14 April 2011
Warning: DO NOT read this posting if you:
- have a weak stomach,
- have a romanticized ideal of me, Alex Moore, and want it to remain that way,
- have a poor sense of humor.
This time I do not blame my stomach (as I have in the past). This time I deserve the blame; my stomach can only be a good sport for so long.
Preface: for the last six years I’ve eaten very little animal products. Meat is completely out and milk, cheese, eggs, butter and anything dairy are rare exceptions in my at-home diet. But, alas, while traveling one needs to be flexible.
Flexibility for the sake of others, at times, causes problems for me.
It began yesterday at lunch. First pasta made with a butter, cheese and chunks of red meat cut throughout. Looking at it alone made me queasy, but again, I pride myself on flexibility (and I am ideologically in line with Italian farmers who produce for themselves and purchase local and organic; not supermarket products purchased from American factory farms). Next came rich eggs from the farm's very own hens, full of cheese. While I could have politely just had a “taste” of everything and eaten a ton of bread, I pushed my limits. I’ve had all of the aforementioned variables already on numerous occasions in the past two months: just not all added into the same equation. The rest of the day, my stomach reprimanded me and I felt a little nauseaus, but I pushed on. By dinner time (never before 21:30, here), all I wanted to do was go to sleep, but I hate to miss the opportunity to sit down and talk during a meal with Fabio and Margherita, and I told myself I should eat something, sickness is mental. I breathed a sigh of relief when I walked in and saw only boiled potatoes: just what my stomach needed. However, choosing to add ample amounts of fresh garlic and hot pepper may not have been (although, had my stomach been upset for bacterial reasons, both would have been good choices for natural antibacterial properties). When I was relatively in the clear, Margherita pulled a new cheese out of the refrigerator. Try this! My personal restraint collapsed, and that sliver of cheese was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Right away my stomach started feeling worse again. I got a little preemptive relief in the bathroom, but I could tell there would be more to come. I asked Margherita if she could leave the house unlocked, in case I needed to come in later, and got straight into bed.
I did not sleep at all; just rolling over made my stomach’s contents go on a roller coaster ride. Finally, I got up and went to the house. But in the dark, with everyone sleeping, the little bastard dogs had become full-fledged guard dogs. I put out my hand, talked to them, reasoned with them, but it was no use. Their eyes made it quite clear that tearing me apart was their number one prerogative should I enter. I stood there for several minutes calmly with my hand extended, but it was no use; they were barking too loudly to hear my attempts to calm them, and every time I took a step inside the fence, they lunged toward me like panthers. Finally, I retreated back to my little hut, hoping that I could wait until morning, but knowing subconsciously that there wasn’t a chance in the world. Finally, an hour later, the stomach rumbling came to a sharp climax, I grabbed the first bucket-like object that I could find—-which was, it pains me to say, a one liter yogurt cup I had been saving for travel leftovers—-and barely made it behind my tiny wooden hut before I dropped trow (thank god that cultural evolution has influenced elastic wasted pants for sleeping, with no bells and whistles, i.e. snaps or belts).
To say I had explosive diarrhea would not allow you to understand the gravity of the situation. Within what could not have been more than 1:10 seconds, the yogurt cup was full, but it kept on coming. There I was, squatting behind this wooden hut on the grass; the dogs barking at my commotion nearby; a much appreciated darkness that reduced [my awareness of] any splatter; with tears of laughter, frustration, pain, and cold in the corners of my eyes. And then? I couldn’t use grass: I was surrounded by thin blades and an Italian like bamboo, neither lending themselves well to either cleaning one surface or protecting the other. And to search much further I was paranoid, anyway. Two days ago, while I was weeding the strawberries, Fabio warned me that I needed gloves to weed one particular plant that was in abundance. He noted that it had a perfect toilet paper surface, and one could see it had perfectly adapted its poisonous surface as response to being used as toilet paper. He laughted that over its years it likely had given some people an unhappy surprise After several minutes of waiting (for what, I’m not quite sure: more to come? My butt to air dry?) I waddled back into my hut.
I tiptoe-waddled inside (hoping to not incite the dogs again/ hoping the dogs wouldn’t see me in my pants-less, half-squatting shame), reached into my bag and thanked god that I am an environmental packrat. Every time I am given a big napkin at a restaurant, at a meal, etc, it ends up not in the trash but in my pocket, then in my bag, waiting for some future use to extend its life and make its passing worthwhile (to throw away a full napkin after a little bit of oil and tomato sauce seems a needless waste of life). I found a bountiful assortment of used and crinkled napkins and a brown paper bag. Again, the lack of good lighting (and one or two other past experiences of parallel proportions) made me feel less filthy, and I jumped back into bed. But what to do about the mess out back? What do I do with the full yogurt cup and the paper bag in the morning? I could get up before everyone else wakes and sneak it all to the bathroom, but they wake early so I’d be sneaking in in the dark. And if getting into the house in the dark weren’t part of the problem, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.
In the morning, with light and the rest of the family awake, the dogs nonchalantly let me pass (all I could think was to take them out back and rub their nose...). I went to the bathroom and let out another pound of water and materials rejected by my stomach (at this point I’m feeling nice and slender!) When I came out, Margherita asked, “how do you feel?” knowing I had gone to bed feeling a little off. I told her the whole story (leaving out the yogurt cup; I just couldn’t bring myself to include it, nor to thereafter explain my panicking, split-second reasoning behind it).
She laughed as if I had told her something nonchalant such as "finding a gecko under that rock gave me a good fright!", and said, as though she’d said many times before, “Well, get a shovel and some dirt...!” In shame, I went to see the damage in the light of day, emptied the contents of the yogurt cup (I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with that damn yogurt cup...its future remains undecided), and began the burial ceremony.
Today, after an unproductive morning I’ve thrown the towel in. Sitting, tea, and rice are the prescription for me today. In fact, I think I’ll go take a shower.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Animals
11 April 2011
As far as the farm family goes, this is one of the best farms I’ve ever been on. We sit for hours at the table conversing—-religion, GPD, European Union agricultural policy, jazz music, fava beans, you name it—-and both Fabio spends all the time in the world making sure I learn if I seem interested.
That said, there are other problems in the farm environment: cats and dogs.
Four dogs.
How many cats? Who knows—I can’t line them up to count them, and Fabio says somewhere around five, but he cannot be sure. They sit in the house, curled up on everything, and occasionally, the little instigators that they are, jump onto my lap, knowing the allergetic damage they do me. In theory, I try not to take pharmaceuticals; medical corporations are among the last I want to support. Here, though, I have been pumping my asthma inhaler at least five times a day, sometimes twice in an hour (I think the box says 4-6 hour intervals, max four times a day. Good thing I didn't bring the box with me; I don't feel so bad about it).
Then the dogs. There is a small wooden fence surrounding the house front door where the dogs stay. My house (a 2X2m wooden box, in essence) is outside, so I always have to walk through dog territory to get into the house. These are not the typical domesticated dogs; they are Italian farm dogs, small, but a little more wild evolutionarily and at heart. When I first arrived, they growled and barked at the new intruder—even while Fabio and Margherita stood there with me—but Margherita assured that this would stop if from the beginning I do the typical hand out, let them hear my voice and pet. For someone substantially allergic to dogs, you can imagine, the last part did not sound ideal, so I put more efforts toward the first two, the hand out and talking to them bit.
For the next two days, every time I entered the fence, they barked like crazy, I would put my hand out, give a few symbolic pets and words, back to the door, and exit. Then on the second or third day, I negligently assumed that enough time had passed for them to accept into the household, understanding me as a semi-permanent fixture. After the hand out and symbolic pets, I turned around to walk, and two jumped at my legs, one biting my calf and drawing blood.
Great. Now I’ll have to carry the rabies cooler (traveling in Asia, we used to joke about carrying the rabies cooler, for should one be bitten by anything, rabies shots come in a series that come over several weeks and need to be kept cold…) Fabio said that I shouldn’t worry about rabies (well, as farmers in the country, they did not give the dogs the shots that are legally required…) because there are no wolves around here. In situations like these, sometimes I turn off my better judgment for the sake of mental serenity and simplicty. Some would say, “better safe than sorry"; I say I rather not deal with Italian hospitals and I am too proud to let myself look like a complainer. (This mentality could, of course, come back to bite me in the back, no pun intended). Fabio gave me some propoli, and after one day used the gauge that I had not woken up howling at the moon to confirm that I must be fine.
For the next four days, I had to buy my entry into the house: every time I needed to pass Margherita gave me bread or dog food to pacify them. By the end of the four days, we seem to be good friends (them wanting to be pet, me wanting to use all my strength to kick the little bastards across the yard).
As far as the farm family goes, this is one of the best farms I’ve ever been on. We sit for hours at the table conversing—-religion, GPD, European Union agricultural policy, jazz music, fava beans, you name it—-and both Fabio spends all the time in the world making sure I learn if I seem interested.
That said, there are other problems in the farm environment: cats and dogs.
Four dogs.
How many cats? Who knows—I can’t line them up to count them, and Fabio says somewhere around five, but he cannot be sure. They sit in the house, curled up on everything, and occasionally, the little instigators that they are, jump onto my lap, knowing the allergetic damage they do me. In theory, I try not to take pharmaceuticals; medical corporations are among the last I want to support. Here, though, I have been pumping my asthma inhaler at least five times a day, sometimes twice in an hour (I think the box says 4-6 hour intervals, max four times a day. Good thing I didn't bring the box with me; I don't feel so bad about it).
Then the dogs. There is a small wooden fence surrounding the house front door where the dogs stay. My house (a 2X2m wooden box, in essence) is outside, so I always have to walk through dog territory to get into the house. These are not the typical domesticated dogs; they are Italian farm dogs, small, but a little more wild evolutionarily and at heart. When I first arrived, they growled and barked at the new intruder—even while Fabio and Margherita stood there with me—but Margherita assured that this would stop if from the beginning I do the typical hand out, let them hear my voice and pet. For someone substantially allergic to dogs, you can imagine, the last part did not sound ideal, so I put more efforts toward the first two, the hand out and talking to them bit.
For the next two days, every time I entered the fence, they barked like crazy, I would put my hand out, give a few symbolic pets and words, back to the door, and exit. Then on the second or third day, I negligently assumed that enough time had passed for them to accept into the household, understanding me as a semi-permanent fixture. After the hand out and symbolic pets, I turned around to walk, and two jumped at my legs, one biting my calf and drawing blood.
Great. Now I’ll have to carry the rabies cooler (traveling in Asia, we used to joke about carrying the rabies cooler, for should one be bitten by anything, rabies shots come in a series that come over several weeks and need to be kept cold…) Fabio said that I shouldn’t worry about rabies (well, as farmers in the country, they did not give the dogs the shots that are legally required…) because there are no wolves around here. In situations like these, sometimes I turn off my better judgment for the sake of mental serenity and simplicty. Some would say, “better safe than sorry"; I say I rather not deal with Italian hospitals and I am too proud to let myself look like a complainer. (This mentality could, of course, come back to bite me in the back, no pun intended). Fabio gave me some propoli, and after one day used the gauge that I had not woken up howling at the moon to confirm that I must be fine.
For the next four days, I had to buy my entry into the house: every time I needed to pass Margherita gave me bread or dog food to pacify them. By the end of the four days, we seem to be good friends (them wanting to be pet, me wanting to use all my strength to kick the little bastards across the yard).
Monday, April 25, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Day One on Farm Three
6 April 2011
When I arrived to the station in Ancona, Fabio picked me up after his teaching woodworking at a university in Ancona. The man did not even finish high school, but he is so experienced that after retiring he was asked to teach at this private university.
I have not met a single “simple” farmer through WWOOFing in Italy! While it is part of their shtick to look a little rough around the edges, they are all either highly experienced or highly educated. We drove to his home, a beautiful mountain drive on a cliff overlooking the Adriatic Sea, hills (as per usual), and snow covered mountains in the distance. We stopped at the beach to enjoy a look at the water and to squint out the skyline of Croatia, and arrived at his farm home of 37 years to meet his wife, an artist. The evening we sat at the table for at least an hour and a half talking. It’s so nice to be on a farm where they speak in Italian, not just dialect, and one where they are interested in talking to me, not either too gruff to be bothered/ too busy with children or other work/too entranced by a television set! While it is taking their dogs a little while to warm up to me, I do not think it will take Fabio long at all. In the morning, after I had expressed my desire to learn about apiculture he spent a good hour showing me how he makes the houses, comparing the families and their strengths and weaknesses, and simply sitting and watching them do their magic. I need to reread that chapter in Origin of Species about bees today that had seemed so dry at the time…now I could appreciate it. Bees are amazing creatures! Wax, honey, propoli, bee hives, dancing out encoded messages...what can’t they do?
Fabio makes the beehives inside his workshop, where he also does all sorts of other work. He built his entire home himself, starting 37 years ago, from the planting of every tree to the latch on every door. Currently he is making a model size Parthenon for the blind museum in Ancona; for this museum he has made several tactile structures for people to enjoy. Hanging from his wall, there is a black and white print from a computer that he seems to have made in Photoshop. There are three cavemen making tools with rocks on the ground, one of them with Fabio’s face photoshopped in (very little extra photoshopping is necessary to make him a believable caveman). Over, it says, “Homo Fabius.” This man has got a sense of humor.
When I arrived to the station in Ancona, Fabio picked me up after his teaching woodworking at a university in Ancona. The man did not even finish high school, but he is so experienced that after retiring he was asked to teach at this private university.
I have not met a single “simple” farmer through WWOOFing in Italy! While it is part of their shtick to look a little rough around the edges, they are all either highly experienced or highly educated. We drove to his home, a beautiful mountain drive on a cliff overlooking the Adriatic Sea, hills (as per usual), and snow covered mountains in the distance. We stopped at the beach to enjoy a look at the water and to squint out the skyline of Croatia, and arrived at his farm home of 37 years to meet his wife, an artist. The evening we sat at the table for at least an hour and a half talking. It’s so nice to be on a farm where they speak in Italian, not just dialect, and one where they are interested in talking to me, not either too gruff to be bothered/ too busy with children or other work/too entranced by a television set! While it is taking their dogs a little while to warm up to me, I do not think it will take Fabio long at all. In the morning, after I had expressed my desire to learn about apiculture he spent a good hour showing me how he makes the houses, comparing the families and their strengths and weaknesses, and simply sitting and watching them do their magic. I need to reread that chapter in Origin of Species about bees today that had seemed so dry at the time…now I could appreciate it. Bees are amazing creatures! Wax, honey, propoli, bee hives, dancing out encoded messages...what can’t they do?
Fabio makes the beehives inside his workshop, where he also does all sorts of other work. He built his entire home himself, starting 37 years ago, from the planting of every tree to the latch on every door. Currently he is making a model size Parthenon for the blind museum in Ancona; for this museum he has made several tactile structures for people to enjoy. Hanging from his wall, there is a black and white print from a computer that he seems to have made in Photoshop. There are three cavemen making tools with rocks on the ground, one of them with Fabio’s face photoshopped in (very little extra photoshopping is necessary to make him a believable caveman). Over, it says, “Homo Fabius.” This man has got a sense of humor.
WWOOFing in Italy: Selecting My Third Farm
3 April 2011
Yesterday I arrived to my third official Italian WWOOF host. I met Fabio at the WWOOF national meeting last month, and made the decision then that I should stay with him in the future. Why? Because I wanted to prove him wrong.
At this meeting, I was conducting interviews as part of my university research with both hosts and WWOOFers. One morning, I began a meeting with the great Paulo, an Italian farmer who counts Vandana Shiva among his friends. Because Fabio and he are good friends, Fabio sat down nearby to listen just as I asked about the material benefits and costs of WWOOFing, such as the amount of money spent and saved due to WWOOFers. Having walked in right after I had finished asking about the nonmaterial benefits (cultural exchange, language, friendship, etc), Fabio was visibly offended that one would ask such a question.
“How American, to always think of money. There are other reasons for having WWOOFers. The money does not even factor into the picture.”
Luckily, Paulo was there to defend me, saying, “No, this girl has really well thought out and well rounded questions! She’s already asked about nonmaterial…”
Despite Paulo’s support, after this encounter I, of course, felt terrible. No—I’m not a typical American! We do not all think the same! The question about the financial aspect I would not have even considered to ask on my own if my professor had not brought it up while I was preparing (I say this purely as a personal ego defense: as far as research goes, it shows that I am totally not prepared to do applied research and conduct well-rounded experiments if I cannot think of a single concrete question like that of finances on my own). I wanted to tell him all this, but in this one short encounter, I had little opportunity.
I probably would not have come all the way to his farm to prove him wrong if it were not for a few factors.
First, I sort of thought more highly of him because he thought less highly of me because I was an American. Not that I necessarily appreciate being lumped into one homogenous sum, but
a) I have certainly done that of Italians, and
b) I agree with him thinking less of me, should I be in the lump sum American stereotype.
Second, I adored Paulo, and a friend of Paulo’s must be a pretty cool guy.
Third, I became quite good friends with Fabio’s WWOOFer of the time, Andrea, during the meeting. He had WWOOFed on over twenty farms in Italy, so he was no light-weight. His biggest advice to me before I left Italy, “Go stay with Fabio. Of all of the WWOOF experiences I’ve had, staying with him may have been the best. He is incredibly intelligent, lives by his principles and shares them, and if you step inside his workshop with any object in your hand asking him to whittle a wooden copy, I assure he can do it.”
So here I am, WWOOFing with Fabio.
Yesterday I arrived to my third official Italian WWOOF host. I met Fabio at the WWOOF national meeting last month, and made the decision then that I should stay with him in the future. Why? Because I wanted to prove him wrong.
At this meeting, I was conducting interviews as part of my university research with both hosts and WWOOFers. One morning, I began a meeting with the great Paulo, an Italian farmer who counts Vandana Shiva among his friends. Because Fabio and he are good friends, Fabio sat down nearby to listen just as I asked about the material benefits and costs of WWOOFing, such as the amount of money spent and saved due to WWOOFers. Having walked in right after I had finished asking about the nonmaterial benefits (cultural exchange, language, friendship, etc), Fabio was visibly offended that one would ask such a question.
“How American, to always think of money. There are other reasons for having WWOOFers. The money does not even factor into the picture.”
Luckily, Paulo was there to defend me, saying, “No, this girl has really well thought out and well rounded questions! She’s already asked about nonmaterial…”
Despite Paulo’s support, after this encounter I, of course, felt terrible. No—I’m not a typical American! We do not all think the same! The question about the financial aspect I would not have even considered to ask on my own if my professor had not brought it up while I was preparing (I say this purely as a personal ego defense: as far as research goes, it shows that I am totally not prepared to do applied research and conduct well-rounded experiments if I cannot think of a single concrete question like that of finances on my own). I wanted to tell him all this, but in this one short encounter, I had little opportunity.
I probably would not have come all the way to his farm to prove him wrong if it were not for a few factors.
First, I sort of thought more highly of him because he thought less highly of me because I was an American. Not that I necessarily appreciate being lumped into one homogenous sum, but
a) I have certainly done that of Italians, and
b) I agree with him thinking less of me, should I be in the lump sum American stereotype.
Second, I adored Paulo, and a friend of Paulo’s must be a pretty cool guy.
Third, I became quite good friends with Fabio’s WWOOFer of the time, Andrea, during the meeting. He had WWOOFed on over twenty farms in Italy, so he was no light-weight. His biggest advice to me before I left Italy, “Go stay with Fabio. Of all of the WWOOF experiences I’ve had, staying with him may have been the best. He is incredibly intelligent, lives by his principles and shares them, and if you step inside his workshop with any object in your hand asking him to whittle a wooden copy, I assure he can do it.”
So here I am, WWOOFing with Fabio.
Friday, April 22, 2011
WWOOF Italy: Farm Three
4 April 2011
Google Map:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
Farm Three's Personal Description:
Since 1973, I have organically cultivated one hectare of land near the Parco del Conero (Ancona) and my aim is to be as self sufficient as possible. In the 1980s, we built the small house in which myself, my wife and our daughter (18) now live. We have a large vegetable garden for family use, 38 olive trees, a small vineyard, maize, legumes, 50 fruit trees, chickens, beehives, 4 small dogs and 4 cats. Part of the land is a semi-wild field of red clover, lucerne, clover, chicory and wild edible herbs -to create humus and to have a low maintenance winter garden. I am also a seed saver. I have a small workshop and teach wooden sculpture and model-making at a school. I am happy to share my skills with any interested WWOOFers. We eat nearly exclusively all our own produce. Accommodation in a small wooden house for 1-2 people, preferably for longer periods (2-4 weeks or longer). Apart from needing help with projects on our small piece of the planet, we hope to find friendship and share cultural exchange which will enrich everyone's lives. A little English and French spoken.
Google Map:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
Farm Three's Personal Description:
Since 1973, I have organically cultivated one hectare of land near the Parco del Conero (Ancona) and my aim is to be as self sufficient as possible. In the 1980s, we built the small house in which myself, my wife and our daughter (18) now live. We have a large vegetable garden for family use, 38 olive trees, a small vineyard, maize, legumes, 50 fruit trees, chickens, beehives, 4 small dogs and 4 cats. Part of the land is a semi-wild field of red clover, lucerne, clover, chicory and wild edible herbs -to create humus and to have a low maintenance winter garden. I am also a seed saver. I have a small workshop and teach wooden sculpture and model-making at a school. I am happy to share my skills with any interested WWOOFers. We eat nearly exclusively all our own produce. Accommodation in a small wooden house for 1-2 people, preferably for longer periods (2-4 weeks or longer). Apart from needing help with projects on our small piece of the planet, we hope to find friendship and share cultural exchange which will enrich everyone's lives. A little English and French spoken.
WWOOF Italy: Meditation with the Retreat Center
16 March 2011
I've been sitting with the members of Brahma Kumaris for an half hour evening meditation most nights since I've arrived. Raja yoga meditation means open-eye, sitting in a chair meditation. We look like a bunch of people mesmerized by a tv, but there is no tv. Only a big framed picture of the founder of Brahma Kumaris on an easel next to an empty padded chair on a platform, some candles, and a giant, back-lit psychedelic tilted red square above them both. Basically, a shrine. We are suppose to think in the present (we spent most of our lives thinking either of the past or the future with almost no focus on the present) in terms of ourselves and the wider world. This is not blank-minded meditation; there are directed thoughts and a specific god we are to believe in. There is a clear religious structure in Brahma Kumaris with a hierarchy, a god who sends down his opinions, and in the meditation we are suppose to think about the entire world and send good wishes.
Every hour, on the hour, in this house there are speakers all over that play one minute of music. 'Traffic Control', they call it; it's a one minute meditation where we stop everything we're doing to be reminded to be in the present. The evening meditation begins and ends with this music. I can't keep my mind on track for the two one-minute music interludes (which, in theory, should help lull me into a mental state of quietness). There is no hope for the other twenty-nine minutes. I try to think about all the things Regina taught me in my introductory lesson--my soul, its detachment from my physical self--but then I get cynical and the Darwin in me starts arguing all of that soul nonsense. I realize I've lost track, so I try to bring my focus inward to my body. I'm not sure if I'm suppose to be doing this as we're detaching from our physical selves, but as I said, I'm an amateur. It works in hatha yoga classes, and that's enough for me. So I imagine circling up every inch of my body, slowly circling my foot, through my heal, up through my leg, etc. (classic for all of you who have been in a hatha yoga class or two) until I reach the top of my head, and I stay on track! But as soon as I'm back to being with my mental self, it's over. My mind starts wandering to my many options for this summer, places I'll live, whether I'll be living in my storage unit...no!
Focus. Then the itches start coming. Right under my nose, the left nostril. Deep breaths. I scrunch face into silly shapes thinking that this will somehow magically do the trick. No cigar. I'm stronger than you, itch. Then it's my right ear AND my left nostril. Then it's my right elbow, my right ear, AND my left nostril. Christ! Are there bugs all over me? Detach from your bodily self, Alex. Your soul does not feel itches (unfortunately, this thought has minimal effect when you don't believe in souls).
How can I nonchalantly slip that gorgeous man who's been working here my phone number? I had it all ready on a little piece of paper, but when he left both of his jacket zippers were closed. Why does he have to be so shy? My time on this farm is finite!
Bah! Present, Alex! Remember what Regina told you. We have an intellect that can tell our brains which thoughts to hold on to and which ones are non appropriate for the time. This one is not appropriate for now. Present. Come up with a happy thought. A present, happy thought, whatever that means.
What the hell am I suppose to think about, then? The fact that I'm sitting silent in a room with a shrine in front of me? This thought for half an hour? The soul thing is out, so I'll think about the gloriousness of my body's complex systems and how they coevolved through symbiosis to the complex organism they are today. So complex, in fact, that I have this 'conscious', whatever the hell that is, that causes people like us to do things like this: sit in front of a framed Indian man and a red box like entranced zombies.
Cabbage! (In Italian, “Cavolo!”, literally “cabbage”, is used like “darn it!”) I'm back to thinking about my worldly body.
My worldly body—I remember last week when the retreat owner Piero asked us what our bodies are like in heaven. Do we have arm hair? How does he manage to turn every conversation into something spiritual? I appreciate that he is passionate about what he does. That I am. So appreciative, in fact, that I smile in what could be perceived as agreement with other people, rather than * changing the subject to what interests me more: how cool it is that our decomposing bodies when we die feed the worms who in turn feed the soil who in turn feeds plants who in turn feed small animals who in turn feed larger animals who in turn will one day feed people who die and feed the worms...but I don't think that this would be welcome at the moment. Well, our decomposing bodies should feed the soil, but instead we build stupid boxes to remove ourselves from the glory of Mother Nature's cycles...
Yes! the music! my thirty minutes are over! One last minute of music. Poor job focusing, this evening, Alex: let's make this last minute count.
Present, inner self, present, inner self...what is that sideways square called? It's not a diamond--diamonds don't have right angles. A rhombus? I don't think they have right angles, either. Is the light around it glowing red because the light coming through the tilted square itself is red? I don't think so. I think it's just a red square and white light. The music's over!!!
Yes. Done. Done poorly, but done. This last part just urks me. Everyone sits for an unspecific amount of time after the music ends. One minute, five minutes, but no one stands up right away. I think we should all jump up the moment the music ends and high five one another for having gotten through one more evening.
I’m sure that they have lost their focus, too: they are all thinking, “who will be the first person to get up? Because I have to wait at least forty seconds after them, to not be the first, but also not seem like I was waiting for someone else or affected by their choice. Raindrops keep falling on my head...”
Forget it. I stand up and peace.
* As I was writing this blog post: Cabbage! The one-minute traffic Control! I just can't get away from it!
** I tried to recreate my stream of conscious thoughts throughout these thirty minutes as best I could. I apologize for the confusion of it. But rest assured, I present to you thoughts much more trimmed around the edged than they existed in my head.
I've been sitting with the members of Brahma Kumaris for an half hour evening meditation most nights since I've arrived. Raja yoga meditation means open-eye, sitting in a chair meditation. We look like a bunch of people mesmerized by a tv, but there is no tv. Only a big framed picture of the founder of Brahma Kumaris on an easel next to an empty padded chair on a platform, some candles, and a giant, back-lit psychedelic tilted red square above them both. Basically, a shrine. We are suppose to think in the present (we spent most of our lives thinking either of the past or the future with almost no focus on the present) in terms of ourselves and the wider world. This is not blank-minded meditation; there are directed thoughts and a specific god we are to believe in. There is a clear religious structure in Brahma Kumaris with a hierarchy, a god who sends down his opinions, and in the meditation we are suppose to think about the entire world and send good wishes.
Every hour, on the hour, in this house there are speakers all over that play one minute of music. 'Traffic Control', they call it; it's a one minute meditation where we stop everything we're doing to be reminded to be in the present. The evening meditation begins and ends with this music. I can't keep my mind on track for the two one-minute music interludes (which, in theory, should help lull me into a mental state of quietness). There is no hope for the other twenty-nine minutes. I try to think about all the things Regina taught me in my introductory lesson--my soul, its detachment from my physical self--but then I get cynical and the Darwin in me starts arguing all of that soul nonsense. I realize I've lost track, so I try to bring my focus inward to my body. I'm not sure if I'm suppose to be doing this as we're detaching from our physical selves, but as I said, I'm an amateur. It works in hatha yoga classes, and that's enough for me. So I imagine circling up every inch of my body, slowly circling my foot, through my heal, up through my leg, etc. (classic for all of you who have been in a hatha yoga class or two) until I reach the top of my head, and I stay on track! But as soon as I'm back to being with my mental self, it's over. My mind starts wandering to my many options for this summer, places I'll live, whether I'll be living in my storage unit...no!
Focus. Then the itches start coming. Right under my nose, the left nostril. Deep breaths. I scrunch face into silly shapes thinking that this will somehow magically do the trick. No cigar. I'm stronger than you, itch. Then it's my right ear AND my left nostril. Then it's my right elbow, my right ear, AND my left nostril. Christ! Are there bugs all over me? Detach from your bodily self, Alex. Your soul does not feel itches (unfortunately, this thought has minimal effect when you don't believe in souls).
How can I nonchalantly slip that gorgeous man who's been working here my phone number? I had it all ready on a little piece of paper, but when he left both of his jacket zippers were closed. Why does he have to be so shy? My time on this farm is finite!
Bah! Present, Alex! Remember what Regina told you. We have an intellect that can tell our brains which thoughts to hold on to and which ones are non appropriate for the time. This one is not appropriate for now. Present. Come up with a happy thought. A present, happy thought, whatever that means.
What the hell am I suppose to think about, then? The fact that I'm sitting silent in a room with a shrine in front of me? This thought for half an hour? The soul thing is out, so I'll think about the gloriousness of my body's complex systems and how they coevolved through symbiosis to the complex organism they are today. So complex, in fact, that I have this 'conscious', whatever the hell that is, that causes people like us to do things like this: sit in front of a framed Indian man and a red box like entranced zombies.
Cabbage! (In Italian, “Cavolo!”, literally “cabbage”, is used like “darn it!”) I'm back to thinking about my worldly body.
My worldly body—I remember last week when the retreat owner Piero asked us what our bodies are like in heaven. Do we have arm hair? How does he manage to turn every conversation into something spiritual? I appreciate that he is passionate about what he does. That I am. So appreciative, in fact, that I smile in what could be perceived as agreement with other people, rather than * changing the subject to what interests me more: how cool it is that our decomposing bodies when we die feed the worms who in turn feed the soil who in turn feeds plants who in turn feed small animals who in turn feed larger animals who in turn will one day feed people who die and feed the worms...but I don't think that this would be welcome at the moment. Well, our decomposing bodies should feed the soil, but instead we build stupid boxes to remove ourselves from the glory of Mother Nature's cycles...
Yes! the music! my thirty minutes are over! One last minute of music. Poor job focusing, this evening, Alex: let's make this last minute count.
Present, inner self, present, inner self...what is that sideways square called? It's not a diamond--diamonds don't have right angles. A rhombus? I don't think they have right angles, either. Is the light around it glowing red because the light coming through the tilted square itself is red? I don't think so. I think it's just a red square and white light. The music's over!!!
Yes. Done. Done poorly, but done. This last part just urks me. Everyone sits for an unspecific amount of time after the music ends. One minute, five minutes, but no one stands up right away. I think we should all jump up the moment the music ends and high five one another for having gotten through one more evening.
I’m sure that they have lost their focus, too: they are all thinking, “who will be the first person to get up? Because I have to wait at least forty seconds after them, to not be the first, but also not seem like I was waiting for someone else or affected by their choice. Raindrops keep falling on my head...”
Forget it. I stand up and peace.
* As I was writing this blog post: Cabbage! The one-minute traffic Control! I just can't get away from it!
** I tried to recreate my stream of conscious thoughts throughout these thirty minutes as best I could. I apologize for the confusion of it. But rest assured, I present to you thoughts much more trimmed around the edged than they existed in my head.
WWOOF Italy Farm 2: Agritourism
15 March 2011
The location where I'm staying now is an agritourism and meditation retreat on a lovely 200 hectares of land. They practice a sitting yoga and follow Brahma Kumaris. As the WWOOFer job description is extremely vague, hosts can pretty much give us any possible job. Conveniently for them, I arrived a few days before a retreat group from England came, so they were able to put me to dusting chairs, arranging cupboards, and all sorts of work to prepare for the group. However--thank you, mom--I already am quite skilled in housewife jobs, so I was a little blue not to have been given more jobs outside, actually learning about farming.
Luckily, meeting local Bepe has been my saving grace. He works for Piero, and I met him to pick and clean carrots for a farmers market. Saturday morning, we spent together selling at the market with a full table: carrots, cabbage, sprouts, wild greens, oats, wheats, lentils, alfalfa, chickpeas...
The location where I'm staying now is an agritourism and meditation retreat on a lovely 200 hectares of land. They practice a sitting yoga and follow Brahma Kumaris. As the WWOOFer job description is extremely vague, hosts can pretty much give us any possible job. Conveniently for them, I arrived a few days before a retreat group from England came, so they were able to put me to dusting chairs, arranging cupboards, and all sorts of work to prepare for the group. However--thank you, mom--I already am quite skilled in housewife jobs, so I was a little blue not to have been given more jobs outside, actually learning about farming.
Luckily, meeting local Bepe has been my saving grace. He works for Piero, and I met him to pick and clean carrots for a farmers market. Saturday morning, we spent together selling at the market with a full table: carrots, cabbage, sprouts, wild greens, oats, wheats, lentils, alfalfa, chickpeas...
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Healthy Worms and Pitiful Wagons
Healthy Worms: Today I spent six healthy hours spreading manure around trees, and I have never seen more plentiful, happy, healthy worms than I did today! They were a vibrant red; none of that pale pink I’m used to. It made me very excited for these fruit trees and that were the lucky recipients of this splendidly rich manure, because if it made them half as happy as it made those worms, I’m excited to see the season when they bear fruit!
My clothes are covered in manure. My shoes, socks, pants, all layers on top, and it’s in my hair. Honestly, though, as I am now, I’m probably cleaner than I am after a day spent walking the streets in an urban center like New York. Manure that has been composted is dirty in the dirt sense, but it’s clean as can be in the natural and sanitized sense. Yes to manure-smeared clothes, No to city smog!
Pitiful Wagons: The wagon who acted as my helper in this manure spreading extravaganza had a flat front tire. Not just low, but big hole, floppy flat. A wagon full of manure is heavy. The manure pile was conveniently at the bottom of a hill, and the trees were decoratively spread out on the way up the hill, from 3 to about 80 meters away. That meant each trip was uphill with a full barrel (always mentally note the flat tire), downhill with an empty one. To go uphill, I had to backpedal in order to make sure the precious load did not topple over (a tiny tilt and the lack of tire meant balance was next to impossible). Backpedaling, I could not gain any momentum by taking either big steps or leaning back, as either meant the stands of the wagon would get tangled with my feet and we’d both topple over. Going downhill was hardly easy, either, as any small divot meant the tire-less wagon would come to a dead stop and, again, topple over. My trips downhill were marked by uncontrollable serpentine handling that had me laughing out loud and talking to myself at the absurdity, and the trips uphill were marked by 2 meter gains and then stops for panting, cursing the wagon or backing up into trees and yelling at them for getting in my way (the nerve!) Good thing I’m in the middle of nowhere, where the only witnesses are the worms and the bees!
My clothes are covered in manure. My shoes, socks, pants, all layers on top, and it’s in my hair. Honestly, though, as I am now, I’m probably cleaner than I am after a day spent walking the streets in an urban center like New York. Manure that has been composted is dirty in the dirt sense, but it’s clean as can be in the natural and sanitized sense. Yes to manure-smeared clothes, No to city smog!
Pitiful Wagons: The wagon who acted as my helper in this manure spreading extravaganza had a flat front tire. Not just low, but big hole, floppy flat. A wagon full of manure is heavy. The manure pile was conveniently at the bottom of a hill, and the trees were decoratively spread out on the way up the hill, from 3 to about 80 meters away. That meant each trip was uphill with a full barrel (always mentally note the flat tire), downhill with an empty one. To go uphill, I had to backpedal in order to make sure the precious load did not topple over (a tiny tilt and the lack of tire meant balance was next to impossible). Backpedaling, I could not gain any momentum by taking either big steps or leaning back, as either meant the stands of the wagon would get tangled with my feet and we’d both topple over. Going downhill was hardly easy, either, as any small divot meant the tire-less wagon would come to a dead stop and, again, topple over. My trips downhill were marked by uncontrollable serpentine handling that had me laughing out loud and talking to myself at the absurdity, and the trips uphill were marked by 2 meter gains and then stops for panting, cursing the wagon or backing up into trees and yelling at them for getting in my way (the nerve!) Good thing I’m in the middle of nowhere, where the only witnesses are the worms and the bees!
WWOOF Italy: Farm 2
Google Map:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
FArm 2: WWOOF website personal description:
This farm and spiritual retreat centre has been run organically for over 10 years and is situated in the hills 6 km from Gubbio. Beppe and Irene, 2 kids, 3 cows, 9 goats, 1 dog and 2 cats look after the veg garden. We also have 4 horses, 2 lakes, woodland, fruit and olive trees. Help needed in the vegetable garden, garden, planting and pruning trees, maintaining roads, creating paths and other tasks. Help is also sometimes needed in the agritourism. www.casasangam.it which holds spiritual retreats from March to October. Accommodation in room or tent. Meals are Sattwic and vegetarian. No smoking. No alcohol. English, French and Spanish spoken.
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
FArm 2: WWOOF website personal description:
This farm and spiritual retreat centre has been run organically for over 10 years and is situated in the hills 6 km from Gubbio. Beppe and Irene, 2 kids, 3 cows, 9 goats, 1 dog and 2 cats look after the veg garden. We also have 4 horses, 2 lakes, woodland, fruit and olive trees. Help needed in the vegetable garden, garden, planting and pruning trees, maintaining roads, creating paths and other tasks. Help is also sometimes needed in the agritourism. www.casasangam.it which holds spiritual retreats from March to October. Accommodation in room or tent. Meals are Sattwic and vegetarian. No smoking. No alcohol. English, French and Spanish spoken.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Appreciation for their Argument. But Conflict with It.
4 Mar 2011
On occasion, my hosts jump on their high-and-mighty horse with guests and friends that are visiting, to talk about other people who “think” that they are environmentalists or think that they live organically, people living in cities who pick up protest signs every once in a while and think that they are doing their part, people who need to have an entourage who think just like them in order to make any big changes, etc. Last night while they were talking about another farmer who “thinks” he’s progressive and doing enough (…”all he did was put in a compost toilet. He doesn’t even use it!”) Angelo went into a mini-rant, “Do they know who they’re talking to? Do they have any idea??” as if to express what a God of the land he is. This morning I walked in to hear Donatella saying, “if only everyone just produced their own food. Just for themselves, self-sufficiency!...” These two have done some amazing things; both merit applause for their bravery. But I think that their critiques are a little rash.
First of all, Angelo came two hours out of Salerno to purchase land that was cheap and spacious. That is only possible because he is one of few to try to do it. If all city dwellers decided that they need only an acre apiece…we would need to start taking acres out of the ocean, or real estate in places like this would skyrocket, making Angelo’s “self-sufficiency” lifestyle impossible.
Second, Angelo still doesn’t produce all of his own food. He certainly produces most of it: Donatella said for the most part they only purchase coffee, salt, sugar, and pasta. That’s a pretty short list, but they definitely use an abundance of that pasta. They do not make everything that is not on the list, but they trade what they do make with neighbors.
Third, Angelo and his wife and Simone and whatever WWOOFers are here are all working for free, running this farm their only work. But if everyone were to do that, where would Angelo buy those ingredients he needs? And his dishtowels? And his soap, nails, hammers, shoes, silverware, and buckets? And who would do the research to invent things like the laptop and the internet he is using? If he wants everyone to produce for themselves but he is not even producing fully for himself working full time on his farm with two¬+ helpers, then pure sustenance is unrealistic today. Specialization has obvious reasons for having developed, beyond “I grow the chestnuts, you make the wine” and into “I won’t grow any food at all and will work in a factory. The money I make I’ll use to buy your chestnuts, and the money you receive you’ll use to buy new shoes from the factory.”
Fourth, people need to have more children to live on a farm like this. But even people ideologically moving back to the land will probably not completely ignore modern medicine and modern science. They will continue to use hospitals and even modern pharmaceuticals in some cases, so they’ll live longer than is typical in societies with high birth rates, their children will grow up to farm, and the population (that already cannot all fit in the countryside to produce for itself in crowded Italy) will expand as it would not have when the average life expectancy was 38.
There. (The defensive mud-throwing of a self-conscious comfort-environmentalist and occasional protest sign holder.)
On occasion, my hosts jump on their high-and-mighty horse with guests and friends that are visiting, to talk about other people who “think” that they are environmentalists or think that they live organically, people living in cities who pick up protest signs every once in a while and think that they are doing their part, people who need to have an entourage who think just like them in order to make any big changes, etc. Last night while they were talking about another farmer who “thinks” he’s progressive and doing enough (…”all he did was put in a compost toilet. He doesn’t even use it!”) Angelo went into a mini-rant, “Do they know who they’re talking to? Do they have any idea??” as if to express what a God of the land he is. This morning I walked in to hear Donatella saying, “if only everyone just produced their own food. Just for themselves, self-sufficiency!...” These two have done some amazing things; both merit applause for their bravery. But I think that their critiques are a little rash.
First of all, Angelo came two hours out of Salerno to purchase land that was cheap and spacious. That is only possible because he is one of few to try to do it. If all city dwellers decided that they need only an acre apiece…we would need to start taking acres out of the ocean, or real estate in places like this would skyrocket, making Angelo’s “self-sufficiency” lifestyle impossible.
Second, Angelo still doesn’t produce all of his own food. He certainly produces most of it: Donatella said for the most part they only purchase coffee, salt, sugar, and pasta. That’s a pretty short list, but they definitely use an abundance of that pasta. They do not make everything that is not on the list, but they trade what they do make with neighbors.
Third, Angelo and his wife and Simone and whatever WWOOFers are here are all working for free, running this farm their only work. But if everyone were to do that, where would Angelo buy those ingredients he needs? And his dishtowels? And his soap, nails, hammers, shoes, silverware, and buckets? And who would do the research to invent things like the laptop and the internet he is using? If he wants everyone to produce for themselves but he is not even producing fully for himself working full time on his farm with two¬+ helpers, then pure sustenance is unrealistic today. Specialization has obvious reasons for having developed, beyond “I grow the chestnuts, you make the wine” and into “I won’t grow any food at all and will work in a factory. The money I make I’ll use to buy your chestnuts, and the money you receive you’ll use to buy new shoes from the factory.”
Fourth, people need to have more children to live on a farm like this. But even people ideologically moving back to the land will probably not completely ignore modern medicine and modern science. They will continue to use hospitals and even modern pharmaceuticals in some cases, so they’ll live longer than is typical in societies with high birth rates, their children will grow up to farm, and the population (that already cannot all fit in the countryside to produce for itself in crowded Italy) will expand as it would not have when the average life expectancy was 38.
There. (The defensive mud-throwing of a self-conscious comfort-environmentalist and occasional protest sign holder.)
Saturday, April 16, 2011
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Slow Food Presidia and Heritage Grain
3 Mar 2011
Slow Food came to Angelo and asked him to participate in Terra Madre because they had selected the grain that he produces to be part of the Presidia. At best, it has helped to raise awareness and appreciation for what Angelo and others are doing in this region to preserve a native grain, biodiversity, flavors and tradition. I asked Donatella how much grain/bread they sell, up until then thinking that this had to be their only source of income. She told me that there is a market for more, if they chose to sell more. However, they don’t want to make more money than they need, especially at the expense of the health of the land and their product. Organic production needs good cultivation and good land, and if they try to get anymore off of their land than they are, it may be at the expense of the health of the cycle they are creating.
This grain is like magic dust. Their bread lasts forever!! They bake bread about once a month, and leave it out in the open, unwrapped, uncovered (as I said, it is good, but, hard and grainy, it is as far from French bread as apples are from goat cheese). Donatella says the longer it sits, the better it is because it remains active, so as it sits the flavors are constantly developing. I said, “that’s amazing; it seems that at the grocery store, organic and natural breads last less time than other breads because they lack the preservatives.”
“I don’t believe in organic from the grocery store,” she said.
Wise woman.
Slow Food came to Angelo and asked him to participate in Terra Madre because they had selected the grain that he produces to be part of the Presidia. At best, it has helped to raise awareness and appreciation for what Angelo and others are doing in this region to preserve a native grain, biodiversity, flavors and tradition. I asked Donatella how much grain/bread they sell, up until then thinking that this had to be their only source of income. She told me that there is a market for more, if they chose to sell more. However, they don’t want to make more money than they need, especially at the expense of the health of the land and their product. Organic production needs good cultivation and good land, and if they try to get anymore off of their land than they are, it may be at the expense of the health of the cycle they are creating.
This grain is like magic dust. Their bread lasts forever!! They bake bread about once a month, and leave it out in the open, unwrapped, uncovered (as I said, it is good, but, hard and grainy, it is as far from French bread as apples are from goat cheese). Donatella says the longer it sits, the better it is because it remains active, so as it sits the flavors are constantly developing. I said, “that’s amazing; it seems that at the grocery store, organic and natural breads last less time than other breads because they lack the preservatives.”
“I don’t believe in organic from the grocery store,” she said.
Wise woman.
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Circular Processes
2 Mar 2011
I went running this morning (shamefully, it was the first time that I woke myself up before work to do this) and then spent the entire morning by myself cleaning up months worth of bunny poop. For what it was worth, I finally understand bunnies in the larger picture.
To feed them, we cut down bush-like trees and cut off the green ends. The green ends are relatively very little; we throw the rest of this giant bush in a pile that grows rapidly day to day. Then the bunny droppings and chewed branches get thrown on another—also rapidly growing—pile. So much waste for a few bunnies, each of which will hardly make a substantial appetizer for a family of four, right? At least chickens give eggs along the way before you eat them! But this is why this farmer, Angelo, mandated that farmers stay for a minimum of three weeks: it is necessary to see the larger picture. If a WWOOFer sees just one part of it, s/he may walk away thinking to have understood a linear process, when in fact all processes on a farm like this are circular.
I realized that the first pile of bare branches goes to become fire wood, and the second goes to become rich, nitrogenous compost for the garden! We don’t cut down all of those giant bushes just for the bunnies; we would have to do it anyway to heat the house. In fact, we would probably have to cut off the wild green ends, anyway, as alive they won’t kindle a fire and dead they are a brittle nuisance. As for the second pile, for a healthy garden animal droppings are a top notch source of nutrition…the natural, circular process of nutrient recycling that modern chemicals are trying to replace (with the goal of turning a self-sustaining process into a capitalist one; not, as they will claim, to feed more people). So while I spend the better part of my day scooping up bunny poop and wheel barreling it to the garden, nothing was a waste like before it may have seemed; it all connected to the larger picture!
I went running this morning (shamefully, it was the first time that I woke myself up before work to do this) and then spent the entire morning by myself cleaning up months worth of bunny poop. For what it was worth, I finally understand bunnies in the larger picture.
To feed them, we cut down bush-like trees and cut off the green ends. The green ends are relatively very little; we throw the rest of this giant bush in a pile that grows rapidly day to day. Then the bunny droppings and chewed branches get thrown on another—also rapidly growing—pile. So much waste for a few bunnies, each of which will hardly make a substantial appetizer for a family of four, right? At least chickens give eggs along the way before you eat them! But this is why this farmer, Angelo, mandated that farmers stay for a minimum of three weeks: it is necessary to see the larger picture. If a WWOOFer sees just one part of it, s/he may walk away thinking to have understood a linear process, when in fact all processes on a farm like this are circular.
I realized that the first pile of bare branches goes to become fire wood, and the second goes to become rich, nitrogenous compost for the garden! We don’t cut down all of those giant bushes just for the bunnies; we would have to do it anyway to heat the house. In fact, we would probably have to cut off the wild green ends, anyway, as alive they won’t kindle a fire and dead they are a brittle nuisance. As for the second pile, for a healthy garden animal droppings are a top notch source of nutrition…the natural, circular process of nutrient recycling that modern chemicals are trying to replace (with the goal of turning a self-sustaining process into a capitalist one; not, as they will claim, to feed more people). So while I spend the better part of my day scooping up bunny poop and wheel barreling it to the garden, nothing was a waste like before it may have seemed; it all connected to the larger picture!
Friday, April 15, 2011
Dura, la Vita del Boscaiolo...Again!
1 Mar 2011
Today, I spent six hours moving pieces of wood around. Picking them up from one pile and moving them to another.
Again, difficult the life of a lumberjack!
Today, I spent six hours moving pieces of wood around. Picking them up from one pile and moving them to another.
Again, difficult the life of a lumberjack!
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Life Change
28 Feb 2011
Donatella was a jewelry artist for 18 years in Calabria before moving here. She made beautiful jewelry obviously catered to a market to sell, but also artistic pieces. Here she has one tiny piece in their home that if she didn’t point out, I never would have seen. It’s a beautiful waving, earth, wind, and fire design on the front, and in the design on the back are three rings. In order, there is one of two bodies reaching out for each other, the next with them embracing, and the last…a little erotic. AsI am gathering about Angelo's past, she also, clearly, lived a different life before this. It is so good to see this part of these people, to be reminded that they are not people who grew up removed from society but rather grew up immersed and chose to step out.
That said…am I allowed to wait until I’m 28 or 30 (about the age they left) to move away from a resource consuming, selfish, modern life? Or is it only defendable to wait until that age if it takes that long to realize that my society’s way of life is profiting from taking advantage of the rest? At my university, I carried around reusable silverware and a metal water bottle in my purse; I road my bike everywhere; and I helped lead environmental groups/awareness/initiatives on my campus. That was what I knew, so in my small way—relative to what I knew—I was making a difference. But only so long can I continue to live in a city and pat myself on the back for purchasing local or organic produce, taking public transportation, and unplugging my appliances when I’m not using them. Relative to what I know now, I’m not doing much. I am still completely dependent and thus necessarily using many resources at the expense of other people having enough, and I am still living a life necessarily tied to crude oil and supporting the status quo. If I want to live in the most sustainable way possible—and lead by example—it means I need to produce for myself, according to Angelo. So does this mean I should go back to the land entirely and produce for myself, like Angelo did?
Or maybe I can defend being selfish for some seven more years? As one of my Couch Surfing hosts put it—also a psychologist, coincidentally—“knowing one truth but continuing to act as if there were another is a mental schism, as bad as any mental illness.” Ouch. So what do I do? New York is far from sustainable, whether I like it or not (although, for what it’s worth, it has to be much more sustainable than suburb living). Do I stay in New York? I can try to change New York (I won’t change it into Angelo's Tempa del Fico, but a couple more bicycle lanes, public compost drop-offs, and public recycling would be a big step up).
Can I? As my friend Eric and I had cunningly planned, maybe I can run a rooftop organic garden and build my house out of mud in the garden. But making an earthen home in the middle of concrete NYC is hardly sustainable, either. Organic vegetables will not be so healthy produced in the air of smoggy Brooklyn, and my dream of beekeeping will surely die when the sensitive bees die from the pollution.
Before I knew how much of a drastic change Donatella had made and was trying to express my conflicting interests, she said, “Devi fare un cambio vita”. You literally “must make a life-change”. Simple as that: you decide what it is that you want most, and you make the life-altering decision to do it, even if it means that you will do only that. Donatella now spends her days working in the garden, canning, cooking from scratch, driving her girls from their isolated farm to and from school, and spending all of her time making day to day life work. (Summed up implication: frequent tango, blues, or salsa dancing are not what should take priority in my future.)
This all said, I still haven’t completely given up the idea of city living. I can reduce my impact to almost zero, or I can impact others to reduce theirs by five percent. And five percent for everyone in a city of eight million people…
Donatella was a jewelry artist for 18 years in Calabria before moving here. She made beautiful jewelry obviously catered to a market to sell, but also artistic pieces. Here she has one tiny piece in their home that if she didn’t point out, I never would have seen. It’s a beautiful waving, earth, wind, and fire design on the front, and in the design on the back are three rings. In order, there is one of two bodies reaching out for each other, the next with them embracing, and the last…a little erotic. AsI am gathering about Angelo's past, she also, clearly, lived a different life before this. It is so good to see this part of these people, to be reminded that they are not people who grew up removed from society but rather grew up immersed and chose to step out.
That said…am I allowed to wait until I’m 28 or 30 (about the age they left) to move away from a resource consuming, selfish, modern life? Or is it only defendable to wait until that age if it takes that long to realize that my society’s way of life is profiting from taking advantage of the rest? At my university, I carried around reusable silverware and a metal water bottle in my purse; I road my bike everywhere; and I helped lead environmental groups/awareness/initiatives on my campus. That was what I knew, so in my small way—relative to what I knew—I was making a difference. But only so long can I continue to live in a city and pat myself on the back for purchasing local or organic produce, taking public transportation, and unplugging my appliances when I’m not using them. Relative to what I know now, I’m not doing much. I am still completely dependent and thus necessarily using many resources at the expense of other people having enough, and I am still living a life necessarily tied to crude oil and supporting the status quo. If I want to live in the most sustainable way possible—and lead by example—it means I need to produce for myself, according to Angelo. So does this mean I should go back to the land entirely and produce for myself, like Angelo did?
Or maybe I can defend being selfish for some seven more years? As one of my Couch Surfing hosts put it—also a psychologist, coincidentally—“knowing one truth but continuing to act as if there were another is a mental schism, as bad as any mental illness.” Ouch. So what do I do? New York is far from sustainable, whether I like it or not (although, for what it’s worth, it has to be much more sustainable than suburb living). Do I stay in New York? I can try to change New York (I won’t change it into Angelo's Tempa del Fico, but a couple more bicycle lanes, public compost drop-offs, and public recycling would be a big step up).
Can I? As my friend Eric and I had cunningly planned, maybe I can run a rooftop organic garden and build my house out of mud in the garden. But making an earthen home in the middle of concrete NYC is hardly sustainable, either. Organic vegetables will not be so healthy produced in the air of smoggy Brooklyn, and my dream of beekeeping will surely die when the sensitive bees die from the pollution.
Before I knew how much of a drastic change Donatella had made and was trying to express my conflicting interests, she said, “Devi fare un cambio vita”. You literally “must make a life-change”. Simple as that: you decide what it is that you want most, and you make the life-altering decision to do it, even if it means that you will do only that. Donatella now spends her days working in the garden, canning, cooking from scratch, driving her girls from their isolated farm to and from school, and spending all of her time making day to day life work. (Summed up implication: frequent tango, blues, or salsa dancing are not what should take priority in my future.)
This all said, I still haven’t completely given up the idea of city living. I can reduce my impact to almost zero, or I can impact others to reduce theirs by five percent. And five percent for everyone in a city of eight million people…
Thursday, April 14, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Precarious Work 2
27 Feb 2011
Back to topic of precariousness.
The ladder I’ve been using to get up high is clearly a home-built latter, perhaps built years ago and meant to last half the time it has lasted. It is wobbly, rotted, feels constantly moist, and looks like the one hinge holding front to back will spit at any moment. But painting half the wall on this ladder, the top corner while standing on the very last rung, was a cinch. Next came using the ladder to reach the two rotting beams of wood stretched across the frame for the [eventual] second floor, placed there for me to use as a temporary floor. And then came the even more precarious work of standing atop an old, rotting chair, atop the rotting wood beams (which I reached by using the rotting latter).
“Don’t fall!” Angelo yelled to me as he left me alone to work.
“Keep your ears open for me while you’re outside,” I said, “If I do fall I’m not a very loud screamer.”
“Do you have only one headphone earplug in?” he asked, noting that I had taken out one ear bud to talk to him, “Make sure to tip your head a little bit to the opposite side to reset the balance. You’ll be fine. Bye!”
Difficult, the life of a lumberjack.
Back to topic of precariousness.
The ladder I’ve been using to get up high is clearly a home-built latter, perhaps built years ago and meant to last half the time it has lasted. It is wobbly, rotted, feels constantly moist, and looks like the one hinge holding front to back will spit at any moment. But painting half the wall on this ladder, the top corner while standing on the very last rung, was a cinch. Next came using the ladder to reach the two rotting beams of wood stretched across the frame for the [eventual] second floor, placed there for me to use as a temporary floor. And then came the even more precarious work of standing atop an old, rotting chair, atop the rotting wood beams (which I reached by using the rotting latter).
“Don’t fall!” Angelo yelled to me as he left me alone to work.
“Keep your ears open for me while you’re outside,” I said, “If I do fall I’m not a very loud screamer.”
“Do you have only one headphone earplug in?” he asked, noting that I had taken out one ear bud to talk to him, “Make sure to tip your head a little bit to the opposite side to reset the balance. You’ll be fine. Bye!”
Difficult, the life of a lumberjack.
WWOOFing in Italy: Precarious Work
26 Feb 2011
Living away from the land and in a modern city or town, we deliberately forget how precarious daily life always has been. We have hospitals everywhere, machines or professionals that do our physical labor, news reports of every freak-accident and catastrophe and statistics that tell us exactly how likely we are to die in any particular action. My mother sends me texts threatening to call the police for a lost person if I don't respond to a phone call after five hours, for Christ's Sake!
Here, I am doing physical labor all day and, should an accident happen, I am an hour drive down winding mountain road to the nearest hospital. Living off the land, you simply worry less about accidents. What good will more worry do? People are closer to the natural state of things here: we all are born, we all will die…let’s not waste too much time worrying about it. The work needs to be done regardless. The adventures of three-year-old Nong Ti in Thailand was the perfect example of this. Or, for example, using an electric sander on stone walls without a facemask or goggles or driving a tractor after five glasses of wine .
Living away from the land and in a modern city or town, we deliberately forget how precarious daily life always has been. We have hospitals everywhere, machines or professionals that do our physical labor, news reports of every freak-accident and catastrophe and statistics that tell us exactly how likely we are to die in any particular action. My mother sends me texts threatening to call the police for a lost person if I don't respond to a phone call after five hours, for Christ's Sake!
Here, I am doing physical labor all day and, should an accident happen, I am an hour drive down winding mountain road to the nearest hospital. Living off the land, you simply worry less about accidents. What good will more worry do? People are closer to the natural state of things here: we all are born, we all will die…let’s not waste too much time worrying about it. The work needs to be done regardless. The adventures of three-year-old Nong Ti in Thailand was the perfect example of this. Or, for example, using an electric sander on stone walls without a facemask or goggles or driving a tractor after five glasses of wine .
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Olive Oil
23 February 2011
How much does Olive Oil cost in the US?
Today, now that the rocks had been sanded, it was time for me to go back through the entire house, this time to oil them. Gallons and gallons of olive oil will be used in this process. Of course we do not use olive oil because it is the only appropriate oil for the job; there is simply a lot of it. If only I had limitless space in my backpack and could carry a year’s supply of homemade extra-virgin olive oil home with me! But in that case, in a bag of limitless room I would have to add chestnuts, kiwi, fresh goat cheese, mozzarella balls, lemons, eggs from the family farm, unmarked bottle of home-produced red wine gifted from the neighbors, gelato… This hypothetical bag with limitless room is also padded. And refrigerated.
Work here has reminded me of my first job at age twelve: staining and polyurethaning woodwork in my parents’ home. Only this time, no stained hands, no sticky mess that can only be cleaned with toxic chemicals….just natural, nutrient-rich olive oil. the more I spill on myself the merrier. I’ve been using it as body lotion already, anyway, so every spill is just an excuse to better moisturize!
How much does Olive Oil cost in the US?
Today, now that the rocks had been sanded, it was time for me to go back through the entire house, this time to oil them. Gallons and gallons of olive oil will be used in this process. Of course we do not use olive oil because it is the only appropriate oil for the job; there is simply a lot of it. If only I had limitless space in my backpack and could carry a year’s supply of homemade extra-virgin olive oil home with me! But in that case, in a bag of limitless room I would have to add chestnuts, kiwi, fresh goat cheese, mozzarella balls, lemons, eggs from the family farm, unmarked bottle of home-produced red wine gifted from the neighbors, gelato… This hypothetical bag with limitless room is also padded. And refrigerated.
Work here has reminded me of my first job at age twelve: staining and polyurethaning woodwork in my parents’ home. Only this time, no stained hands, no sticky mess that can only be cleaned with toxic chemicals….just natural, nutrient-rich olive oil. the more I spill on myself the merrier. I’ve been using it as body lotion already, anyway, so every spill is just an excuse to better moisturize!
WWOOFing in Italy: Recreational Farming
21 February 2011
I spent a long weekend visiting old friends in Salerno, the main city in the province. Johanna had come from Austria to a family in Salerno the same year that I had been an exchange student in Vallo, and we had become great friends in a very short time, traveling Europe together the following summer and remaining pen pals for the past six years (that’s right: in 2011 I still have a real pen and paper pen pal!) Knowing that I would be near, Johanna came on her week break from university to visit her host family, a family that had been like a second family to me during my exchange year. Anna Maria and Franco, Johanna’s host parents, own a classy seafood restaurant in Salerno. Franco grew up on the land outside of Salerno in Buccino, and in recent years he has maintained the land that his parents owned. This is a phenomenon of many well-[enough]-to-do Southern Italians: they own a farm but live in the city. They are “farmers” that go to their farm to escape from city life and pay someone else to care for it for them.* Franco has hens, roosters, bunnies, goats, dogs, and even a horse, all of which he sees about once a week on his day off from the restaurant. The farmhouse could not be more bucolic: when you arrive to the big gate out front by four dogs wait excitedly for Franco’s car to arrive; mountains covered in farmhouses and orchards lined with olive and fruit trees surround it; and hens, roosters, goats and rabbits all live in one big farmyard pen in harmony. Even at the farm in Tempa del Fico the bunnies are separated in three cages (the young, the adult, and the mating couple), the chickens are caged in together on all sides, and the donkeys are penned together, too. The farm in Buccino was a proper scene from Charlotte’s Web. I realized, this is exactly the role that this farm serves. Whether this structure is the best or not (not a judgment; I certainly like to think that it is!) it fits their one-visit-per-week image of a harmonious farm. I mentioned eating the rabbits to Anna Maria and she said, “Oh, no! I would never eat my rabbits! They would have to die of natural causes.” I suppose this is the difference between recreational farming and livelihood farming.
* Not just my cultural notation: I found my thoughts proven correct in a (fabulous) book, The Italians, that described the phenomena of city people owning but not necessarily working their farms, “Southern farmers anyway prefer to live not on the land but in nearby towns” (Barzini 244).
I spent a long weekend visiting old friends in Salerno, the main city in the province. Johanna had come from Austria to a family in Salerno the same year that I had been an exchange student in Vallo, and we had become great friends in a very short time, traveling Europe together the following summer and remaining pen pals for the past six years (that’s right: in 2011 I still have a real pen and paper pen pal!) Knowing that I would be near, Johanna came on her week break from university to visit her host family, a family that had been like a second family to me during my exchange year. Anna Maria and Franco, Johanna’s host parents, own a classy seafood restaurant in Salerno. Franco grew up on the land outside of Salerno in Buccino, and in recent years he has maintained the land that his parents owned. This is a phenomenon of many well-[enough]-to-do Southern Italians: they own a farm but live in the city. They are “farmers” that go to their farm to escape from city life and pay someone else to care for it for them.* Franco has hens, roosters, bunnies, goats, dogs, and even a horse, all of which he sees about once a week on his day off from the restaurant. The farmhouse could not be more bucolic: when you arrive to the big gate out front by four dogs wait excitedly for Franco’s car to arrive; mountains covered in farmhouses and orchards lined with olive and fruit trees surround it; and hens, roosters, goats and rabbits all live in one big farmyard pen in harmony. Even at the farm in Tempa del Fico the bunnies are separated in three cages (the young, the adult, and the mating couple), the chickens are caged in together on all sides, and the donkeys are penned together, too. The farm in Buccino was a proper scene from Charlotte’s Web. I realized, this is exactly the role that this farm serves. Whether this structure is the best or not (not a judgment; I certainly like to think that it is!) it fits their one-visit-per-week image of a harmonious farm. I mentioned eating the rabbits to Anna Maria and she said, “Oh, no! I would never eat my rabbits! They would have to die of natural causes.” I suppose this is the difference between recreational farming and livelihood farming.
* Not just my cultural notation: I found my thoughts proven correct in a (fabulous) book, The Italians, that described the phenomena of city people owning but not necessarily working their farms, “Southern farmers anyway prefer to live not on the land but in nearby towns” (Barzini 244).
Monday, April 11, 2011
Best Bus Ride Ever Continuation
19 February 2011
My married and forty-one year-old bus driver gave me another free ride, and I met his wife and children. Not quite as strange as it sounds: his wife brought his children to a bus stop and put them on without getting on herself. They were to spend some quality time with daddy…sitting in the seat behind him as he drove. His four and six year old, both questionably too small for the front seat of a car with a seatbelt, were placed in the giant bench seat behind him without seatbelts, standing, walking up and down the aisle, and alla round nearly giving me an ulcer as I sat next to them, jutting out my arm (Italian mother style) at every turn or deceleration.
Again, I need to get used to the less urban and less modern over-sensitivity with danger. Here, the more isolated, “out of sight, out of mind” rules. The two girls in Tempa del Fico, seven and nine, wear no seatbelts on their daily ride to and from school on unpaved mountain road, the younger one in the back inevitably standing up between the seats to be heard by those in the front.
My married and forty-one year-old bus driver gave me another free ride, and I met his wife and children. Not quite as strange as it sounds: his wife brought his children to a bus stop and put them on without getting on herself. They were to spend some quality time with daddy…sitting in the seat behind him as he drove. His four and six year old, both questionably too small for the front seat of a car with a seatbelt, were placed in the giant bench seat behind him without seatbelts, standing, walking up and down the aisle, and alla round nearly giving me an ulcer as I sat next to them, jutting out my arm (Italian mother style) at every turn or deceleration.
Again, I need to get used to the less urban and less modern over-sensitivity with danger. Here, the more isolated, “out of sight, out of mind” rules. The two girls in Tempa del Fico, seven and nine, wear no seatbelts on their daily ride to and from school on unpaved mountain road, the younger one in the back inevitably standing up between the seats to be heard by those in the front.
WWOOFing in Italy: Best Bus Ride EVER
17 February 2011
Bus from isolated village to closest “city” of 9,000: 1 1/2 h, 2 trips/day, 6 days/week
As I arrived to the bus 15 minute early, the bus driver made the only logical decision in his position: he invited me to the nearest shop for an espresso while we waited. His name was Patrizio, or “I love Patrick!” as he introduced himself to me in his proud English with a good American handshake. We were three passengers on the bus, all sitting in the very front seats. The rest were clearly all old friends at this point; Patrizio must be one of very few drivers. Luckily, after my urging, they did their best to speak in Italian rather than dialect between themselves, so I may actually understand. From the beginning, Patrizio and I were becoming close friends. He practiced his eleven words of English, and told me about his cousin who lives in Brooklyn, told me about the time that he drove Sylvester Stallone and a diplomat from the White House, and showed me pictures of his two girls. A gem of the many conversations between he and the other two women was about his family.
“I’ve never been in love,” he was saying.
“You’re not married?” I ask, to which one of them women responds,
“Of course he’s married, to a beautiful woman with two children at that. Oh, Patriz’, how do you go and say you’ve never been in love…with such a beautiful wife! You should be grateful; your daughters got their looks from her.”
“Hey! I’m beautiful, too! …on the inside” he smiled back to me.
“But short. Hopefully your girls get some of your wife’s height.”
“Hey, I make up for size in other parts,” he responds with satisfaction and smiles back to me again.
These old Italian women don’t even flinch: “well, those genes are lost on daughters; they won’t do anyone any good until you have yourself a son.”
This 1 ½ hour bus ride covers a distance, from a bird’s point of view, that is no more than eight miles. 1 ½ hours? Painfully narrow, curving mountain roads, originally created in pre-car Italy. Not that this should be considered a challenge. For half of the ride, Patrizio was looking back to speak to us, singing songs in Neapolitan to me, talking on his cell phone while smoking a cigarette, or sending texts. I finally told him that I was very impressed by Italian drivers; by necessity they have to be much better than those in America, who have wide-open roads.
“We are great,” he agreed, “all this practice with maneuvering is why Italian bus drivers are great in bed.”
“Really? Well then, do you know any young Italian bus drivers you can introduce me to? Seeing as how you’re already married.”
“Married? What does that have to do with anything?” he joked. But, after joking, he immediately took my request very seriously: he called a friend in Rofrano (where I’ve been staying) who drives buses, also, younger and single.
Into the phone, “I’ve got this beautiful American girl here who would like to get to know an Italian bus driver… Take her out for a nice pizza when she gets back to Rofrano! Here she is…” and he handed the phone to me.
Smallness breeds conviviality. Especially in Southern Italy; I can’t lie that small town or big city in Italy is definitely more convivial than its counterpart in the States. Patrizio even confided in me that, North of Rome, bus drivers don’t even speak with their passengers (gasp! I acted surprised, as if what I’d seen in his bus were the norm for me). The bus driver and passengers knew each other by name and joked around together. For every car that we passed there was a honk of greeting and a wave. Most of the street corner piazzas with congregating Italian men—quintessential, even on a cold, rainy, winter day like today—we passed were met with shouted greeting out the window, and at one point the bus driver stopped in front of a house, honked and a woman came out for a conversation. Normal state of things, here.
Two-thirds through the ride, the manual gear shift broke going uphill, so the last section of the ride, conveniently just as we reached the only highway stretch at the bottom of the mountain, was spent using the only one shift available and moving between 25 and 40 kilometers an hour. Yikes.
When we finally arrived to Vallo della Lucania (where I was to meet my old Italian host family from a year of exchange seven years ago in high school!) the bus driver promised to bring me some mozzarella from his home in Paestum tomorrow, renown to be the best mozzarella in Italy, and wouldn’t let me pay for the ride; it was his treat. We exchanged phone numbers, of course; by now we’re old friends.
Bus from isolated village to closest “city” of 9,000: 1 1/2 h, 2 trips/day, 6 days/week
As I arrived to the bus 15 minute early, the bus driver made the only logical decision in his position: he invited me to the nearest shop for an espresso while we waited. His name was Patrizio, or “I love Patrick!” as he introduced himself to me in his proud English with a good American handshake. We were three passengers on the bus, all sitting in the very front seats. The rest were clearly all old friends at this point; Patrizio must be one of very few drivers. Luckily, after my urging, they did their best to speak in Italian rather than dialect between themselves, so I may actually understand. From the beginning, Patrizio and I were becoming close friends. He practiced his eleven words of English, and told me about his cousin who lives in Brooklyn, told me about the time that he drove Sylvester Stallone and a diplomat from the White House, and showed me pictures of his two girls. A gem of the many conversations between he and the other two women was about his family.
“I’ve never been in love,” he was saying.
“You’re not married?” I ask, to which one of them women responds,
“Of course he’s married, to a beautiful woman with two children at that. Oh, Patriz’, how do you go and say you’ve never been in love…with such a beautiful wife! You should be grateful; your daughters got their looks from her.”
“Hey! I’m beautiful, too! …on the inside” he smiled back to me.
“But short. Hopefully your girls get some of your wife’s height.”
“Hey, I make up for size in other parts,” he responds with satisfaction and smiles back to me again.
These old Italian women don’t even flinch: “well, those genes are lost on daughters; they won’t do anyone any good until you have yourself a son.”
This 1 ½ hour bus ride covers a distance, from a bird’s point of view, that is no more than eight miles. 1 ½ hours? Painfully narrow, curving mountain roads, originally created in pre-car Italy. Not that this should be considered a challenge. For half of the ride, Patrizio was looking back to speak to us, singing songs in Neapolitan to me, talking on his cell phone while smoking a cigarette, or sending texts. I finally told him that I was very impressed by Italian drivers; by necessity they have to be much better than those in America, who have wide-open roads.
“We are great,” he agreed, “all this practice with maneuvering is why Italian bus drivers are great in bed.”
“Really? Well then, do you know any young Italian bus drivers you can introduce me to? Seeing as how you’re already married.”
“Married? What does that have to do with anything?” he joked. But, after joking, he immediately took my request very seriously: he called a friend in Rofrano (where I’ve been staying) who drives buses, also, younger and single.
Into the phone, “I’ve got this beautiful American girl here who would like to get to know an Italian bus driver… Take her out for a nice pizza when she gets back to Rofrano! Here she is…” and he handed the phone to me.
Smallness breeds conviviality. Especially in Southern Italy; I can’t lie that small town or big city in Italy is definitely more convivial than its counterpart in the States. Patrizio even confided in me that, North of Rome, bus drivers don’t even speak with their passengers (gasp! I acted surprised, as if what I’d seen in his bus were the norm for me). The bus driver and passengers knew each other by name and joked around together. For every car that we passed there was a honk of greeting and a wave. Most of the street corner piazzas with congregating Italian men—quintessential, even on a cold, rainy, winter day like today—we passed were met with shouted greeting out the window, and at one point the bus driver stopped in front of a house, honked and a woman came out for a conversation. Normal state of things, here.
Two-thirds through the ride, the manual gear shift broke going uphill, so the last section of the ride, conveniently just as we reached the only highway stretch at the bottom of the mountain, was spent using the only one shift available and moving between 25 and 40 kilometers an hour. Yikes.
When we finally arrived to Vallo della Lucania (where I was to meet my old Italian host family from a year of exchange seven years ago in high school!) the bus driver promised to bring me some mozzarella from his home in Paestum tomorrow, renown to be the best mozzarella in Italy, and wouldn’t let me pay for the ride; it was his treat. We exchanged phone numbers, of course; by now we’re old friends.
Friday, April 8, 2011
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Cold
16 Feb 2011
Everything is so cold! The water is cold when I wash my hands. The soap is cold. The floor is cold, beverages at room temperature are cold. We have really numbed ourselves from reality in the modern world, now unused to any discomfort at all. For all but a sliver of modern history, people were ecstatic to have access to a fire for warmth. Why does it seem such a sacrifice to me today? Although there is absolutely no heating in my room*, there is a lovely fireplace in the kitchen and a handy lighter to light it…cavemen would have been envious! This complaint comes as I sit in Southern Italy, hardly the Tibetan plateau or Alaskan tundra. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.
*I sleep every night with a brick that has been heated in the fire. Usually the mother Donatella wrapped it in fabric for me and sent me off to bed, but once I had to do it myself. I stuck it in the inside pocket of my coat and went off to brush my teeth. I got to my room, unzipped my coat, and a cloud of smoke puffed up into my face. Apparently Donatella carefully made sure the brick cooled off before she wrapped it. I’ll have to find a way to fix that hole in my coat when I get back home…
Everything is so cold! The water is cold when I wash my hands. The soap is cold. The floor is cold, beverages at room temperature are cold. We have really numbed ourselves from reality in the modern world, now unused to any discomfort at all. For all but a sliver of modern history, people were ecstatic to have access to a fire for warmth. Why does it seem such a sacrifice to me today? Although there is absolutely no heating in my room*, there is a lovely fireplace in the kitchen and a handy lighter to light it…cavemen would have been envious! This complaint comes as I sit in Southern Italy, hardly the Tibetan plateau or Alaskan tundra. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.
*I sleep every night with a brick that has been heated in the fire. Usually the mother Donatella wrapped it in fabric for me and sent me off to bed, but once I had to do it myself. I stuck it in the inside pocket of my coat and went off to brush my teeth. I got to my room, unzipped my coat, and a cloud of smoke puffed up into my face. Apparently Donatella carefully made sure the brick cooled off before she wrapped it. I’ll have to find a way to fix that hole in my coat when I get back home…
WWOOF Italy Farm Lessons: Animals' Usefulness
15 Feb 2011
Donkeys.
Why would a farmer have donkeys, I ask myself? Goats and cows make milk. Sheep make wool. But donkeys? Well, they carry stuff, but Angelo has a truck, so is that really necessary anymore? According to Sergio (who as an Italian anthropologist studying identity in Italy’s Campania region (this one) has come to be my top informant), donkeys are a part of Campania identity. Angelo told him that how a farmer treats his donkeys is “a reflection on his ability and success as a farmer”. So they are symbolic…for all this extra work? “For Angelo, yes, but not for all. Donkeys are such a large part of Campania identity because they have historically been so necessary for transporting heavy loads in this mountainous terrain. In Amalfi, (a quaint town and tourist Mecca that is known for its houses built into the side of the mountain), many who built houses there today still use donkeys. The machinery necessary and practical to build on such difficult, steep terrain is often too expensive and impractical. Long story short, because of their past usefulness and at times because of their ongoing usefulness we still have to take care of these damn donkeys.
*this is hardly a worthy complaint; their personalities can be more developed and they can be more playful than dogs. And since it is rare that someone asks a dog owner to defend a practical use for his dog, donkey owners deserve the same rights.
Bunnies and Chickens.
At this farm, they eat primarily the meat that they make themselves. Thus, bunnies and chickens. So little and infrequent. This is the tradition diet of this area, pre-WWII. People ate very little meat, lots of vegetables, lots of grains. Closer to the sea they would have eaten more seafood; here perhaps the occasional wild boar from the mountains. This is the more realistic Mediterranean diet. Very little meat, lots of vegetables, and another major food group often under stressed: legumes.
Glorious Legumes.
Fava beans (as well as other legumes such as chickpeas) have developed as a necessary part of Italian peasant cuisine because they are a necessary part of agricultural sustainability. Very abridged agricultural lesson: of many very important compounds, vitamins, and minerals in the soil, nitrogen is one that plants absolutely cannot grow without. Legumes, however, are different than most other plants in that, rather than taking nitrogen from the soil, they fix nitrogen from the air and actually add more nitrogen to the soil. So a traditional farmer would know that seasonally fava beans need to be rotated throughout the garden to keep nutrients cycling and the soil nitrogen rich. Conveniently, the same beans are also an extremely important source of protein and fiber, so necessity made beans become an important part of the traditional cuisine.
Donkeys.
Why would a farmer have donkeys, I ask myself? Goats and cows make milk. Sheep make wool. But donkeys? Well, they carry stuff, but Angelo has a truck, so is that really necessary anymore? According to Sergio (who as an Italian anthropologist studying identity in Italy’s Campania region (this one) has come to be my top informant), donkeys are a part of Campania identity. Angelo told him that how a farmer treats his donkeys is “a reflection on his ability and success as a farmer”. So they are symbolic…for all this extra work? “For Angelo, yes, but not for all. Donkeys are such a large part of Campania identity because they have historically been so necessary for transporting heavy loads in this mountainous terrain. In Amalfi, (a quaint town and tourist Mecca that is known for its houses built into the side of the mountain), many who built houses there today still use donkeys. The machinery necessary and practical to build on such difficult, steep terrain is often too expensive and impractical. Long story short, because of their past usefulness and at times because of their ongoing usefulness we still have to take care of these damn donkeys.
*this is hardly a worthy complaint; their personalities can be more developed and they can be more playful than dogs. And since it is rare that someone asks a dog owner to defend a practical use for his dog, donkey owners deserve the same rights.
Bunnies and Chickens.
At this farm, they eat primarily the meat that they make themselves. Thus, bunnies and chickens. So little and infrequent. This is the tradition diet of this area, pre-WWII. People ate very little meat, lots of vegetables, lots of grains. Closer to the sea they would have eaten more seafood; here perhaps the occasional wild boar from the mountains. This is the more realistic Mediterranean diet. Very little meat, lots of vegetables, and another major food group often under stressed: legumes.
Glorious Legumes.
Fava beans (as well as other legumes such as chickpeas) have developed as a necessary part of Italian peasant cuisine because they are a necessary part of agricultural sustainability. Very abridged agricultural lesson: of many very important compounds, vitamins, and minerals in the soil, nitrogen is one that plants absolutely cannot grow without. Legumes, however, are different than most other plants in that, rather than taking nitrogen from the soil, they fix nitrogen from the air and actually add more nitrogen to the soil. So a traditional farmer would know that seasonally fava beans need to be rotated throughout the garden to keep nutrients cycling and the soil nitrogen rich. Conveniently, the same beans are also an extremely important source of protein and fiber, so necessity made beans become an important part of the traditional cuisine.
First WWOOF Host: Farm's Self-Description
14 Feb 2011
WWOOF Italy's list has over 450 hosts. Thus, a potential WWOOFer needs to sift through hundreds of paragraph descriptions that sum up a unique family and farm to choose where they most like to stay. To get a sense of the descriptions, here is the description of the first farm. I assure, the description is much less colorful than my three weeks spent there!
Google Map Location:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
---
La Tempa del Fico is a farm where we run courses and workshops (for schools and associations etc) about rural ecological education, the use of wild aromatic herbs, water cycles, bread making etc. We have 2.5 hectares of land, use only natural methods and have a synergic vegetable garden. We grow 'Casusedda di Pruno' and 5 other ancient varieties of wheat. We are also hoping to install a stone mill. Activities include trekking with 2 donkeys (to increase to 7 when the stall made of chestnut posts, stone and straw bales is constructed) along the paths of the Cilento. We promote communication and solidarity for high quality organic produce from the sea to the mountains. Accommodation in room or in own tent during busy periods. Stays of at least three weeks preferred, children welcome. Meals vegetarian.
WWOOF Italy's list has over 450 hosts. Thus, a potential WWOOFer needs to sift through hundreds of paragraph descriptions that sum up a unique family and farm to choose where they most like to stay. To get a sense of the descriptions, here is the description of the first farm. I assure, the description is much less colorful than my three weeks spent there!
Google Map Location:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
---
La Tempa del Fico is a farm where we run courses and workshops (for schools and associations etc) about rural ecological education, the use of wild aromatic herbs, water cycles, bread making etc. We have 2.5 hectares of land, use only natural methods and have a synergic vegetable garden. We grow 'Casusedda di Pruno' and 5 other ancient varieties of wheat. We are also hoping to install a stone mill. Activities include trekking with 2 donkeys (to increase to 7 when the stall made of chestnut posts, stone and straw bales is constructed) along the paths of the Cilento. We promote communication and solidarity for high quality organic produce from the sea to the mountains. Accommodation in room or in own tent during busy periods. Stays of at least three weeks preferred, children welcome. Meals vegetarian.
Backed up Queue of Posts
After many computer woes, I have numerous already written but never posted entries. Posting them now will throw everything out of mental order, but when life gives you lemons... (I suppose my implication is that non-chronological blogposts give you lemonade).
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Three weeks with a broken computer...
I have found a solution to my computer woes! I spent two days in Rome with two girls, Simona and Maura (names changed to conceal identities), the daughters of close family friends of my host family in the South of Italy. Of course being in Milan, I thought, I’ll have as good of access as I’ll find in Italy to Mac stores or Mac repair. I did not have quite as much success as I had hoped, however, as import taxes, Italian keyboards, and absurd Mac Store repair prices made getting help unrealistic. After spending half of the day at their house Skyping my mother and ranting to the poor woman about how the world was out to get me, contemplating every way to save an extra $10, Simona finally said, “You know, my second laptop I never use.”
“Second laptop?”
“It’s a smaller one, like purse size…I actually don’t really know why I bought it.”
In the end, I’m borrowing Simona’s extra laptop for the next month and a half and returning it before I leave. I planned to give her 100 Euros for the month and a half I’m using it, but in the end she decided not to let me pay her! In retrospect, thank god: this computer’s keyboard is about 8 inches wide and it is slower than a snail…in some ways I am finding it as much of an impediment to completing work and communication than not having a computer at all.
“Second laptop?”
“It’s a smaller one, like purse size…I actually don’t really know why I bought it.”
In the end, I’m borrowing Simona’s extra laptop for the next month and a half and returning it before I leave. I planned to give her 100 Euros for the month and a half I’m using it, but in the end she decided not to let me pay her! In retrospect, thank god: this computer’s keyboard is about 8 inches wide and it is slower than a snail…in some ways I am finding it as much of an impediment to completing work and communication than not having a computer at all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)