Wednesday, November 21, 2007
more stories
Here's some more, then. Same deal as last time: read them from the top down to get them in the order they were written. Thanks for the comments! I hope all is well with you, wherever you are!
pizza!
We went out for pizza last night. We drove into a nearby town called Puerto Serrano. All the little towns (and even the big ones) are strange to drive through! The streets tend to not be laid out in any kind of scheme, and they are rarely wide enough for traffic to flow through easily. American drivers would have a hard time here, being unable to navigate, or having to have patience in a blocked street. That just seems to be part of the psyche here, however, to let traffic happen. You can go or you can’t and there’s nothing that can be done but sit and wait. People even seem to approach it with some humor, honking at the pedestrians who just wander in clouds, or flitting around little trucks parked in the middle of streets.
We listened to KISS FM in the car. I think every country the world over must have this radio station. It plays the best mix of today and the 80s (with a handful of Spanish tunes). And at the Hacienda, when the radio isn’t playing this ubiquitous station, there is some kind of soft rock or American pop coming from the CD player. One can only take so much Lionel Ritchie. However, I must say I did approve of Jack Johnson, and wonder how soon we can hear that one again. Today at lunch we were graced with Van Morrison.
Moritz had given us the name of a place that sold good Italian pizza. The only things Italian about the place, however, were the pizza and possibly the little old man who worked there. The walls were covered in the oddest assortment of pictures from Tarifa to Geronimo. The radio played cheesy music, and a large television set on top of the dessert freezer was showing Sesame Street with no sound. Each table held a Connect-4 set from full- to travel-size. After we each ate a pizza on ultra-thin crust, cheesier than the radio, we shared a piadina, a specialty from the owner’s region. I was amused to note that we have that very same specialty in Central PA and call it a bilby.
We listened to KISS FM in the car. I think every country the world over must have this radio station. It plays the best mix of today and the 80s (with a handful of Spanish tunes). And at the Hacienda, when the radio isn’t playing this ubiquitous station, there is some kind of soft rock or American pop coming from the CD player. One can only take so much Lionel Ritchie. However, I must say I did approve of Jack Johnson, and wonder how soon we can hear that one again. Today at lunch we were graced with Van Morrison.
Moritz had given us the name of a place that sold good Italian pizza. The only things Italian about the place, however, were the pizza and possibly the little old man who worked there. The walls were covered in the oddest assortment of pictures from Tarifa to Geronimo. The radio played cheesy music, and a large television set on top of the dessert freezer was showing Sesame Street with no sound. Each table held a Connect-4 set from full- to travel-size. After we each ate a pizza on ultra-thin crust, cheesier than the radio, we shared a piadina, a specialty from the owner’s region. I was amused to note that we have that very same specialty in Central PA and call it a bilby.
community
When I set out, I wondered whom I would meet on the road. Who were these people that would be my new community, although we wouldn’t necessarily have a geographical location in common? What kinds of things would we have in common? What kinds of things or places were they searching for, and would they be able to give me directions on my search? Would I be able to offer words of advice or navigation to any of them, sending them to places I’d been, or experiences I’d lived?
I’ve already met a few; the WWOOFers here at the Hacienda seemed to form a mini-community. We work together, often at the same tasks, and we share our interests and ideas. I’ve been learning why my companions are traveling, a little about what they’re hoping to learn along the way. I must say we have similar goals. None of us seems to know what we’d like to do everyday. Some of us are hoping to live simply. A few of us are trying to learn how to live self-sufficient, sustainable lifestyles. There are even some who just want to travel cheaply!
I grew close to them in a short time, and found it just as difficult to say goodbye to those who’ve gone as it was for others I’d known longer. This is one thing I’m learning about myself: I need community.
I always thought of myself as a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, needing nobody and drawing my life from my own interests. Now I’m finding that, an introvert I may be, I need the people that surround me more than I ever thought. My time growing up at home and at college taught me that I could easily be worn down by spending too much time around others. My time at the Farm taught me to balance my time between being alone and being with those others who sometimes drained me. My time in contemplation of these things has taught me that I truly draw energy from those around me, and that I surround myself with a core group of people who can sustain me even when I am alone.
Growing up, I was lucky to have a large family, immediate and extended. Not only did I share a house with three siblings and two parents, I had a host of cousins to play with and aunts and uncles all over the place where I lived taking care of me. All my grandparents lived within a five-minute drive (if that), and I saw them several times a week. Many members of my father’s family lived on the dairy farm where I grew up, and there were always holiday gatherings when all the others came back. My mother’s family, likewise, lived in town and I often spent weekends with them when we would gather at my grandparents’ house for dinner or just to read the newspaper. Saturday night was a popular time to meet up for card games and Solid Gold Oldies.
In high school, my friends rounded out my community when my cousins and I went our separate ways. We obviously spent all day together, sharing the same classes, activities, and frustrations.
College was a rebuilding of my community, and I found it in the music department. I think we were a group unto ourselves there, the overworked students (and sometimes faculty) who spent 14 or more hours a day in Zug Memorial Hall. Again, we had a space in common (Zug), similar experiences (“what did you think of Dr. So-and-so’s class today?”), and supported each other through our trials and triumphs. We were inseparable, rooming with each other, teaching each other, eating together, and having fun together. Saying goodbye was inevitable, and painful.
The Farm has been the most obvious community in my life. The people there, staff and guests, have chosen to live together. We took the step for ourselves, this time, to be intentional about building community, not being thrown together by the circumstances of birth, geographical proximity, or shared study. The concept behind the Farm is to foster mental and physical health by doing meaningful work and fostering healthy community life. Importance is placed on living together: the staff are provided on-site housing by the company and the guests share houses. Importance is placed on community events: there is a meeting for the whole community weekly, three meals a day are shared in a large dining room, and activities fill the evenings and weekends. And each person is considered vital to the functioning of the work of the place. Each team is designed to perform a task that is sustaining to the Farm, be it producing crops, preparing meals, maintaining the grounds, or maintaining the buildings, and each member of each team helps keep the work running smoothly, or at all.
Now that I’ve removed myself from those communities that had supported me, I find that I automatically grasp at those people around me, trying to mold some type of cohesion for myself. My old communities aren’t far away: my friends and family are scattered across the places I’ve been and will someday be going to. However, without physical proximity, I have a hard time drawing support from these former homes I’d built for myself. In leaving them behind, I’ve discovered that I try to rebuild immediately and realize just how important those previous communities were, are, and will continue to be to me.
I’ve already met a few; the WWOOFers here at the Hacienda seemed to form a mini-community. We work together, often at the same tasks, and we share our interests and ideas. I’ve been learning why my companions are traveling, a little about what they’re hoping to learn along the way. I must say we have similar goals. None of us seems to know what we’d like to do everyday. Some of us are hoping to live simply. A few of us are trying to learn how to live self-sufficient, sustainable lifestyles. There are even some who just want to travel cheaply!
I grew close to them in a short time, and found it just as difficult to say goodbye to those who’ve gone as it was for others I’d known longer. This is one thing I’m learning about myself: I need community.
I always thought of myself as a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, needing nobody and drawing my life from my own interests. Now I’m finding that, an introvert I may be, I need the people that surround me more than I ever thought. My time growing up at home and at college taught me that I could easily be worn down by spending too much time around others. My time at the Farm taught me to balance my time between being alone and being with those others who sometimes drained me. My time in contemplation of these things has taught me that I truly draw energy from those around me, and that I surround myself with a core group of people who can sustain me even when I am alone.
Growing up, I was lucky to have a large family, immediate and extended. Not only did I share a house with three siblings and two parents, I had a host of cousins to play with and aunts and uncles all over the place where I lived taking care of me. All my grandparents lived within a five-minute drive (if that), and I saw them several times a week. Many members of my father’s family lived on the dairy farm where I grew up, and there were always holiday gatherings when all the others came back. My mother’s family, likewise, lived in town and I often spent weekends with them when we would gather at my grandparents’ house for dinner or just to read the newspaper. Saturday night was a popular time to meet up for card games and Solid Gold Oldies.
In high school, my friends rounded out my community when my cousins and I went our separate ways. We obviously spent all day together, sharing the same classes, activities, and frustrations.
College was a rebuilding of my community, and I found it in the music department. I think we were a group unto ourselves there, the overworked students (and sometimes faculty) who spent 14 or more hours a day in Zug Memorial Hall. Again, we had a space in common (Zug), similar experiences (“what did you think of Dr. So-and-so’s class today?”), and supported each other through our trials and triumphs. We were inseparable, rooming with each other, teaching each other, eating together, and having fun together. Saying goodbye was inevitable, and painful.
The Farm has been the most obvious community in my life. The people there, staff and guests, have chosen to live together. We took the step for ourselves, this time, to be intentional about building community, not being thrown together by the circumstances of birth, geographical proximity, or shared study. The concept behind the Farm is to foster mental and physical health by doing meaningful work and fostering healthy community life. Importance is placed on living together: the staff are provided on-site housing by the company and the guests share houses. Importance is placed on community events: there is a meeting for the whole community weekly, three meals a day are shared in a large dining room, and activities fill the evenings and weekends. And each person is considered vital to the functioning of the work of the place. Each team is designed to perform a task that is sustaining to the Farm, be it producing crops, preparing meals, maintaining the grounds, or maintaining the buildings, and each member of each team helps keep the work running smoothly, or at all.
Now that I’ve removed myself from those communities that had supported me, I find that I automatically grasp at those people around me, trying to mold some type of cohesion for myself. My old communities aren’t far away: my friends and family are scattered across the places I’ve been and will someday be going to. However, without physical proximity, I have a hard time drawing support from these former homes I’d built for myself. In leaving them behind, I’ve discovered that I try to rebuild immediately and realize just how important those previous communities were, are, and will continue to be to me.
¡buen provecho!
It seems every language has this phrase to wish one a good meal, but the lazy English-speaking world must borrow from the French: bon appètit. These words encourage us not only to enjoy the food, but the whole experience. There are flavors, aromas, colors, and textures to savor. We are invited to relish the company of those around us. We are nourished by the feast and the atmosphere together.
Tonight’s dinner required little invitation for delight. Having but four guests at the moment, our small party was joined by the Spanish family and friends of the local folk who work here. José, one of the groundskeepers, prepared stuffed tomatoes and a dish of fried eggplant, filled with prosciutto and cheese. The food alone was amazing, but was only the warm-up for the Flamenco that filled the dining room for more than three hours!
Southern Spain (specifically the Guadalquiver valley in Andalucia) is the origin of this old art form that includes singing, dancing, and instrumental accompaniment. Lonely Planet says that it began in the late 18th century with the Roma people (once thought of as Gypsies, called gitanos in Spanish) as a singing style, produced from deep within. Later, the form incorporated instruments in the form of clapping, castanets, drums, and guitar. Today, Flamenco can be performed in any of these ways, or all together, along with dance.
Washing dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the deep, almost primal sounds of the men and women singing along to the guitar and drum box. I walked into the dining room flooded with sound and energy as members of the party sang from the bottoms of their lungs. It was as if they were challenging each other, the singers and the drummers. “Keep up with me, if you can!” “Follow me—I dare you!” Ana, a woman who once worked here I was told, belted out her poetry to a younger man who played along on the drum box. Her voice and eyes showed him the rhythm, and she clapped along to drive the beat home.
When there was no guitar, there were voices. Drums were replaced with clapping hands, pounding out rhythms to match the flow of the melody. Solo voices warbled out tunes to begin a new fiesta of sound. The passion of the music spawned dancing: a couple swayed about each other, weaving their arms through the air as though through water, barely touching even when turning as a couple. Then, with a quick twirl and a clap, the song and dance ended together in a rush of music.
Late into the night the Flamenco carried on, almost cacophonous at times. Pitchers of mojito quenched the thirst that flowed about the room with the smoke of cigarettes. Slowly, the party faded and people headed home a few at a time—but not without a song on the way out the door.
Tonight’s dinner required little invitation for delight. Having but four guests at the moment, our small party was joined by the Spanish family and friends of the local folk who work here. José, one of the groundskeepers, prepared stuffed tomatoes and a dish of fried eggplant, filled with prosciutto and cheese. The food alone was amazing, but was only the warm-up for the Flamenco that filled the dining room for more than three hours!
Southern Spain (specifically the Guadalquiver valley in Andalucia) is the origin of this old art form that includes singing, dancing, and instrumental accompaniment. Lonely Planet says that it began in the late 18th century with the Roma people (once thought of as Gypsies, called gitanos in Spanish) as a singing style, produced from deep within. Later, the form incorporated instruments in the form of clapping, castanets, drums, and guitar. Today, Flamenco can be performed in any of these ways, or all together, along with dance.
Washing dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the deep, almost primal sounds of the men and women singing along to the guitar and drum box. I walked into the dining room flooded with sound and energy as members of the party sang from the bottoms of their lungs. It was as if they were challenging each other, the singers and the drummers. “Keep up with me, if you can!” “Follow me—I dare you!” Ana, a woman who once worked here I was told, belted out her poetry to a younger man who played along on the drum box. Her voice and eyes showed him the rhythm, and she clapped along to drive the beat home.
When there was no guitar, there were voices. Drums were replaced with clapping hands, pounding out rhythms to match the flow of the melody. Solo voices warbled out tunes to begin a new fiesta of sound. The passion of the music spawned dancing: a couple swayed about each other, weaving their arms through the air as though through water, barely touching even when turning as a couple. Then, with a quick twirl and a clap, the song and dance ended together in a rush of music.
Late into the night the Flamenco carried on, almost cacophonous at times. Pitchers of mojito quenched the thirst that flowed about the room with the smoke of cigarettes. Slowly, the party faded and people headed home a few at a time—but not without a song on the way out the door.
moscas en la casa
Reports come in from all over: the cold of winter is settling in. Switzerland has snow. Slovakia, too. In Pennsylvania, the temperature has dropped, and snow fell the first week of November. Here in Southern Spain, the weather remains hot and dry.
Andalucia sometimes experiences a phenomenon called “second spring.” Rain falls hard in October, quenching the thirst of summer and calling to life the vegetation that lay dormant. The world dons a green mantle for the winter.
No rain has come, neither has the temperature bothered to drop. The red dirt crumbles beneath my feet, rises, lingers, lands again. People say they can count the number of times it’s rained in the past several months, but the olive trees don’t mind. They seem to thrive in the parched clay, hiding moisture away in the husks of their ancient trunks and the small, oily fruits that dangle from their branches.
The flies, too, enjoy the extra time the weather has given them to be nimble in the warmth before winter’s cold sends them off. We go about the business of living and so do they. The cool hacienda is a haven from the sun in the afternoons, and we light a fire in the hearth to stave off the slight chill of the evening. We work and then bask; we dine then wash the dishes, mindlessly brushing away the myriad winged phantoms that dance past our fingers to alight once again, like the dust, on everything.
Andalucia sometimes experiences a phenomenon called “second spring.” Rain falls hard in October, quenching the thirst of summer and calling to life the vegetation that lay dormant. The world dons a green mantle for the winter.
No rain has come, neither has the temperature bothered to drop. The red dirt crumbles beneath my feet, rises, lingers, lands again. People say they can count the number of times it’s rained in the past several months, but the olive trees don’t mind. They seem to thrive in the parched clay, hiding moisture away in the husks of their ancient trunks and the small, oily fruits that dangle from their branches.
The flies, too, enjoy the extra time the weather has given them to be nimble in the warmth before winter’s cold sends them off. We go about the business of living and so do they. The cool hacienda is a haven from the sun in the afternoons, and we light a fire in the hearth to stave off the slight chill of the evening. We work and then bask; we dine then wash the dishes, mindlessly brushing away the myriad winged phantoms that dance past our fingers to alight once again, like the dust, on everything.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
glory, hallelujah
Finally the internet gods smile on me again! Sorry these have been a long time coming. For convenience, I've posted them in opposite order. That means you should read them from the top down, rather than from the bottom up, which would be blogger chronological order. There will be more to come, of course, and I have pictures that will be added to these posts once I have a faster and more reliable connection. Until then, cheers! And thanks for thinking of me!
arrival
I’m in. As I write this, I’ve been four days with my first host and it is something else. A little different than most WWOOF assignments, this is a business that has paying clients visiting most of the time. At the moment we only have one, but I think we’re expecting more soon. The slow season is arriving and we’ll be having fewer guests than usual (apparently 25 was the largest number at a time in the past month). The Hacienda is a horse ranch that offers riding lessons and riding holidays to people from all over the world. It seems that mostly Germans come, but when I arrived there was also a couple from New Hampshire (they looked like total Berkshirites, by the way; the man’s son even attends Simon’s Rock College in Great Barrington, near my old Farm). The clientele this place attracts is indicative of my hosts’ nationalities: many are from Germany, with others from all over Europe. Only two Spanish women work here and they both live in the nearby town. Everybody else lives in the Hacienda (kinda like the Farm, once again…). So far I’ve met people from Belgium, France, Switzerland, Finland, Slovakia, Egypt, and New Zealand. The people who have been here longest speak German and Spanish most often, but because of the multiple origins of everybody else, English tends to be spoken the most in everyday conversation.
The set-up is grand. I have my own room with a private bathroom, three fabulous meals a day, and the freedom to wander the whole place, as I like. My primary work is in the olive grove, preparing the trees for the olive harvest; the work is hard, but not difficult. Although the whole countryside is covered in olive trees, because of the labor involved and small return, we only harvest from a small paddock of trees, with the oil and fruit produced used in-house. This is how it goes: Imagine a dwarf-sized fruit tree with hundreds of suckers creating a hedge around the bottoms of the two or three widely spread trunks. Now, my task is to cut away the suckers using a suleta (think one-headed pickaxe) and hand axe. Sounds easy enough, right? Ok, now imagine that the wood of this fruit tree is so hard the blade can’t actually sink in, yet the suckers and branches (several of which are an inch or more thick, and taller than I am) are so flexible they give and bounce when struck. The trick seems to be whacking the things hard enough at just the right point where the sucker meets the trunk to just knock it off, rather than actually cutting through. If you then factor in a temperature of 75°(24°C) and a high sun, you basically have my six-hour workday. But it’s not so bad. We begin work at 8 am, with breakfast from 9:30 to 10, then more work until lunch at 2. Breakfast breaks up the day nicely, with the work ending at the high heat of the day, leaving the rest of the afternoon (until dinner at 9) free. And I’m really enjoying beating the hell out of olive trees!
The trip here was an adventure all by itself. I was traveling for a very long time. After my arrival in Madrid, I had to immediately hop the Metro (subway system) to get to the center of the town where I immediately caught a train to Jeréz de la Frontera. Jeréz is a town in the Southern province of Cádiz. From there, I meant to take a bus to Villamartín where the Hacienda is. I made it to Jeréz just in time to miss the bus. And then my credit card wouldn’t work in any of the cash machines. It was the perfect nightmare scenario I was hoping to avoid. I’m in Spain, I have no cash, it’s 10 at night, and nobody speaks English. There I was, wandering the dark, semi-deserted streets of an unfamiliar town with all my luggage, looking for a cheap hotel. And nobody had heard of the hostel in my guidebook. Thankfully I finally found a decent hotel (read: cheap!), and the first English-speaking Spaniard who could help me. I rented a room for the night, tried to resolve my credit card problem, and slept a fitful sleep. The next day, I hit the streets again, in search of a bank that could give me a cash advance, or a kind stranger that could give me bus fare. I managed to find the latter and made it without further incident to my new home.
So now here I am, supplied with a roof, food, and labor for my hands, companions-at-arms, and an international phone card. Who could ask for anything more?
Well, ok, maybe some cold hard cash wouldn’t be bad.
The set-up is grand. I have my own room with a private bathroom, three fabulous meals a day, and the freedom to wander the whole place, as I like. My primary work is in the olive grove, preparing the trees for the olive harvest; the work is hard, but not difficult. Although the whole countryside is covered in olive trees, because of the labor involved and small return, we only harvest from a small paddock of trees, with the oil and fruit produced used in-house. This is how it goes: Imagine a dwarf-sized fruit tree with hundreds of suckers creating a hedge around the bottoms of the two or three widely spread trunks. Now, my task is to cut away the suckers using a suleta (think one-headed pickaxe) and hand axe. Sounds easy enough, right? Ok, now imagine that the wood of this fruit tree is so hard the blade can’t actually sink in, yet the suckers and branches (several of which are an inch or more thick, and taller than I am) are so flexible they give and bounce when struck. The trick seems to be whacking the things hard enough at just the right point where the sucker meets the trunk to just knock it off, rather than actually cutting through. If you then factor in a temperature of 75°(24°C) and a high sun, you basically have my six-hour workday. But it’s not so bad. We begin work at 8 am, with breakfast from 9:30 to 10, then more work until lunch at 2. Breakfast breaks up the day nicely, with the work ending at the high heat of the day, leaving the rest of the afternoon (until dinner at 9) free. And I’m really enjoying beating the hell out of olive trees!
The trip here was an adventure all by itself. I was traveling for a very long time. After my arrival in Madrid, I had to immediately hop the Metro (subway system) to get to the center of the town where I immediately caught a train to Jeréz de la Frontera. Jeréz is a town in the Southern province of Cádiz. From there, I meant to take a bus to Villamartín where the Hacienda is. I made it to Jeréz just in time to miss the bus. And then my credit card wouldn’t work in any of the cash machines. It was the perfect nightmare scenario I was hoping to avoid. I’m in Spain, I have no cash, it’s 10 at night, and nobody speaks English. There I was, wandering the dark, semi-deserted streets of an unfamiliar town with all my luggage, looking for a cheap hotel. And nobody had heard of the hostel in my guidebook. Thankfully I finally found a decent hotel (read: cheap!), and the first English-speaking Spaniard who could help me. I rented a room for the night, tried to resolve my credit card problem, and slept a fitful sleep. The next day, I hit the streets again, in search of a bank that could give me a cash advance, or a kind stranger that could give me bus fare. I managed to find the latter and made it without further incident to my new home.
So now here I am, supplied with a roof, food, and labor for my hands, companions-at-arms, and an international phone card. Who could ask for anything more?
Well, ok, maybe some cold hard cash wouldn’t be bad.
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