Baba's will does not want me to finish this semester of research!
Baba is God in the Brahma Kumaris spiritual path. I am WWOOFing on a meditation retreat at the moment, and I've been learning loads about Baba and meditating with his group of Central Italian followers every night. I guess Baba could sense my skepticism and ingenuity while everyone else was meditating and my mind kept wandering to the cows, the hunk who is also working here, and the next time I'll get dessert, so he smote my laptop to proove me a lesson. (...lesson probably not learned. Sorry, Baba.)
First my laptop crashed. Then I started using one of the computers here. The owner just left for London and took that computer (with the folder of my stuff) with him. The computer that is left has no microphone or Skpe; conveniently so, as today was the day I was going to attempt to contact an Apple repair expert and figure out what I can possibly do with my laptop. Sigh.
It was only three years old, too...curse you, planned obsolescence!!
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planned_obsolescence )
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Making Preserves
Today (3 March 2011) I learned how to can marmalade!! It was a rainy day on the farm: what to do with the WWOOFer? Antonella didn’t know, so she decided to set me up to make jam! From the cartons of kiwi I picked out 8 kilos of the ripest. The hundreds of kilos that they (still!) have were the fruits of one tree, probably enough to feed a neighborhood. When it is cool they last for months out in the open, but making jam is the clear alternative for when they start to go bad. First I peeled them all, threw the contents into a giant pot (and of course saved the peels for the hens), and stirred constantly for an hour. When most of the excess water had boiled out, I added 3 kilos of sugar and continued to stir. Sugar can always be experimented with. Recipes call for 1 to 1; in this case we did 1 to .375. For figs, Donatella does only 1 to .2; it depends on the sweetness/sourness of food to be canned. Nonetheless, sugar is always “necessary” (I’m not convinced) as a preserving agent. It is best to boil out most of the water before adding the sugar. Why? As sugar caramelizes, it darkens and makes your marmalade less vibrant and fresh. Nonetheless, when you do add it, it will make the entire mix look more liquid again. Don’t be fooled! When it is cool it will thicken. Keep stirring, and intermittently spoon some onto a plate, let it cool, and check its consistency. When finished, turn off heat, continue stirring, and fill clean jars. Close lids tightly and turn jars on their heads: the contents (still about 100 C) will kill all bacteria, making a safe preserve that will last for months! You can find better instructions in any manual. I could have used a manual, too, instead of coming to the middle of the mountains in Italy, but this is the point of WWOOFing! No book learning compares to learning as an apprentice. These instructions are really just to whet your appetite.
Monday, March 14, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Masala Girl
Today—without wine, mind you—we made a giant wall.
I’ve got a strong, unconscious, ‘must prove myself as strong as the men’ feminism whenever there is work to be done, especially when the men try to give me easier work or expect less of me. Here is not the first time. In India, for example, we had to build a wall, too (it was ironically in the exact same structure as we built today with large stones that we collected and cement we made for in between). At the time for whatever reason, I felt my feminine strength being threatened, so somehow I elbowed my way into the forefront of every single job within the week: mixing the cement by hand, carrying buckets of it back and forth, collecting rocks, and the skilled labor of actually constructing the wall. By the end, the local men had taken to calling me “masala girl” (cement girl) because of my impressive strength and energy.
This time, when I asked Angelo what I could do to help, he jabbingly replied,
“You said you were stronger than you look, didn’t you? How about shoveling the cement into buckets and handing it to us on the wall? You don’t have to fill them all the way—you won’t be able to carry them.”
Italy has a reputation for machismo. In fact, my first weekend in Rome I went to the "Protest of the Women", a national protest in cities across Italy. The goal: to say "enough!" to the machismo in Italy that President Berlusconi perpetuates with his frequent affairs with numerous women.
So naturally after Angelo's unbeknown-to-him threat to my equality, I proceeded to fill the buckets to the top with cement and lift them above my head to hand them to the men.
“This American girl impresses me more everyday!”
“What?—do you lift weights daily at home?”
“Don’t leave this farm; we’ve got more walls to build!” is the summation of numerous remarks. When I mentioned to them that I had been christened “masala girl” in India, they baptized me “biccio girl” here.
I’ve got a strong, unconscious, ‘must prove myself as strong as the men’ feminism whenever there is work to be done, especially when the men try to give me easier work or expect less of me. Here is not the first time. In India, for example, we had to build a wall, too (it was ironically in the exact same structure as we built today with large stones that we collected and cement we made for in between). At the time for whatever reason, I felt my feminine strength being threatened, so somehow I elbowed my way into the forefront of every single job within the week: mixing the cement by hand, carrying buckets of it back and forth, collecting rocks, and the skilled labor of actually constructing the wall. By the end, the local men had taken to calling me “masala girl” (cement girl) because of my impressive strength and energy.
This time, when I asked Angelo what I could do to help, he jabbingly replied,
“You said you were stronger than you look, didn’t you? How about shoveling the cement into buckets and handing it to us on the wall? You don’t have to fill them all the way—you won’t be able to carry them.”
Italy has a reputation for machismo. In fact, my first weekend in Rome I went to the "Protest of the Women", a national protest in cities across Italy. The goal: to say "enough!" to the machismo in Italy that President Berlusconi perpetuates with his frequent affairs with numerous women.
So naturally after Angelo's unbeknown-to-him threat to my equality, I proceeded to fill the buckets to the top with cement and lift them above my head to hand them to the men.
“This American girl impresses me more everyday!”
“What?—do you lift weights daily at home?”
“Don’t leave this farm; we’ve got more walls to build!” is the summation of numerous remarks. When I mentioned to them that I had been christened “masala girl” in India, they baptized me “biccio girl” here.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: The Lumberjack's Fuel
For the past three days, the joke has been, “drink some more wine, Alex; we’re going to build a wall after we eat!!”
Four days ago, for the first time we had wine at a meal. The two paid workers who have been here helping Angelo with construction ate with us, so the occasion called for them to bottle some of the wine from their giant reserves and enjoy it at our lunch-time feast. In my defense, food and drink are an enormous part of the culture here, and as a student of culture I find it intrinsic to learn about and share in a culture’s ways. At an Italian table, I never pour my own, but somehow my glass is always refilled (and as I’ve been working outside all morning and I have no glass of water at the table, the wine goes down fast). After about two glasses, when Angelo lifted the bottle to pour me more, I said, “If we have to work after this, probably better not.”
His answer was a big smile and a nod as he poured me a full glass, “but what work??”
I thought that meant I was off free for the afternoon.
After somewhere around number five (at that point who really knows), we preceded to go outside to build a wall, lifting heavy rocks, using motor powered machinery, etc.
“What—you mean you think of this as work?”
I apparently did quite well, because now the joke is that if we want Alex to do really good work, let’s get her wine!!
Four days ago, for the first time we had wine at a meal. The two paid workers who have been here helping Angelo with construction ate with us, so the occasion called for them to bottle some of the wine from their giant reserves and enjoy it at our lunch-time feast. In my defense, food and drink are an enormous part of the culture here, and as a student of culture I find it intrinsic to learn about and share in a culture’s ways. At an Italian table, I never pour my own, but somehow my glass is always refilled (and as I’ve been working outside all morning and I have no glass of water at the table, the wine goes down fast). After about two glasses, when Angelo lifted the bottle to pour me more, I said, “If we have to work after this, probably better not.”
His answer was a big smile and a nod as he poured me a full glass, “but what work??”
I thought that meant I was off free for the afternoon.
After somewhere around number five (at that point who really knows), we preceded to go outside to build a wall, lifting heavy rocks, using motor powered machinery, etc.
“What—you mean you think of this as work?”
I apparently did quite well, because now the joke is that if we want Alex to do really good work, let’s get her wine!!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
It’s going to be cold tonight…we better get Alex some wine!
7 March 2011
Today was a lovely, lovely day. The sky was blue, there were few clouds, and the sun was shining. But then, all of a sudden, it started to SNOW!! Sky still blue for a bit, then so grey and windy, you couldn’t see the sky at all. Tonight, it will be below 7’ C, Angelo told me at dinner.
“Alex, we need to get you some wine. Simone, go and get a bottle of wine for Alex. It’s going to be cold tonight.”
By now, they all know that I’m always cold. So the first thing Angelo thinks of when he finds out it will be shockingly cold? Get this girl some alcohol to warm her up. God(s) bless Italia.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
WWOOF Italy: The Rest of Sergio's Story
The Rest of Sergio’s Story
My entry from February 19 ended with Sergio’s passing remark about his uncles, who “had to come to America because they had killed some people.” Several days later, I got the rest of the story.
Sergio’s grandmother grew up in the country outside of Sarno (which is a village right outside of Napoli) with six brothers and six sisters. Her father had been a socialist and fairly successful until Mussolini came to power with a government and supporters who harassed non-fascists. The local Mussolini Youth (like the Boy Scouts, who were originally meant to be the last line of war defense, as Sergio put it), constantly came onto the family’s property to harass them. They threw rocks, harassed the girls, and vandalized the property. Soon Sergio’s great grandfather could no longer let his girls leave the compound, even to do the errands, and he built a fence enclosing the entire property. The boys continued to harass, and one night they broke onto the property. After so much time and so many warnings, one of Sergio’s grandmother’s uncles had had enough. He grabbed a shotgun and walked outside to put an end to it. Soon her brothers woke up, heard the commotion, grabbed their guns, and joined. By the end, all of the Mussolini Youth—about twenty of them—lay dead on their property. So all seven brothers fled to America. And here is where it connects to Sergio: these were the brothers that Sergio’s father later fled Italy to join in the Bronx, to evade a future of farming.
After Sergio had told me the first story, relevant to a previous conversation, he offered another, relevant to nothing but fun nonetheless.
Have you ever heard of Neapolitan Mastiffs? Apparently they have been breed for centuries to be very smart work dogs. While a herding dog learns general duties and the associated orders, a Neapolitan Mastiff can obey orders as specific as, “run home and bring me the hammer”. Sergio’s grandmother’s father, Victorino, had a nice property outside of Sarno, but he left to buy and cultivate a property in the Bronx. He left his brother, Antonello, in charge of the property in Italy. Antonello one day realized that someone had been stealing fruit from his trees, and soon he discovered who it was.
“Listen, he said. You can’t be stealing fruit from my trees. There is plenty of fruit—come to me to ask for it and I’ll give it to you, if you like. But you can’t steal it; it will make my brother look bad and other people will think that they can just come and steal it, also.” It was not long before Antonello discovered the same man stealing again. Antonello snuck up on him one night in action and yelled, “Hey! I thought I told you to stop stealing fruit from my brother’s trees!” The man immediately grabbed a hatchet from behind his back and began hacking away at Antonello. Antonello somehow made it back to his house, but everyone expected him to die. There were no hospitals—“as this was Napoli” said Sergio, as if to say “if you know Napoli, you don’t need any explanation more than this”—so they got him to the closest doctor in Napoli. The police heard what had happened and came. “We know what happened. Seeing as how you are going to die at this point, tell us who did this to you. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it,” they said—“as this was Napoli”. Antonello told them that he didn’t know who it was; he didn’t get a good look at the man. (Why would he have done that? —“This was Napoli” i.e. the only respectable response to any wrong is to right it yourself. Defend your pride at all costs, but don’t get the police involved.) After several long months, Antonello made a full recovery. While everyone thought him dead, he returned home ready for his revenge. The man had continued to steal fruit from his trees, so one night Antonello went out to meet him. He said, “Hey! I thought I told you to stop stealing fruit from my brother’s trees!” and before the man could act Antonello said to his Neapolitan mastiff, who had been standing behind him, “kill that man”. The dog ripped the man apart…and Antonello fled to America.
(Brief pause...lead into next story)
Antonello arrived to the Bronx to his brother’s property.
“I thought I told you to stay and look after the property in Sarno!” Victorino exclaimed when he saw his brother.
“And I did, but I killed someone so I had to flee!”
“Alright, now you’ll have to stay with this property while I go back to Italy, and this time don’t kill anyone!” Victorino returned to Italy with his wife and daughters. At this point Sergio’s grandmother—perhaps around twelve—was the oldest girl. As the oldest girl, it was her duty to do the shopping, but all the same father sent her out with the mastiffs to make sure that she stayed safe. Of course, nobody went near her; the dogs already had a reputation. One day, Victorino opened the door to a group of angry townsmen.
“What is the matter, men?”
“We want our coats back.”
What? Apparently, Sergio’s grandmother had been having fun on her errands, telling the smart and well-trained dogs to “yank that man’s coat off of him” or “bring me that man’s coat from his chair”. As they knew the possible repercussions (word got out what had happened to the fruit thief), for weeks the men had done nothing to stop the dogs. Her father went into her room to find a pile of men’s coats under her bed. She was severely punished, but Sergio claims that she recalls this story with pride and loving memories of the mastiffs.
My entry from February 19 ended with Sergio’s passing remark about his uncles, who “had to come to America because they had killed some people.” Several days later, I got the rest of the story.
Sergio’s grandmother grew up in the country outside of Sarno (which is a village right outside of Napoli) with six brothers and six sisters. Her father had been a socialist and fairly successful until Mussolini came to power with a government and supporters who harassed non-fascists. The local Mussolini Youth (like the Boy Scouts, who were originally meant to be the last line of war defense, as Sergio put it), constantly came onto the family’s property to harass them. They threw rocks, harassed the girls, and vandalized the property. Soon Sergio’s great grandfather could no longer let his girls leave the compound, even to do the errands, and he built a fence enclosing the entire property. The boys continued to harass, and one night they broke onto the property. After so much time and so many warnings, one of Sergio’s grandmother’s uncles had had enough. He grabbed a shotgun and walked outside to put an end to it. Soon her brothers woke up, heard the commotion, grabbed their guns, and joined. By the end, all of the Mussolini Youth—about twenty of them—lay dead on their property. So all seven brothers fled to America. And here is where it connects to Sergio: these were the brothers that Sergio’s father later fled Italy to join in the Bronx, to evade a future of farming.
After Sergio had told me the first story, relevant to a previous conversation, he offered another, relevant to nothing but fun nonetheless.
Have you ever heard of Neapolitan Mastiffs? Apparently they have been breed for centuries to be very smart work dogs. While a herding dog learns general duties and the associated orders, a Neapolitan Mastiff can obey orders as specific as, “run home and bring me the hammer”. Sergio’s grandmother’s father, Victorino, had a nice property outside of Sarno, but he left to buy and cultivate a property in the Bronx. He left his brother, Antonello, in charge of the property in Italy. Antonello one day realized that someone had been stealing fruit from his trees, and soon he discovered who it was.
“Listen, he said. You can’t be stealing fruit from my trees. There is plenty of fruit—come to me to ask for it and I’ll give it to you, if you like. But you can’t steal it; it will make my brother look bad and other people will think that they can just come and steal it, also.” It was not long before Antonello discovered the same man stealing again. Antonello snuck up on him one night in action and yelled, “Hey! I thought I told you to stop stealing fruit from my brother’s trees!” The man immediately grabbed a hatchet from behind his back and began hacking away at Antonello. Antonello somehow made it back to his house, but everyone expected him to die. There were no hospitals—“as this was Napoli” said Sergio, as if to say “if you know Napoli, you don’t need any explanation more than this”—so they got him to the closest doctor in Napoli. The police heard what had happened and came. “We know what happened. Seeing as how you are going to die at this point, tell us who did this to you. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it,” they said—“as this was Napoli”. Antonello told them that he didn’t know who it was; he didn’t get a good look at the man. (Why would he have done that? —“This was Napoli” i.e. the only respectable response to any wrong is to right it yourself. Defend your pride at all costs, but don’t get the police involved.) After several long months, Antonello made a full recovery. While everyone thought him dead, he returned home ready for his revenge. The man had continued to steal fruit from his trees, so one night Antonello went out to meet him. He said, “Hey! I thought I told you to stop stealing fruit from my brother’s trees!” and before the man could act Antonello said to his Neapolitan mastiff, who had been standing behind him, “kill that man”. The dog ripped the man apart…and Antonello fled to America.
(Brief pause...lead into next story)
Antonello arrived to the Bronx to his brother’s property.
“I thought I told you to stay and look after the property in Sarno!” Victorino exclaimed when he saw his brother.
“And I did, but I killed someone so I had to flee!”
“Alright, now you’ll have to stay with this property while I go back to Italy, and this time don’t kill anyone!” Victorino returned to Italy with his wife and daughters. At this point Sergio’s grandmother—perhaps around twelve—was the oldest girl. As the oldest girl, it was her duty to do the shopping, but all the same father sent her out with the mastiffs to make sure that she stayed safe. Of course, nobody went near her; the dogs already had a reputation. One day, Victorino opened the door to a group of angry townsmen.
“What is the matter, men?”
“We want our coats back.”
What? Apparently, Sergio’s grandmother had been having fun on her errands, telling the smart and well-trained dogs to “yank that man’s coat off of him” or “bring me that man’s coat from his chair”. As they knew the possible repercussions (word got out what had happened to the fruit thief), for weeks the men had done nothing to stop the dogs. Her father went into her room to find a pile of men’s coats under her bed. She was severely punished, but Sergio claims that she recalls this story with pride and loving memories of the mastiffs.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Day 3 of WWOOFing in Italy
17 February 2010
The sun has returned! For the first time since my arrival, I removed my sweater (leaving only the undershirt, t-shirt, and long-sleeve shirt as still permanent adornment pieces). I’m contemplating a shower tonight…contemplating. My hair is in one solid mat (I’m far beyond the hope of brushing) and little bits of gravel fall out of my hairline every time I scratch my head, as I’ve been sanding stone walls high above my head or sanding next to someone sanding on a ladder. Today’s chores were varied: feeding the chickens and rabbits; more rock sanding; scrubbing the floor; and hoeing in the garden. It was quite the lovely day, but this farm does not believe in what I thought was WWOOF’s recommended “20 hours of work per week”. Working all day with Saturday morning also, that puts us at about twice what is recommended. Not that I mind so much work…but it makes the academic aspect that theoretically I should be doing simultaneously difficult.
The sun has returned! For the first time since my arrival, I removed my sweater (leaving only the undershirt, t-shirt, and long-sleeve shirt as still permanent adornment pieces). I’m contemplating a shower tonight…contemplating. My hair is in one solid mat (I’m far beyond the hope of brushing) and little bits of gravel fall out of my hairline every time I scratch my head, as I’ve been sanding stone walls high above my head or sanding next to someone sanding on a ladder. Today’s chores were varied: feeding the chickens and rabbits; more rock sanding; scrubbing the floor; and hoeing in the garden. It was quite the lovely day, but this farm does not believe in what I thought was WWOOF’s recommended “20 hours of work per week”. Working all day with Saturday morning also, that puts us at about twice what is recommended. Not that I mind so much work…but it makes the academic aspect that theoretically I should be doing simultaneously difficult.
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