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
Good, keep it coming!
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