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