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.
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