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

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...

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.

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.

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.