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