unknown
to me and will never be known to me-
here in this bar, in this sweet purgatory
of unnumbered days and evenings.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Life of the Paysanne Makes the Beard Grow Long

As my time on the farm comes to an end, I am left to reflex on process of transformation that has happened. When I entered, every experience presented itself with novelty and a sense of uniqueness. As I grew into my role, tasks became routines and chores became habits. I have carved a niche here in Normandy that has changed me.

Some of those changes can be seen in my body. My hands have become hardened and filled with the tiny cuts of labor. Dirt has sunk into the crevasses my skin in ways that soap and water can not cure. The beard grows long and full from the effort to insulate a rain soaked face. Even my sense of smell has been altered. Smells that once showed their intolerance now have faded to become a feature of the landscape.

Even the pigs have grown comfortable with my presence. Rather than nervously pacing in anticipation they push a shove their way into the food trough. Noses that were once guarded, now sniff and press their moisture against my pant legs. They know that the squeaky wheels of the wagon being pushed by the big fellow in the floppy Norman hat will bring them sustenance and not harm.

With the hesitation of an unforeseeable future, I leave the farm to again take up the life of the traveler. The dirt and cuts will fade with time but the neurological grooves that have been plowed will persist. I will forever hold the memories of this place and its people close.

Some things that I want to remember about the farm but did not have the time, energy or discipline to write about:

-House rule. One of the first things that I learned dining at the maison is the specific way that you eat grapes. Often a bowl of grapes is served as a final complement to a meal. The first time this happened, I picked a grape here or there off of the community bunch. The second time grapes were served, I was informed of the house rule. Philippe explained that you should not pick a single grape from the pile but rather pull off a clump that you can enjoy to yourself. Eku later told me that in France (at least according to Philippe) it is impolite to share food from your plate with others. You ordered or served a plate of the food that you desire. Be happy with your selected contents. Lucky for me, this is not the rule in Japan. The few times that I dined out, everyone was concerned with feeding me a sample of their dish in exchange for a taste of mine.

-Bill's Birthday Feast. One of the experiences that I was fortunate to have that not many travelers are able to experience is a Norman feast. One of the first Saturdays at the farm, Philippe's brother in law celebrated his 60th birthday party in the Auberge. This was truly a feast to make the viking heritage of the area proud. The dinner began on the terrace overlooking the pond. Here we drank champagne and a blue alcohol filled punch and ate fried mackerel in a tomato cumin sauce, sea snails, blood sausage, cheese, bread and a collection of tappas. I would have been satisfied with this buffet for dinner but we had not yet begun. We headed inside to the tables and secured ourselves a beer. An apple liquor with a small scoop of sorbet was served to all. This was said to be a Norman tradition that renews the appetite. Prime rib, curry, bread and couscous soon followed. A massive wheel of brie and salad served as yet another course. Red wine matched the flavor of the cheese better so slurped a couple glasses. Finally, a dessert of chocolate cake, tira muissue and an apple tart were served with coffee. A final round of apple liquor was served as I retreated to my bed for a night of digestion.

-Dining with the Japanese. One of the strangest but most delightful aspects of my time on the farm was the constant presence of Japanese culture and food. Philippe spent a great deal of time earlier in his life in Japan and spoke (what I am told) very excellent Japanese. Combined with the fact that Eku is Japanese, the farm provides an excellent window into France for Japanese volunteers and tourists. On the second day of my stay on the farm, eight Japanese tourists were staying on the farm and presenting at a local ecological fair. I made an idiot out of myself when I introduced myself by stating one of the few Japanese words that I know, arigoto. Of course, this means thank you and not hello. Three female volunteers from Japan stayed the majority of my time. MeeWah was a child of one of the ladies that provided me endless entertainment. As it turns out, goofy faces work in every language. Also taking a child's socks when she hands them to you and placing them on your ears brings down the house. Finally, a Japanese couple provided excellent English conversation and a chance to reflect on the farm with others.

Each of these folks helped me consume a vast amount of japanese cuisine. Most meals were served with a bowl of rice. I ate at least one bowl of a variation of miso soup each night. Fish served as the main source of protein for these meals. I was taught which fish bones were good to eat and which ones to discard. I fell in love with a cucumber and seaweed salad that contained a vinegar flavor that I always crave.

These meals contained a atmosphere that I interpreted to be very Japanese. Conversation occurred in hushed tones but generally met an affirmative "hhhmmm!" in response from everyone. Everyone was always very polite and attempting to feed me before themselves. The few times that we used forks instead of chopsticks, I felt ashamed of my vulgar fork technique.

-Dining with the Paysanne. On one of my last days on the farm, we traveled near Coutance to pick up some piglets for the farm. The first farm that we stopped at presented itself with the many out buildings of the typical farm and a Saint Bernard. We saw know no at first and decided to knock on the door of the main house. A muffled clang suggested life before the door was eventually opened. We were invited into a room that had been suspended in history. In the Viking style, the roof held wooden beams separated by white plaster. A large stone fireplace poorly heated the stone floor. The long main table held the remnants of past meals and a smattering of mail and bills.

Conversation quickly took president over the work at hand. The animation and few words that I understood signaled politics. The farmer was a well built man in his 50's. His humble wife, kids and grand kids displayed themselves on mantles and cabinet tops.

When the conversation began to fade, the farmer disappeared into another room. I was informed that we would eat here. The farmer returned to spread the wooden coals in the fireplace and placed a grill firmly in the warmth. A handful of sausage was then rolled onto the grate. A can of three tuna (I think) was opened a displayed dripping in olive oil and served with bread and a bottle of cider. When the sausage was ready, a bowl of plain pasta was placed on the table and covered with a huge pat of butter. Philippe is on his grape fast and left the farmer and I to devour the bread, pasta and sausage. (We each at three sausages) More bread and cheese settled any residual hunger that may still exist. Finally coffee was reheated and consumed.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Traveling to Sell the Bounty Part 2

When the time written on the stove matches the clock inside of Serge's well timed mind and roughly aligns with the time in reality, the oven is opened to display the bounty. About 40 loaves of the pain de broche (the traditional white French bread that you commonly picture) are pulled into a wooden box and organized for display. I attempt to conform to the bakers inability to feel pain from melting flesh as I organize and sort. The tray of apples covered in bread (pain de pomme) comes out of the oven dripping with the sweet syrup that has melted from the flesh of each apple. Martin quickly displays our work with fresh samples offered to passers by.

Once the pattern of the operation takes its form, I can begin to take in our clientele and the fair in general. In many ways, every eco or natural living fair shares certain common elements. The population is a mix of 20-30 somethings trying to distinguish themselves as eco-conscious and an older population who has always lived the artisan lifestyle. It is easy to stereotype that the first subsection own Apple computers, eat organic and follow the style trends of being eco. The second subsection sees the opportunity for wealth from the first and seeks to apply each of the necessary steps to appease this wealth with the only life that they have known. Both combine to fill their niche.

As we prepare, bake and distribute our bread, customers will occasionally ask who this smiling idiot that refuses to make eye contact with them is. What is wrong with him? Deaf and mute? Serge will begin to explain in French my origins in a common path that I can only assume following this pattern.

Customer: Who is he?
Serge: Who him?
Customer: Ya the guy hiding out in the back of the booth with a lifeless grin and who will not answer my questions?
Serge: Oh. That guy is American.
Customer: What is he doing here?
Serge: He is working on my brothers farm. He feeds the pigs. (This is the predictable laugh line of the conversation. My status on the farm can be solidified with this statement.)
Customer: Why does he not speak French?
Serge: Americans.

The conversation trails off onto another subject. As a good self-centered American, I assume that they are still talking about me. The reality is that I am no more than a passing curiosity.

Lunch is signified with the opening of a can of vegetable pate, slicing of bread and a container of garden tomatoes. Each of these is pushed in front of me with the intention of feeding a creature that is double their size. I eat sparingly not wanting to offend but enjoying the flavor of something that I never thought could be filled with flavor, veggie pate. Meals of this sort display pride in the worker who stops to look over what has been accomplished. Pride beams over the products of our labor.

After eating, I soon realize that the bathroom will need to be a destination soon. I ask Serge, "Ou a la salle du bain?" I am not sure if he heard me or not. I am convinced that he made a joke about my request to Martin because of my la salle du bain but I am not certain. I make a note to ask for les toilettes next time. This is based on the assumption that this classification will better meet the working man's ears. Serge points to the dough rolling station and I resume work.

After our batch is complete, Serge waves me beyond our both. I regain hope that my message was received. Together we wander the fair. Serge in the determined lead and me trailing behind trying to take everything in. Serge stops at a booth advertising wood ovens, talks briefly, takes a brochure and moves onward. A vegetable booth is our next stop. Serge's gaze passes over the fruit and straight to a bottle of grape juice which he purchases. Onward we travel. The used book stand brings a conversation, negotiations and purchase of a very specifically determined book. Stopping at a nutrition based booth, Serge pays a great deal for two calorie counting posters as I look on perplexed. With the same pace, we land back at our booth. My needs for activity outside of the booth had been fulfilled in Serge's mind. We return to work with a glass of grape juice added to my bladder tension.

Finally, we reach a break in work and I ask the even simpler question of "les toilettes?" My reprieve is granted with a required return time and directions drawn in the flour of our work table. I nod my understanding and take off for my destination. Assured by the festival signs, I find the indicated area but find only a display for composting toilets. Two or three models have a gathering of people in discussion. I follow a boy into the porch area of a small building that has a faucet and locked door. I assume this must be the restroom and wait for vacancy. Minutes and doubt begin to build as no one is leaving this stall. I recheck my path. I note the sign age only to have my location confirmed. It can't be the display toilets, right? I check one more time and see a sign that appears to resemble urinal. I follow its direction to a large bucket filled with moist sawdust strategically placed behind a curtain covered tree. I nod with respect to the hardcore eco status of the fair a receive a great relief. In the states, composting toilets are a complex chemical experiment undertaken by very few. Here there is less hesitation with the remains of human waste. The blue portapotty is replaced by a series of loosely curtained compost toilets.

Work resumes and begins to become routine. We make two containers (two feet by three feet and two feet deep) worth of pain de broche and pain de pomme. I ventured out into the sales world with distribution of free samples. This is an internationally understandable concept. I hand food to you and you eat. I was relieved to see the very end of the dough. This meant that we would be leaving relatively soon. As with most activities, I have little understanding when things start or end. I work until something runs out or I receive a gesture that says enough.

From handing out my free samples, I pause to look across the street and up a hill of a park. There I am surprised to find Serge walking at a rapid pace as he climbs further up a hill into the park. I wonder what he is doing? Five minutes later, with Serge still vacant, a man begins to walk at an increasing pace towards our booth from outside the fence. Immediately he begins yelling at Martin and pointing to the sidewalk that contains our van, the festival fence and the stone flower pot that we moved to the side. Martin steps aside from the customer that he was talking to and begins to soothe this man with his most apologetic tone. The man storms off and slams his apartment door with rage. Martin turns back to the customer to apologize and finish the sale. Soon the man returns with another barrage of comments and sharp pointing.

Unable to understand the words of the argument, I quickly understand the point of contention. We have pushed the fence onto the sidewalk and practically on his doorstep. Even his flower pot was moved. I draw parallels to Martins situation. Major events like this one only happen when the boss is absent. It is always the little man who faces the anger of a misstep.

Finally, the argument reaches a climax and Martin turns to me with a look of hopelessness. He then begins to pack up the booth. I can tell that he is thinking that we need to get out of here and fast. I attempt to help pack despite my lack of understanding how the van needs to be packed. I look around but still no Serge. From my experience, when a worker makes a snap decision that cost the boss money, the boss usually gets pretty upset. I prepare myself for the counterargument that I predicted would take place between Martin and Serge.

As we pack, customers were still wanting to make purchases and Martin is still a salesman. So he made it happen. He sold from a single box that was left out. Sometimes we even unpacked a box that had just been packed to make one last sale.

Our appearance upon Serge's return could only signify chaos and disorder. Boxes were half packed in a haphazard manner. No thought went into the organization of the van. As long as everything fit, we could make it home. Of course the angry man pacing back and forth did not help manners. You could tell he was actively creating reasons to walk past us with a glare and disapproval. Serge stopped him to receive his share of yelling, went to find the director of the fair and together received a lesson in property rights.

Eventually, we had packed everything in the van. As I prepared to reattach the trailer, Serge boarded the driver seat of the van. When he turns the key, the only thing that can be heard is the click of what I assume is a dead battery. Again he tries. Click. Repeated attempts bring the same result and another round of pacing and angry looks from the man. Serge asks Martin a question and then exits the van. Martin begins to make his attempts.

I sit down on the sidewalk and continue to observe the events unfolding around me. For all I know the battery is dead and a couple hour wait to be expected. I note that Serge can not be bothered by the angry man or the broken van. He focuses on two ladies that come near for a chat. Although they are too old for my taste, I can see that they are both attractive. They have reached the middle age period where grey hair begins to take hold, freedom from raising children is discovered and flirtation is a welcome diversion. I start to see Serge in a different light. He does have a weathered manly appearance that comes with the premature aging of labor. He has a status as an artisan that I could see being attractive to this population. All three chat and laugh as Martin labors away in the van.

Suddenly, the van turns over and starts. I have no idea what has changed to arrive at this new result but we have transport. Serge departs his conversation and jumps in the van. I begin to prepare for the attachment of the trailer when Martin waves me into the van. Wait. We are leaving the trailer?

We drive away from the fair with none of my questions answered. I do not know if we will be staying at a hotel nearby for the night or if we will be heading home. What I do know is that the van is extremely warm. We have the body heat of all three of us, the heater blaring and the windows rolled up. Sweat begins to pour from my body and I begin to become very tired. Slowly, I give way to a sweaty fitful sleep.

As we drive farther, I assume that we will be headed back to the farm. A stop for gas allows for the relief of a cold drink and fresh air. As we drink, Serge uses a series of points and gestures to ask me what my name is. How we worked together all day without this knowledge on his part is amazing. After this break, the heat, sweat and tiredness return in a seemingly endless return trip.

When we finally reach the farm, good byes are given. I stumble to bed. It was such an eventful day but now I need sleep.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Traveling to Sell the Bounty Part 1

On the third day of my farm adventure I meet Serge (the brother of Philippe) and his salesman Martin in the dark of the 5 AM hour. Today we travel three hours west to Brittany to an ecological fair in Brittany. It was suggested that I might enjoy viewing a different part of France than our home base. With out my input the suggestion became fact the night previous.

Which brings us to this morning and the preparations for travel. Both Serge and Martin speak practically no English. Morning breakfast begins with Serge pouring a cup of hot water and instant coffee. Then with a thud made louder because of the morning hour, banging them in front of me. The gesture appears to me in alignment with the christian saying of "take eat." Bread and jam soon follow with their own unique clang against the table. Dunks and slurps mark Serge's rapid consumption of bread that had been dunked in his bowl of coffee. Martin did not eat or drink but shifted impatiently preparing all of the details of the second man appeasing the boss.

Soon it was time to depart. I knew this not because I was told but because Serge finished. I gulp the too hot to chug instant coffee and drop my dishes in the sink next to Serge. I glance to ask if I should begin to wash but receive a let's go look. I knew that the day would be filled with the gestures of survival communications and hoped that my intuitions skills had been honed well enough.

All three of us load into the cab of the van with Serge taking the wheel, Martin in the passenger seat and myself riding in the middle. Through blurry eyes and distant stares, Serge begins discuss a few matters of the day with Martin. I have no idea what they are saying. I begin to fade from my attempts to understand and draw on the image of my youth and the farmer conversations of the past. Driving through Northwest Illinois, I picture myself riding between my Dad and Uncle Gene in a little truck cab. I feel the bristle of their arm hair against my youthful skin and look out at the focus of the conversation. Discussion of the crops, history of certain areas tied to the family, an occasional story of drinking too much and the lives of dogs were generally be the focus. Sitting between these two farmers in a distant land I imagine that they are having similar conversations.

Eventually, the chatter fades with the miles (or kilometers in this case.) Martin begins to descend into a sleep that shares the head bobs and fits of a early morning car nap. Serge looks forward. He surveys the fields and animals that we pass. I look as well. Sometimes I am deceived by the similarity to my native land but then the deception passes with a novel road sign.

When we stop at a gas station, I am glad to relieve my need to go to the bathroom but remain close to the sides of my compatriots. I realize that I have no idea where I am. If I was left here, how would I regain my sense of direction and determine the correct path. My over analytical brain begins to create a survival strategy. Of course, it disappears as we again reload the van.

Finally, we arrive at the fair. Located on a city street filled with booths and gated to enforce the entrance fee collection, the scene was a familiar sight for these types of events. Our first stage of setup is also similar to past events that I have attended. Serge and Martin convene to discuss the location that we have been provided. This conversation is interrupted by a argument with our neighboring booth. The directors are called upon. Everything has soon become smoothed over as everyone realizes that no one knows what is going on. Fences are pulled this way and that. Road barriers are moved. A stone plant box is pushed haphazardly to the side. The entire time I take my usual role of trying to be helpful. I provide the muscle that moves the above mentioned items from one place to another.

The stage then becomes set for Serge to swing the van and bread oven into place. Martin waves, gestures and yells directions to Serge's rapid jerking car movements. Serge gets out to look. A discussion concludes that it could be better. Once again the van spurts back in forth into the perfect position. The oven is detached from the van and the van is parked parallel to our location on the sidewalk.

Tables, bread, "faggons" (These are bundles of small brush like sticks that appear very old world. Think of the Led Zeppelin album cover.) and other materials transform our little portion of street into a marketplace and kitchen. I struggle to understand the gestures and exact location that everything needs to go. This lack of understanding is multiplied by the fact that I did not know what we had to sell, how we sold it or that we would be making bread on site. I attempted to keep my head low and prove use rather than inconvenience.

Serge begins his role of the production when he lights up two faggons in the oven. A thick cloud of wood smoke rises slowly and then dissipates over the other booths. I know this is part of our gimmick. Just like Burger King in the states, we pump our waste exhaust into the air with the hopes of polluting our customer base with the sentimentality of smell and old timey living. Serge receives comments on the smoke with pride and a sense of notoriety.

I quickly learn that I am not to be a passive participant for the day. My first task is to take a sprinkle of flour, dust a vat of dough, dig out a armful, carry it to the table, cut 500 grams worth and pass to Serge. Serge then takes the dough, rolls it in a pattern that gives the French bread shape and places it in a box lined with cloth and flour. After we have completed a Serge determined amount, we change tasks. A small piece of dough is flattened and wrapped around an apple (le pomme).

When the faggons have crumbled into coals, we begin the baking process. Serge scrapes the coals from the stone that has retained the heat into a holding tank. He then places a tray of bread covered apples into the back of the oven. I take up my second task. I pull on the cloth that underlies our dough creations in a manner that flips it into my hand and place it on the paddle that Serge holds in the oven door. Serge slices the top and delicately places the dough in the oven and waits another for another addition from me. The flip that I eventually master takes a little practice and leaves a few pieces of dough dented because of my manhandling. Once all of the dough has been loaded into the oven, Serge closes the door and marks a time on the oven with chalk. Back to cutting and rolling dough.

While Serge and I perform our industrious pursuits, Martin begins to develop his sales pitch. Bonjour Madamme. Bonjour Mussier. Beyond this, I can only speculate his pitch based on intonation of voice. I quickly learn to say mercy a vous as a polite response after a sale. Martin's one weakness is his cell phone. Occasionally, a customer will dither past the table while Martin is in deep cellular study. I attempt to avoid eye contact because of my lack of communication ability. Sometimes I slip and make eye contact. A complex (probably not that complex in reality) string of French follows from the customer. I am left to state one of my few French lines. Je compra apo Frances. (I understand little French) After a pardon, I point to Martin.

To be continued in another post very soon. I promise.

NIC








Saturday, September 22, 2012

Quel Imbecile je suis! (I am Such an Idiot)

One of my most memorable experiences here in France was my attempt to describe meaning of the word ackward. How do you describe the character trait that most defines my life? I resigned to the explaination that I am akward because I do all of the things that I am not supposed to do in a social situation. They shook their heads in a simpathic but unknowing manner. I know that they have experienced my behaviour that demonstrates this abstract concept.

In my travels, new and novel environments, situations and language have provided many of my most akward moments of mis understanding. I wanted to share a few of these with you. Hopefully, you can gain a few laughs for all of the strange looks that I have recieved.

A few common occurances are certain to occur. One of the most frequent is the relationship between my crotch and any fluid. Whether I am attempting to consume, wash or carry liquids, they are guaranteed to land on or near my crotch at some point. Faucets gush forth in an attempt to leave the restraints of the sink to cover my pants. Droplets of coffee, juice or even water hold strong to the edge of their vessel until to prime moment that their flight will mark their success and my lack of cleanliness. The most embarrassing is the drop of a glass of liquid. Usually landing on the table, I am certain to recieve the majority of the spray from this missile of lapse in thought.

Sometimes, I am able to control the liquids but still succeed in making an ass of myself. In one of the oldest pubs in Belfast, Ireland, I order a beer. Of course it is my last day with the British Pound as currency so I pay for my beer with pocket change. (Do I leave an 87 pence tip or is this insulting?) This has me flustered so I look away from the bar and take in my surroundings. I look back to find a beer close enough to me but oddly misaligned. I sip and center before the bartender returns with my drink. "This is your beer." Of course. I slide my misalignment to the left and retreat to a booth hoping that no one saw my errant sip.

Comedy of size also takes president in a Europe created during an era of smaller stature. If there is a door way or stair well that needs to be crossed, I am certain to be standing directly in the path. Bathrooms provide enclosures where the door swings two inches from the lip of the toilet seat. I bumble and bang into walls as I try to navigate narrow passages. A bull in a China shop is another American saying that I attempt to explain to my hosts as a key trait.

Women provide my greatest source of idiot behavior. Female do not have to be attractive or interesting for me make an ass of my self but it helps. One of my greatest skills is the attempt to be a gentleman for one female while I step on the toes of five others. Errant thoughts are spoken at the wrong time as I attempt to look interested while thinking of the things that make me interesting. I have resigned to allow female sympathy to be the my most attractive attribute.

With each new adventure, you can be certain that I will be taking the wrong step, acting in the wrong way and breaking the wrong rules. This is a service that I provide for you the reader and the confused onlooker.

Transcending Through Humour

I love the Onion. This satirical newspaper takes the serious matters of the day and lampoons them with tremendous skill. Giving the appearance of reality the headlines draw readers into an article with the question of this can't be real. My favorite part of the Onion are the comments received in response. Often they provide associated one liners but occasionally the comments become serious whether or not that was the intention. This brief diversion from the road is a response to one comment that sparked a day long of reflection by this traveler.

The article that sparked this response with titled "Now that my campaign is over, I would like to talk to you about the Church of the Later Day Saints." Mitt Romney is the focus of the feature and appears with superimposed glasses, white dress shirt and black neck tie of the Mormon missionary. The article assumes the voice of Romney vacating the presidential race because of his latest gaff and taking up the cause of conversion to the faith.

In the comments that I received from my Facebook repost, two or three chuckled an affirmation. Then one of my friends posted a question of my persistence into the afterlife. In other words, would I be going to hell for reposting this Onion article? What if the Mormons are correct and I spend eternity in hell. Like all good humor, it held a bit of reality to offer an edge. I began to think about my eternal prospects an return to you with these thoughts.

Does my lack of belief of the Judeo-Christian god ensure that I am condemned to hell? (To start this argument let us hold the Mormon faith as a part of the Judeo-Christian tradition. I want to examine one argument before attacking twelve.) When I examine this question, I am lead to take a further look at who god is? In other words, are the organized religions god? Do I have to follow a human institution of faith to be able to reach god? (I know this reflection will have more questions than answers so prepare yourself for the squiggle that is ?.)

One major difference between my beliefs (remember this as well, I speak only for myself.) and the beliefs of the Judeo-Christian faith is the need to follow the traditions of the sect that one is associated with. As a general rule (not always), if one does not follow the "correct" sect of faith, they will be condemned to eternity in hell. I have issues with this belief. My experience with organized religion, (raised Methodist, attended Lutheran school from grades 2-8, working with Jewish kids at summer camps and providing programming with Navajo and Hopi kids) I view them as a human institution. They have been created by and for humans. The main purpose that I have observed is the sublimation of many for the power and wealth of the few. Generally these few are white, male and hold the answers. The populace will receive an occasional charity in return for their service but are mainly compensated with the assurance of an afterlife.

I see my relationship to the big question (I can't say that I know what, who or if so I'll leave it as a question.) as a solitary one. I have no role in the relationship that others have with their deity, why should they expect to be a part of mine. I have enough doubt, guilt, anguish and human error in the relationship myself. I don't need a collection of others to add their human faults. As for traditions and habits, I am working on forming the habits of a healthy life. Brushing my teeth, bathing, organizing and acquiring material goods consume enough of my time.

In some ways this is a lonely pursuit and relationship. (It has been a one way relationship all my life.) With out the congregation, what am I left with? My answer is service. I serve everyone that I can. I try (and I am failing miserably) to serve others at all times. Generally, this service comes through my employment. Here I try my best to serve the task that I have been given and provide the greatest value possible. (I know this last part goes a bit against capitalism but that is a reflection for another time.) I am greedy, lazy, and lack commitment but I try.

So, I get to the pearly gates of the netherworld and it turns out the Mormons were right all along. Do I go to hell? In some ways, whether I go up or down, I will already by in hell. (Here, I have to forsake the Mormon faith for the sake of the argument. I'm quite certain that you come place your faith here.) The afterlife and confirmation of the Mormon's purity creates this hell because of the justification for years of repression, hatred and acts against humanity. If you are not with us, you are against us, a US president once said. Those against or repressed by the Mormon faith tend to be those that I seek most to serve: people of color, women and the poor. If it is confirmed that the Mormon faith has proven correct, these people lose their humanity and human dignity. For me this is hell.

So after all of this reality, I need to add a little humor. I will leave this debate in the fictional automobile of the Oh Brother Where Art Thou world. After being baptized and saved, Delmar, Pete and Everett (not baptized or affiliated), pick up Tommy from the side of the road. It is soon revealed that Tommy has sold his soul to the devil.

Delmar: Oh son. For that you sold your everlasting soul.

Tommy: Well, I wasn't using it.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Day Two on the Farm

On the first morning of my European farming career, I woke up with the roster's call but not because of it. I dressed a made my way to the Auberge (the main dining area used for meetings and the like). I was told to make my self breakfast. I did this with a hesitation that indicated my uncertainty of what was and was not acceptable. I placed my jar of peanut butter from my travels in the fridge. I knew this would be a source of entertainment later. It marked my American cuisine and the express manner of dining that the farm was rallying against.

After breakfast, I helped Eku to prepare a few small items in the kitchen. She was preparing for both an afternoon pastry demonstration and a dinner with a group of visitors. It is amazing to see her work flawlessly through out the kitchen. Sometimes she would sneak to the garden to collect raspberries or other raw materials. I did not see any notes but rather assumed that the collection of events she was preparing for all exist solely in her mind.

After these small kitchen chores, Eku showed me my main responsibility here on the farm, feeding the pigs. There are five pigs in all. Four black (noir) pigs and one mix breed of black and pink. Each morning, accept for Sunday, I am to prepare a feast for my five young dependents. Usually, I would grind seven and a half scoops of barley but currently I am to use leftover flour from the bakery (le boulangerie). This provides approximately one and a half scoops of flour for each pig. I mix this with water, kitchen scraps and two big handfuls of stinging nettles. I know nettles all to well from my youth spent running and itching through the woods. Eku says they provide an excellent source of protein for the pigs.

All of the ingredients are mixed together to "cook for the pigs" as Eku calls it. I then wheel this gruel in a squeaky wagon to five excited squealing pigs. Each one of them is nosing the air and hip checking the other to get the prime bits of slop. I set up the two troughs in a new locations and begin to drop the slop in. Usually, a good portion lands not in the trough but rather on the anticipating diners. After a few trips the wagon is empty and I must perform the second task of feeding the pigs, checking the fence. I walk the perimeter of the pig pen checking to see if the electric fence is obstructed in any way.

With the pigs attention placed solely on their feast, I cart the wagon back to be washed. Here again, Eku surprises me with her willingness to practically crawl into the overturned wagon to scrub the bits of slop that cling to the edges. It is hard for me to understand the humility that allows her to transition from a position of envy, as a pastry chef, to the lowliest scrubber of the pig wagon. She looks up to see if I understand the cleanliness that is required.

When my lesson on the pigs is finished, I am sent to dig the remaining potatoes as Eku departs for some kitchen task. Digging potatoes always brings my reflection on this historic food. This food stuff transformed the world when it left its native land and landed on the shores of Europe. It is easy to see how the Irish could form the belief in an endless new supply of food as potatoes seem to fall out of the earth. This of course led to a huge population growth and famine with the introduction of blight. Only Jonathan Swift provided an intellectual solution to this "problem." The western landscape of America would prove to be the true solution. A bit of a return to the homeland for the potato and its offspring.

I quickly finished digging the remaining potatoes with my thoughts thankfully being interrupted by Eku's return to finish the task. My final task of the morning would be the biggest shock yet. It was simple but struck me with a great amount of fear. All Eku said was "you make lunch?"

Here I was on a new and novel farm with professional chefs who had prepared brilliant meals for me expecting the same in return. I quickly went into Iron Chef challenge mode. I needed to make something with lots of flavors, based mainly on vegetables and well enough to set perceptions of me in a positive light. I scanned my potential food stuffs. Tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, an eggplant, bell peppers, bread, ham and a collection of cheeses. I decided to based the main dish of my meal on a stir fry of the zucchini, eggplant and bell peppers. I hoped that I could use enough garlic to hide all of the dish's failings. I linked the bread and tomatoes into a brochette. I could not remember what exactly was in brochette but I knew that bread toasted in olive oil, the combination of vinegar and tomatoes and the bite of fresh garlic would serve me well. I also went out on a limb with one of my families notorious dishes. Growing up, I always loved a quick pickle that my Grandma Betty would make. Its reputation was marked with the poor breath that it endowed on those willing to consume.

As I began to cook, I gave Eku numerous looks of despair that I hoped would soften the criticism that I was certain would follow. I managed not to burn anything as most of my cooking time was spent searching for tools and foods in a kitchen that was new to me. I plated each of my creations with an intension of professionalism but I knew that they betrayed my intentionality. I also placed bread, ham and the collection of cheeses as a fail safe if they despised my creations.

Overall, each dish was given a nod of general approval. I knew that the eggplant in my stir fry was a overdone, the brochette had a different tang with the cider vinegar that replaced the traditional balsamic and the ham and cheese was a bit of a forfeit. I was surprised at how well the cucumber salad went over. It was one of the first things to disappear. I finished the stir fry as I realized it was the weakest dish. The brochette brought the biggest shock. Eku requested that I make it for the evenings guests. Pride swelled in my chest as I had been successful enough to overcome at least a few of my fears.

I was given the afternoon off with the request that I return to the kitchen at 7PM to begin preparing my prize brochette for the guests. A collection of Japanese folks were staying at the farm to observe local food production. When I arrived to begin preparation of dinner, I greeted each of the guests with one of my only phrases that I knew in Japanese, arigato. With each person that I met, I was certain to shake their hands with my finest arigato. This was met with an English "nice to meet you."

Food preparation began with inquiries into my actions from the few Japanese who spoke English. As a part of their experience, they each wanted to observe and help with all food preparation. This lead to the stereotypical Japanese practice of photographing everything. I always wonder how they view these multiple snapshots of what I see as insignificant details. I began my preparation with a misunderstanding of the number of guests that would be present. I thought that Eku said thirty but really there would be 13 of us dining. This reduction in number meant that I would in fact have enough bread but also ensured that I prepared too great of a quantity.

With everything prepped for my brochette, I asked Eku if their was anything else that I could do to help dinner production. She suggested salad. I grabbed a bowl and a knife and headed for the garden. I scanned many of the garden vegetables that I was familiar with but could only find a few underdeveloped lettuce plants. I knew that I could not depend of these for salad quantity and would reap the wrath of cutting the lettuce crop of the future with one venture. I asked Philippe to assist me in my search. He took up his crutches and hobbled to the garden. "Cut some of this." "Use the flowers as well." "This tastes like a combination of sage and pineapple." The salad soon unfolded with a collection of foreign plants revealed by his knowledge. I did my best to follow his guidance with bread for my brochette cooking in the oven still occupying my mind. I raced back to the kitchen certain to find a blaze caused by my absence. Not finding the impending disaster that I expected, I began to place the tomato compote on the bread. This task complete, I washed the salad in the bowl. Soon my salad task had been taken over by others willing to help.

We all sat down to diner. Shortly, I discovered a few of my downfalls of the evening. First, arigato means thank you in Japanese and not hello as I originally thought. I had greeted everyone with my finest thank you and a grin that clearly stated my ignorance. To their credit, no one allowed this mistake to change their opinion of this American idiot. My second big mistake of the evening was that I definitely did not wash the salad at an appropriate level. My first bite of salad was met with an improper crunch of dirt rather than the crispness of a fresh green. Completely embarrassed, I hoped that my failures would not eliminate me from the farm the next morning.

After dinner, I was sent to bed. I had an early morning planned for the next day. It was my day off. I had agreed to travel to Brittany for an Organic Fair with Philippe's brother Serge.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Day One on the Farm

On the morning of the 6th of September, I traveled by train for Cherbourg to Saint Lo (St Lo). I had emailed my the provider of my food, lodging and livelihood the night before with cryptic directions for my transport to the farm. I planned to arrive in St Lo at around noon. I hope that they would be able to pick me up and drive me to the farm. Since my access to the Internet was very limited, I could not be certain that they would receive the message or be able to provide my necessary transport so I also mapped out the route through the approximately 3 km of appearing and disappearing roads in case I needed to walk. I purchased a map with my bits and pieces of French. This was a county map so it provided an overview of the St Lo area but was less detailed than my task required. With only faith, I boarded my train.

Outside the train station, in St Lo, I did not find the balloons, banners and marquees that held my name that I expected. Others were greeted and departed in groups with a relaxed sense of speed. I was left with my big red bag sitting outside of the train station (la gare). My bag was to be my trade mark from which my identity could be determined. I quickly forced myself to relax. I had until 12:30 to wait until an epic hike would follow. I walked to the book store in the station to see if I could find a map. It was simply a pass by as I yet unprepared to share anything but a bonjour with the shop attendant. I studied the large city map that was posted in the main hall. The problem was that the farm (la ferme) was located just outside of town. Too far to be on the city map but overwhelmed by the mass of the country side on the county map.

Finally, I decided that I should engage in a conversation with the shop attendant. I could tell that see knew that I was in need of something. I had been elusive enough to draw her from her back room slumber and still proved to be the focus of her attention. I reengaged with my best bonjour and an attempt to state map in French, la carte. I pointed to the address of the farm (la ferme) and see pulled out a region map from behind her desk. Together we worked on the problem of mapping my route. She graciously accepted my poor attempt at her language and the stupid grin that I hoped would cover my verbal trespass. Eventually, she resigned to sending me to the tourist information point across a bridge (la pont) that served more as a design feature than any given purpose. I left stating my best apologizes for my French (Je suis desole).

I resumed my wait until 12:30 by walking outside to pace. There I was greeted by a Japanese woman with a huge smile. She indicated that it was my red bag that she was supposed to acquire. She introduced herself as Eku and I attempted best Je m'appelle. I loaded my bag in the trunk and entered the car. Eku and I than began our first of many attempts at a conversation. Where are you from was recited in French. Then mimed when my ignorance was revealed. I am from Illinois. This received the usual blank stare. Chicago? Ah yes, Chicago is one of the few American cities that everyone seems to know. What do you do? I had prepared for this one! I paged through my notebook and poorly pronounced, je suis enseignant (teacher). Silence fell as it always does when two people are limited on the amount of information that they can share. I wanted to say how beautiful everything was. I wanted to share my sense of complete relief that the farm actually existed beyond the basic Internet description. But instead, I sat there with a stupid grin, taking it all in.

We arrived a collection of black slate farm buildings with aged wooden door frames and a rustic feeling that could only be found in rural France. I was introduced to Philippe (My sole contact over the Internet). He greeted me with an old world cast on his left foot that made his foot appear more purple than flesh colored. He switched to English (la Engla) and showed my around the farm. This is the cave (the root cellar). Here you will get the cider when we ask you to. Here is the tractor. Here is the Grass Hopper. You know Grass Hopper? It is a very popular American brand of lawn mower. I disappointed him with my negative answer. Here is the composting toilet that you will use when no one is using the small house (la petite maison). It was the first straw bail house that he had built for his family. He lived there with his wife, while the kids lived in the yurt that had been taken down but was indicated by its remaining platform across the road.

Our tour ended with the introduction to the big house (la maison) of his property. This is a large straw bail building constructed with an interior of exposed wooden beams and a very Japanese feel. Think the fight scene in the first Kill Bill movie where the Black Mamba defeats the Crazy 88 on a much smaller scale. I was introduced to the oldest son Claude and his assumed girlfriend whose name alluded me. We sat down for a lunch on the terrace with an umbrella to shade us from the midday sun. A tart (this is the best way I can describe it. It was not sweet but rather a crust filled with roasted tomatoes and other veggies.) and salad was passed around. I noticed a pace to eating that differed greatly from my eating habits. Slow enjoyment of the food was its key trademark. I worked very hard not to betray this dining speed with my desire to inhale every taste filled bite at my usual rapid pace. I was left satisfied with this light lunch. Then Eku left the table to grab the pasta dish. This was a heaping bowl of oiled carbohydrates covered with broccoli, roasted tomatoes and chunks of an artisan ham. Grapes followed to serve as our dessert. I soon realized that food would an important part of my month long stay.

For the majority of the meal I sat in blissful ignorance. When you have no understanding of anything that is been said you tend to remove yourself mentally from the conversation. I tend to focus on the food and look for the subtleties of the locale. I watch for birds (l'oiseau) to fly across or insects dutifully searching for the remnants of the meal.

At some point in the conversation, I was included into the conversation enough to state my enjoyment in studying history. Claude's girlfriend is studying history and served as the French expert. I told a tale from my Dad's recent reading on Daniel Boone. Do you know this person? Philippe asks the French historical expert. No. I struggled to explain why Daniel Boone was a figure of importance in our culture. Interest wained before I could invoke the revitalization of the myth of Boone from Teddy Roosevelt's Boone and Crockett Club. I continued on with my intended tory but it clearly failed to land the desired effect. Philippe asked me to fetch a history book that he had read by a famous American author. Have I heard of him? Once again, I brought only disappointment with my response. It even says on the back of the book that it is popular in America.

In this meal, I began my study of Philippe. Right away it was clear to see his brilliance. He has a very sharp mechanical mind. You can tell by the way that he introduces objects and places that he has contemplated their detailed workings. He states directions and guidance in a manner that suggests simplicity. His tone of voice suggests two points of clarity. I'm brilliant and understand this. Why should you not? I can tell that I will learn a lot from him but also annoy him with my questions and clarifications of things that he sees as being simple.

After lunch, I was shown to my quarters. Located in the loft of a open shed out building, I access my small (la petit) but adequate room by a ladder and attic style trap door. I have a large window that looks over an enclosed pasture for a dozen chickens and a rooster. I have an upright dresser, small bed side table, lamp and bed (le lit). Beyond the hermitage in its amenities, it holds a cloistered feeling with out the oppression of a specific doctrine. Here I began to unpack my limited possessions. It was satisfying to know that I would be staying in one place for my than a night or two and would not have to keep guard from others.

At 3:30, I met Eku for my first act of labor that would justify my lodging. Together Eku and I tilled a patch of land and spread seeds for a plant that we were unable to communicate. With this task complete, we moved on to digging potatoes. Eku was able to convey that the summer had been very cold and justified the small size of the potatoes that we were digging. I explained that my Dad referred to them as Hagemann sized potatoes.

Our chores complete, I helped Eku set the table for dinner. Claude and his girlfriend had departed but Philippe's son Joey would be joining us for dinner. Joey was the last of Philippe's three boys to be living at home. He is in high school and a year away from college. In many ways he is the typical teenager. It takes two or three calls to summon him to dinner, just because. He will engage in dinner conversation but generally makes it appear as a chore. The biggest shock about Joey is that he has a brilliant American accent when he speaks English. Have traveled the UK for two weeks, it amazes me how much the accent of my native land stands out. Later, I discovered that he spent time in Costa Rica speaking just as much English as Spanish with a collection of Americans.

Dinner once again was amazing. A pot of delicious fish, rice, vegetables and a chocolate eclair made me realize the level of skill that Eku holds as a chef. It is easy to tell that she works long hours and has mastered her trade. The most perplexing thing about Eku is how she can make everything so effortless. Dinner seems to appear. A collection of courses trickle aimlessly in front of all those eating in a natural flow.

After dinner, I retreated to my loft satisfied. I had successfully navigated the trip from Cherbourg to the farm in St Lo. I knew that I had interesting people to learn from and live with. I know that my respite on the farm will be successful.

NIC

Friday, August 31, 2012

Robert Burns Poem

Below is another piece of found writing that I enjoyed. I found this poem in the Writers Museum in Edinburgh. The sounds that the poem creates reflects many of the sounds of Edinburgh. Enjoy and a' that.

A Man's A Man for A' That

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by-
We dare be poor, for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that.
Our toils obscure and a' that.
The rank is but the guinea's stamp.
The man's the gowd, 'for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodder grey and a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine-
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that and a' that.
The honest man, tough e'er sae poor,
I king o' men for a' that.

Ye see you birkie, ca'd a lord
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mark a betted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's a boon his might,
Guid faith he manna fa' that!
For a' that, an a' that,
Their dignities an a' that,
The pith o' sense', an pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that)
That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
Shall bear the gree and a' that!
For a' that comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man, the worl o'er,
shall brothers be' for a' that.

Robert Burns

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Daily Travel Log August 20- 30

In the feature that I am generically calling the Daily Travel Log, I set for the simple basics of each days travels and happenings. Details and nuances will need to be examined through the filter of my other reflective essays.

August 20th, 2012:
Today I flew in to London Heathrow airport from Chicago. I stayed at the Travel Lodge outside of the airport.

August 21st, 2012:
Today I traveled from the Travel Lodge in London to my hostel in Central London. It doesn't sound like much but it was a venture for this novice.

August 22nd, 2012:
My day began with a writing and reflecting session in Russell Square. I toured the British Museum and the Royal Academy of the Arts.

August 23rd, 2012:
I attempted to put in my time at the National Gallery but was to distracted by the sunny day. I watched passers by in Trafalgar Square, walked past Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Parliament. Highlights of the day include touring the Supreme Court and the Institute for Contemporary Arts (ICA).

August 24th, 2012:
I walked a ridiculous distance through Hyde Park to the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum. I revisited the National Gallery to see a few things that I missed.

August 25th, 2012:
Today, I traveled from Central London to Oxford. I walked the streets of Oxford and ate lunch in the meadows outside of Christ's Church Cathedral. Chatted up a collection of folks at the hostel.

August 26th, 2012:
I explored the streets of Oxford further with my new friend Yiming. Ate lunch at the first Pub in Oxford, Turf Tavern.

August 27th, 2012:
Traveled from Oxford to Liverpool. Met two Americans on the train (Lauren and Megan). Visited the International Slavery Museum and Maritime Museum. Walked around Albert's Dock in the rain.

August 28th, 2012:
This was my lazy Sunday. I slept in. Walked the streets of Liverpool. Soaked up the free WIFI at the Starbucks. (Yes, I know but free WIFI) Walked way off of the beaten path to try to see the actual Atlantic Ocean but found myself at the Liverpool Waste Water Plant.

August 29th, 2012:
Traveled from Liverpool to Windermere. Hoofed my backpack three miles to the hostel in the prime farm lands of the area. Walked from hostel to Ambleside and back again. Collapsed in exhaustion after making a giant pan of ravioli, meatballs, sauce and red wine.

August 30th, 2012:
Traveled by bus to Penrith by bus. I was unable to find lodging so I traveled by train to Edinburgh. Catching up on writing, posting and doing errands.

Lust and Lost

In my four days exploring Central London, I fell in and out of love many times. Usually not lasting more than a glance or a moment spent relaxing together in a park, may women fell victim to my lust. I, of course, am left alone to reflect on the power that is lost to the other sex.

A part of me wants to believe that this lust has only become noticeable because of my foreign local and the novelty of the view. In someways this is true. Hearing an accented female generally attracts my attention. With a multitude us uniquely formed words all around me, my head is on a constant swivel and so to my desire. Unique clothes draw a different path for my eyes across the female form. Despite this reasonable diagnosis, I wish add elaboration.

Another factor, that only few will understand, is the presence of Brown Dog. BD, as he is often called, is a fictional character who fills the pages of many Jim Harrison novellas. As a part of my city ventures, I read Westward Ho! This is a novella that tells of BD's quest to reclaim his bear skin from an American Indian movement activist. This activist has left BD 45 miles outside of LA. As BD fails and succeeds in his ever present quest he is always an astute observer of the color of women's undergarments, the swoop of a woman's ass and the attractiveness of a rotund woman. Although I do not have the mindless ability to act on my lust as BD does, I relate to the animalistic pursuit of the unseen but often imagined.

In all honesty, I have noticed some of this lust before. It is a lust similar to any venture of a country boy to the cityscape. When in the natural confines of the country, lust must narrow its focus. Generally, one female in the smoky bar or field party draws the evenings lust. She is usually too young, wearing too much makeup, balancing a cigarette between her lips and is the fixation of the room. For this specimen, you must not converse or the illusion will be broken when she does not understand your Steinbeck reference or shares to undying love for Guns and Roses. I do not mean to imply that country girls lack intelligence. It is simply that the majority of intelligence country girls have from my peering eyes by their pious fathers. Not wanting to lose a female of their own creation, country fathers use their religion and land to insulate their daughters from the local bar. If not hidden, they soon take up the city and its rules.

In the city, land does not exist as a buffer. Universities and science also begin to crack the religious fervor shell. Women quickly adapt and realize that their feminine features are a commodity. The goods are not sold as raw materials to the sex professions but become valued based of the estimations of glances. A speculative glance from a male leads to the fulfillment of a need to be the center of attention. The city wise female quickly learns the power that she holds. Expensive dinners, designer clothes and the attention of the human equivalent to the cock pheasant display her understanding of power. It is often to these things that she is drawn.

What of the humble and lowly passerby? A glare straight forward is the usual reward. I have never been able to understand this stance of complete indifference and lack of observation. Sometimes a female (or male as well) will forget the rules of the city game and match eye contact with this country outsider. Instant terror and a diversionary path usually greet my smile and acknowledgment of the other's existence. I have taught myself the rules of the city to preserve my honest attempt to greet and dismiss the belief that I hold ill intentions.

I do not know the to genesis to my uncontrollable lust. In the time that I needed to compose this reflection, I have left Central London. I have traveled to smaller cities further north. Here the local fashion includes shorts that are cut very high on the bottom and rise high above the hip. Teeth have begun to tangle slightly as they reach their end. The guttural sound of the Celtic accent batters the smooth flow of the southern. With this lack of attraction, my lust subsides. I will willingly accept this respite as I prepare the ultimate test in lust, Paris.

NIC

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Ramblings of a Wanderer

Intention has failed me today. I began the day with the best of intentions. I planned a visit to the National Gallery (a huge FREE art gallery). All started well and I did my best to understand impressionism. Soon though, my intellectual pursuits became lost to idiotic wandering. I had forsaken the contents of the inside world for a London that was uncharacteristically sunny and warm.

Just because I rejected academia, that doesn't mean that I failed to study. I simply focused on the wrong things. I studied the curves of the feminine landscape rather than the cityscape. I mocked the monarch that birthed my fledgling government when I failed to be imitated by changing guards and palaces. Sitting on the steps of great monuments, I averted my eyes from upward reverence of Admiral Nelson for a study of the masses.

I can already here the questions of my return. Did you see Buckingham Palace? I think so. What about Big Ben? I'm pretty sure. These great monuments outlined my path but did not foster my complete attention.

I am certain that I saw many brilliant sights. I just lacked the intellect to appreciate them to the full extent or with their deserved reverence. So it goes with the travel who is wonton of knowledge. In my ignorant bliss, I continue to push forward.

For those of you who do want to know the details of my sight seeing, here is a list of some of the things that I remember.

-Multiple bridges across the river Thames
-Big Ben and Parliament
-The Supreme Court (a highlight of the day)
-Numerous children chasing pigeons
-A falconer trying to chase these pigeons beyond their reach
-China town in the height of rush hour
-A diverse collection of people filling my ears with the unique sounds of their thoughts

NIC

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Writing from the British Museum

Today I came across two pieces of writing that I really enjoyed. In typing and reflecting on them, I realize that they match the mode and tone of the previous blog post that I composed this morning. Just a more upbeat note: I had a great time at the British Museum today!

Both of these writing pieces were conceived by students in London when reflecting on a famous print.

Inspired by The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Isolated from reality and time,
In the light of the stars lay his desire,
His life a lie, a pretense, a mime,
Little did he know his time would expire,
The stars fade as he fulfils his longing,
Is she worth that dream, that green light.
Here never leaving but never belonging,
Admire his will, his motive, his fight,
No-one sees as he takes his last breath,
Life continues normally after his death.
Siama Begum

The second passage aligned somewhat with my night in the hostel last night.

Inspired by The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams

This is a madhouse. There is no space to think,
No space to breathe. No space to be alone save
the palms of my hands. Her hands attack my
body, his groans my ears. I seek the comfort of
my dark, silent palms from their constant
presence and nagging and tugging and invading.
From the isolation that their company brings, I
need fluidity, my personality and my dreams.
We exist and function as one interfused mass of
automatism. This is life.
Katie Barnes-Managhan

The First of Many Reflections



On the first reflection of this journey, I am bound to share the nervous anxiety that has dominated my every action. For the first 72 hours of my venture, my brain has struggled to build the new synapses that new experiences bring. The following conflicts have provided the tension and will hopefully find resolution in my search.

Doubt. What am I doing? What makes me think I can pull this off? At the center of my anxiety is the doubt that I made a mistake in taking up this venture. My rational mind knows that I have made a great decision but my emotional mind seeks the land of familiarity. I realize that I am bold but also reside in an area not unknown to tourist.

To be tourist or to not be a tourist. I realized quickly that my Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap immediately isolates me as an American tourist. I am certain this is not the only mark that I bear. I have faced the conflict of admitting that I am a foreign tourist. I have all of the stereotypes of an American tourist. I struggle to know if I am marking my naivete with my thick lonely planet guide. If I am, does it matter? I can tell that everyone at the hostel wants to project the weathered traveler but secretly wishes that someone would just tell them what to do and see. I make my loosely veiled attempt show my expertise. Only once was I almost run over for not looking to the right first before crossing the street.

The speed of the pound. I found out quickly that it is easy to buy yourself comfort. I arrived at Heathrow airport at around 10:30 local time. A faster than expected walk through customs left me to find the bus that would take me to my hotel. I checked in with an information desk at the airport. Promptly they told me that it may be too late to catch the bus I needed from a different terminal. I played their game and hired a taxi. I quickly lost 35 pounds or about $56 and was escorted with ease. I can tell that it is easy to travel path that is the most convienent but know that I can not afford this path.

And so my adventure goes on. I try to calm my nerves by finding something that is familiar. A walk around the block builds confidence is seeing something that is the same and has not changed. I lay awake with my eyes closed listening to the buzz of the city and the grunts of my fellow travelers. Even if I can not sleep, eyes closed, laying down is the next best thing. I bring my watch to my ear to hear the tick, tick, tick. It is good to hear the way the time pushes forward. That is the challenge. As I face my fears, I must keep going forward. You have the option to reflect back on experiences but must always push forward into the unknown.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Preparing my Gearlist

Travel Log: On this track of the blog the focus will center around the logistics of a backpacking adventure in Europe.  Although I am not the expert, I hope that you can learn from my mistakes.

I am reflecting as I pack.  I hope that I have everything that I need and nothing that I don’t.  Below is my pack list and photos of my gear.

Montrail tennis shoes
Chaco flip flops
3 pairs SmartWool/ Teko hiking socks
Work gloves
Travel wallet
Passport
WMI Klean Kanteen
Small Nalgene Bottle
Glasses w/ case
Smith sunglasses
Big Agnes sleeping pad
Sierra Designs Sleeping Bag
Marmot 2-person tent
Travel Sheets
2 SmartWool lite sweaters
SmartWool undershirt
3 Pair Under Armor underwear
Patagonia short sleeve collared shirt
Duluth Trading long sleeve collared shirt
Athletic Shorts
Convertible Pants
Blue jeans
Patagonia puff jacket
OR rain pants
Mountain Hardwear rain jacket
Andrew Bird t-shirt
Hayden t-shirt
REI summit pack
MSR water pouch
Headlamp
Small flashlight
AAA batteries
Brewers cap
Dr. Bronner’s all purpose soap
Pack towel
Sunscreen
Floss
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Qtips
Earplugs
Nail clippers
First-Aid Kit
Swiss Army knife
Watch
Padlocks
Sharpe Marker
Nalgene Bowl
Small pot
Spoon
Belt
Camera w/ charger
Memory cards
Camera upload connector
Ear buds
AA batteries
International plug adapters
Ipad w/ charger
Pelican Case for iPad
Wireless keyboard
Notebook
The Beast God Forgot to Invent by Jim Harrison
The Lonely Planet: Europe on a Shoestring
Jules Ferry and the Renaissance of French Imperialism by Thomas F. Power Jr
Pencils
Beanie
Pack cover

Of course, the real purpose behind this post is self-centered.  It gives me a chance to ensure I have all that is needed.

NIC

Thursday, August 9, 2012

To Have and Be Had



Funding the Venture: I have divided this blog into tracks of thought and experiences.  The Funding the Venture track is focused around the stories that have been created from my attempt to fund my travels.  If you wish to donate money to this foolish cause, please see the right sidebar.

My career as a carnival worker began with my reply to a Craigslist ad.  It was with innocence and naiveté, I clicked the send button on the email inquiring for more information.  In this email, I included my invitation to request my resume.  I assumed sending my resume with notation of my Master’s degree would be a bit pretentious for working in the gaming trades.

Four days later a call came asking if I am still interested.  To my surprise I was not asked any questions about my qualifications for the position.  I was told to meet PJ at the games area at 10 AM the Monday before the fair. 

Upon hanging up, I informed my Dad of my new employment.  His first reaction was to warm me that I need to prepare myself for my entry into the world of VD.  As my Mom entered the conversation- unaware of the subject at hand- I informed her as well.  She simply asked if I had enough condoms.  Both of their comments clearly established the reputation that my new profession had instilled in them.

Undeterred, I attended my morning orientation with anticipation for the novelty that I was about to witness.  I located the under construction games area of the fairgrounds amongst the buzz of preparation.  I quickly learned that PJ’s wife would be my direct supervisor and not PJ.  Although I would have more contact with her, I didn’t learn her name.  She was generally referred to as “she” or “her.”  Even though everyone knew who was being referenced, She had been relocated to the general pronoun status.

As she confirmed our names on a list, I began to take in the other individuals who would be my co-workers in the venture.  The first thing that I noticed was the cigarettes.  Their chain smoking displayed equal amounts of spite and toughness that left everyone nervously sizing up one another.  A pan of the crowd found many rebellious T-shirts, unscuffed 80’s retro tennis shoes and a proud collection of the best American ripped and torn blue jeans.Youth marked the faces of all but one.  My fellow elder was equipped with a blue tooth ear piece that demonstrated his arrogance despite his current level of employment. 

Fully assembled, She inquired if any of us were sexual predators.  Verification was assured.  If we had fallen to this vice, it was better to confess now rather than postpone the inevitable arrest.  We were required to sign a document that confirmed our statement and established our payment agreement.  If I work the entire fair, I am entitled to 20% of the money that I bring in.  If I am fired and/or quit, I will be entitled to 15%.  I was impelled to ask about the completion of a W2 but realized that this may be met with an odd look and ridicule.  I signed my agreement.  Orientation concluded with Her decision that we held little to no value for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I join the others assembled under a newly transformed landscape.  Every source of fun and desire had been contracted over night in this grassy Midwestern field.  Any man’s (or woman’s) need to be filled with a fat filled, meat like, deep fried substance could be attained.  Digestive assistance could also be arranged in the gravity defiance found in transportable thrill machines.  

  It was determined that I will be working the basketball attraction with another co-worker.  I want to call it a game or an amusement but that may have been an overstatement.  A game would suggest a bit of fairness that could clearly not be said for this attraction.  The basketballs were standard issue but the rims made a great number of deviations as they traversed their pinched oval shape.  I can not see how any amusement can be drawn from this mainstay of the gaming strip, so I am left with the label of attraction.  

My co-worker and I settled into our attraction with our coolers.  I had been told only one rule to follow.  Don’t give away the stock.  Even if your girlfriend comes by or a little sweet kid attempted to pry a free prize, this action would lead to dismissal.  I had this rule in my working memory but still had not been instructed the rules or rate for the game.  We spent our first hour waiting.  Feeling responsible for standing in front of our attraction, we would have been better served to huddle in any shade we could find.  Finally, She instructed us on the rules of the game.  This of course was bookended by her two repeated declarations that we would be fired if we gave away the stock and questioning whether we were sexual predators.

In order to take part in this attraction, participants needed to forfeit $2 for one shot and $5 for three shots.  This meant that for every solo shot I collected $0.40 and for every three shot purchase $1.  This is of course if I work the entire fair.  If I was fired or resigned my profit dropped (one shot = $0.30 and three shots = $0.75).  At this rate I needed to have 25 single shooters an hour, at the single shot rate and work the entire fair in order to pull a $10 per hour wage.  If I work twelve hours per day for the six days of the fair, I would accumulate 72 hours.  At $10 per hour I could make $720 as I watched 1,800 shots arch to potential success or more likely failure.  I had no idea the frequency rate of participants but I knew twenty five customers per hour was unrealistic.

After our first hour of waiting, I agreed to take the first break of the day.  This left my co-worker to sell the few stragglers who wandered past.  Break is an important part of the carnival work life.  The majority of the work could be associated with the break at other positions that I have held.  I spent my first break walking around, reading and taking in the movement of the fair.

I returned to our attraction hoping to find my co-worker crowded with clientele.  He was sitting in the grass with his head down in the typical carnival worker fashion.  He had two shooters.  The $4 brought in was a slow start but I was not deterred.  I tied on my money apron and grabbed the bank ($50 in ones for change).

A key to success in the carnival world is the call in.  I had worked on a collection of call in lines over night.  I wanted to bring a little intellect to the trade.  Come one, come all.  Ponder your prize prospects with a perfect shot.  But, I relented to the common refrain of make a basket, win a prize.  Later in the evening I entered into a verbal competition with our neighbor.  Their refrain of a guaranteed prize every time was matched by my call to guarantee a prize for every made basket.  Some in the profession use the call in to display their unabashed and generally false enthusiasm for their attraction.  I like to listen for the bits of truth that enter the call in when exhaustion leads to verbal slips.  Little views on race, ideas of statutory misdeeds and anger over the repression that comes with being a carnival worker break the monotony of the common call in.

For the next hour, I called in all those who passed by.  Most gave me a smirk and shrug with their no.  Although the principle can not be applied to all, I am convinced that this interaction is part of the appeal.  Everyone wants to be acknowledged and desired.  Even if you are being beckoned by a sagging cigarette that is being held in place with the less than ideal number of teeth, you are still being beckoned.  I felt as if everyone knew the game that I was playing by calling them in.  They played their role as well.  A child with prize glistened eyes would guilt a parent to forfeiting money for a shot that would not reach within six feet of the basket. 

I watched and called throughout the afternoon hours.  I had a few willing participants.  Most came to the attraction and left questioning the finality that consumed their money.  This was the saddest part of my position.  What do you say to a little kid who sees all of the prizes, pulls his crumpled money from a tight pocket, takes his best shot and realizes the game takes 30 seconds?  Thanks for playing.  So close!

Evening brought a few more clients and the ballet of the teenager.  A mixture of skin, awkwardness, clearly defined but often tested gender roles and the perpetual state of hanging around.  In my observations, I could see myself in the role of the tentative and apprehensive teen.  I remember being so confounded by the arrogance that others displayed.  I never (and still don’t) understand how one can display such confidence and brevity with disregard for reality.  I have never mastered the art of the bluff.

My night ended with two hours of calling in those who did not exist.  My co-worker had given up.  Standing in the sun all day is exhausting.  I regretted his decline of sunscreen at the beginning of the day for him.  His face was eluminated with sunburn and lack of rest. 

Throughout my day of work, I brought in a total of $102 (even though I think a twenty was lost in there some how) and he brought in $86.   I had worked twelve hours and earned $20.40.  This averaged a $1.70 an hour.   Noting these figures, I made the decision to end my career as a carnival worker.  I had lost money for the day. 

At 11PM, I offered my resignation.  Well it is not for everyone.  This was the repeated response to my apologies.  Not for everyone was an understatement.  The job is not for anyone who wants to make money for their time and effort.  I was amazed at how many cigarettes the typical carnival worker consumes throughout the day.  This alone is more than the money made from the days activities.  I was assured that the profits would increase as the fair went on.

With this consolatory statement, I left the trade.  I wanted to have a little extra money for my time to increase the length of my trip but I was left being had.  She took sympathy on me and paid me the 20% rate of $20 rather than the $15 that I was owed.  In this way, I was left staring into the lights of the fair asking if that was it.