Hi friends and family!
I have started a new blog, specifically pertaining to my WWOOFing and explorations into urban sustainability.
www.urbanwwoofer.blogspot.com
If you are interested in learning how one builds a rooftop garden; manages worms under an apartment counter; uses a bicycle for a primary means of transportation; and all around tries to live more ecologically, check it out!!
Peace, Love and Compost,
Alex
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
WWOF Italy: WWOOFer Turned Host
May 10 2011
Andrea: 29, Torino native, followed his father's career of financial analysis, began to travel, and woke up. Quit working with his father, WWOOFed in Australia, New Zealand, and Argentina. Has not really worked for four years as he tries to figure out the world. In the meantime, has WWOOFed on over twenty Italian farms, one in every region. Between farms, returns home to Torino to bring back to life his grandfather's country home, its garden, and hundreds of hazelnut trees. Now considering hosting WWOOFers of his own. Still not quite sure if he is ready to live this life on the farm permanently--at the age of twenty-nine choosing isolation with the threat of almost no income and all neighbors over the age of sixty is a difficult decision to make--but he is surely trying.
I met him on my WWOOFing travels and told him that I would come to his farm to help him out, so at the end of my time on Finocchio Verde, I joined him in the country. His life there is not glamorous, and it is not easy. When I see someone older doing it, especially surrounded by a WWOOFer or two, it seems beautiful and exciting, but when I see someone else my age doing it, it somehow seems melancholic. Waking up everyday by yourself to water plants, all so that you can eat the fruits of your labor...by yourself. I never will be able to do something like this alone. As one who is dependent upon sociality, community is of the utmost importance for me. That said, I applaud him. He is slowly fitting into the lifestyle, but young and restless like me, he knows that there is a small part of him that still has the disposition to up and move to Cuba and leave everything. On the farm, he is slowly working his own land and perhaps spending more time with his eighty-three year old neighbor, not only helping but learning from his experience.
I wish I had his guts! ...I also wish I had his grandfather's empty country house to inherit. I would set it up to become a WWOOFers paradise, find some way to make income (maybe first write a "grant" request to WWOOF Italy, asking for start up cash, and then instead of selling nuts from the trees as commodities, baking hazelnut cakes or making hazelnut butters to sell in the local town, at the churches, and in Torino.) As is the case with almost any commodity, selling hazelnuts alone pays next to nothing; you need some sort of markup, for better or worse.
I would return to Italy to help a fellow WWOOFer make an idea like this come to life! We already talked about getting married: for me a European passport would be convenient, and likewise for him with an American passport. Neither of us are very keen on traditional marriage in life, anyway, in the meanwhile we might as well use the institution for something mutually beneficial, yeah?
Andrea: 29, Torino native, followed his father's career of financial analysis, began to travel, and woke up. Quit working with his father, WWOOFed in Australia, New Zealand, and Argentina. Has not really worked for four years as he tries to figure out the world. In the meantime, has WWOOFed on over twenty Italian farms, one in every region. Between farms, returns home to Torino to bring back to life his grandfather's country home, its garden, and hundreds of hazelnut trees. Now considering hosting WWOOFers of his own. Still not quite sure if he is ready to live this life on the farm permanently--at the age of twenty-nine choosing isolation with the threat of almost no income and all neighbors over the age of sixty is a difficult decision to make--but he is surely trying.
I met him on my WWOOFing travels and told him that I would come to his farm to help him out, so at the end of my time on Finocchio Verde, I joined him in the country. His life there is not glamorous, and it is not easy. When I see someone older doing it, especially surrounded by a WWOOFer or two, it seems beautiful and exciting, but when I see someone else my age doing it, it somehow seems melancholic. Waking up everyday by yourself to water plants, all so that you can eat the fruits of your labor...by yourself. I never will be able to do something like this alone. As one who is dependent upon sociality, community is of the utmost importance for me. That said, I applaud him. He is slowly fitting into the lifestyle, but young and restless like me, he knows that there is a small part of him that still has the disposition to up and move to Cuba and leave everything. On the farm, he is slowly working his own land and perhaps spending more time with his eighty-three year old neighbor, not only helping but learning from his experience.
I wish I had his guts! ...I also wish I had his grandfather's empty country house to inherit. I would set it up to become a WWOOFers paradise, find some way to make income (maybe first write a "grant" request to WWOOF Italy, asking for start up cash, and then instead of selling nuts from the trees as commodities, baking hazelnut cakes or making hazelnut butters to sell in the local town, at the churches, and in Torino.) As is the case with almost any commodity, selling hazelnuts alone pays next to nothing; you need some sort of markup, for better or worse.
I would return to Italy to help a fellow WWOOFer make an idea like this come to life! We already talked about getting married: for me a European passport would be convenient, and likewise for him with an American passport. Neither of us are very keen on traditional marriage in life, anyway, in the meanwhile we might as well use the institution for something mutually beneficial, yeah?
WWOOF Italy: WWOOFing Without Work
8 May 2011
It can happen that a farmer has too many workers at once with not enough work for them to do. At times six WWOOFers will request to come in a certain period and in the end only one will show up, and at other times every single one will decide to come, making it difficult to get the numbers exactly right. WWOOFers coming and going, depending on the farm, can be difficult on a farmer, as each time new ones need to be trained. That is why on this farm, the host requests a minimum of a three week stay. Then the WWOOFer begins to understand his place and can work without needing guidance.
Unfortunately, I have not reached that point, here. Everyday, when I ask, “what needs to be done today?” I can tell that the farmer and his wife avoid it; they would prefer not to have to find a job for us or stop to show us. Today, for example, I have done nothing. All morning I sat and waited for a job, and finally I got one in the garden about a half hour before lunch. Right after lunch, however, it began to rain, right away ending garden work for the rest of the day.
It can happen that a farmer has too many workers at once with not enough work for them to do. At times six WWOOFers will request to come in a certain period and in the end only one will show up, and at other times every single one will decide to come, making it difficult to get the numbers exactly right. WWOOFers coming and going, depending on the farm, can be difficult on a farmer, as each time new ones need to be trained. That is why on this farm, the host requests a minimum of a three week stay. Then the WWOOFer begins to understand his place and can work without needing guidance.
Unfortunately, I have not reached that point, here. Everyday, when I ask, “what needs to be done today?” I can tell that the farmer and his wife avoid it; they would prefer not to have to find a job for us or stop to show us. Today, for example, I have done nothing. All morning I sat and waited for a job, and finally I got one in the garden about a half hour before lunch. Right after lunch, however, it began to rain, right away ending garden work for the rest of the day.
WWOOF Italy: More on Agritourisms
7 May 2011
At this farm the agritourism was added seven years ago in addition to a small garden, olive trees, vinyard, the sheep and goats, the cheese production, and the bees. Agritourism in Italy can mean two things: or beds for a stay and/or a restaurant. Here they have both. Beds cost about 25€ per person and meals about 15 €. The few beds that they do have are secondary, though; most people come for the restaurant. The “restaurant” is basically the dining room where the family always eats. Everyone in the restaurant eats together at the same time and at the same table, and unless there is no room, the family and the WWOOFers join them. There is one meal and I doubt that guests are told what it will be in advance: basically they come to be fed by Mario and Isa. Most of the food comes from the farm: cheeses, sausages (made on the farm from pig meat bought from a local farmer), handmade pasta, veggies from the farm (in this season all wild growing greens), and a dessert (typically some variation on ricotta from the farm). In my experience, this farm is fairly atypical. While agritourism restaurants are obliged to use 70% of their own production in the restaurant, it seems that it rarely happens. In my interviews, in fact, this has sort of been the joke: that agritourisms rarely follow through with the goals and government criteria for agritourisms, mainly because there is nobody checking up on them.
The weekend is when most guests come to eat. This past Sunday at lunch, for example, we had a couple of two, a group of three, and a group of eleven. Lunch lasted from about 1:30 until 5:00. We, the WWOOFers, helped prepare, serve, and clean up the entire ordeal. If we had not been there to help, I do not know if such an agritourism would be possible with a farm that still functions so smoothly.
At this farm the agritourism was added seven years ago in addition to a small garden, olive trees, vinyard, the sheep and goats, the cheese production, and the bees. Agritourism in Italy can mean two things: or beds for a stay and/or a restaurant. Here they have both. Beds cost about 25€ per person and meals about 15 €. The few beds that they do have are secondary, though; most people come for the restaurant. The “restaurant” is basically the dining room where the family always eats. Everyone in the restaurant eats together at the same time and at the same table, and unless there is no room, the family and the WWOOFers join them. There is one meal and I doubt that guests are told what it will be in advance: basically they come to be fed by Mario and Isa. Most of the food comes from the farm: cheeses, sausages (made on the farm from pig meat bought from a local farmer), handmade pasta, veggies from the farm (in this season all wild growing greens), and a dessert (typically some variation on ricotta from the farm). In my experience, this farm is fairly atypical. While agritourism restaurants are obliged to use 70% of their own production in the restaurant, it seems that it rarely happens. In my interviews, in fact, this has sort of been the joke: that agritourisms rarely follow through with the goals and government criteria for agritourisms, mainly because there is nobody checking up on them.
The weekend is when most guests come to eat. This past Sunday at lunch, for example, we had a couple of two, a group of three, and a group of eleven. Lunch lasted from about 1:30 until 5:00. We, the WWOOFers, helped prepare, serve, and clean up the entire ordeal. If we had not been there to help, I do not know if such an agritourism would be possible with a farm that still functions so smoothly.
WWOOF Italy: Agritourism
4 May 2011
My fifth and final WWOOF farm! I have arrived to Finocchio Verde, a farm, agritourism in Murazzano, Italy, in the beautiful Piemonte. “Piemonte” is so called because it literally sits at the “foot of the mountains,” or the Alps. That said, it has been so overcast that I have not yet seen the glorious mountains that are supposedly surrounding us!
This is what an agritourism should be. The family consists of Isa and Mario, sixty or so sheep, forty or so goats, one horse, six or so cats (including a black one named Obama and his sister named Hillary), and six or so dogs. Then there are the WWOOFers...somewhere around seven of us, currently. There are three permanent WWOOFers (not including the three year old horror who is the child of one of them) and four short term ones currently.
Then the agritourism itself only has four beds. Four. They are available when Mario and Isa feel like having guests…and not when they do not. The agritourism also has a restaurant, where guests eat along with the family and the WWOOFers, all at the same big table. This also is open when Mario and Isa feel like hosting…and not when they do not.
Agritourism was created as a government supported concept to help farmers who may otherwise have to leave the land to find a way to support themselves. Often, you see agritourisms with something like fourteen beds (the only excuse, according to Mario, is that they must become consumed with the idea of making money). In those cases, though, either the agriculture becomes secondary, or they must hire outside help for the agritourism, OR they must hire outside help from a farmer to take over the farm responsibilities. These results of farms turned agritourism annul the agritourism's original goal, to make the farm more financially sustainable as it is. At my first agritourism in Gubbio, for example, the farm was completely secondary and completely taken care of by hired outside help, completely in contrast with agritourism's original goal.
For Isa and Mario, it is serving its exact purpose of making their farm more financially sustainable, but it is not being exploited beyond that. They are able to sell their products to their customer, but selling prepared salad in a meal that costs fifteen Euros a person is economically much better than selling it at a commodity price or not selling it directly through a market. Also, it gives them the opportunity to gain customers who will come back and continue to purchase their cheese and meat, their main products, in the future. The agritourism has not been so overwhelming that it has forced them to hire more help or give up parts of their farm work, such as the bees or the garden, but it has helped them make ends meet.
My fifth and final WWOOF farm! I have arrived to Finocchio Verde, a farm, agritourism in Murazzano, Italy, in the beautiful Piemonte. “Piemonte” is so called because it literally sits at the “foot of the mountains,” or the Alps. That said, it has been so overcast that I have not yet seen the glorious mountains that are supposedly surrounding us!
This is what an agritourism should be. The family consists of Isa and Mario, sixty or so sheep, forty or so goats, one horse, six or so cats (including a black one named Obama and his sister named Hillary), and six or so dogs. Then there are the WWOOFers...somewhere around seven of us, currently. There are three permanent WWOOFers (not including the three year old horror who is the child of one of them) and four short term ones currently.
Then the agritourism itself only has four beds. Four. They are available when Mario and Isa feel like having guests…and not when they do not. The agritourism also has a restaurant, where guests eat along with the family and the WWOOFers, all at the same big table. This also is open when Mario and Isa feel like hosting…and not when they do not.
Agritourism was created as a government supported concept to help farmers who may otherwise have to leave the land to find a way to support themselves. Often, you see agritourisms with something like fourteen beds (the only excuse, according to Mario, is that they must become consumed with the idea of making money). In those cases, though, either the agriculture becomes secondary, or they must hire outside help for the agritourism, OR they must hire outside help from a farmer to take over the farm responsibilities. These results of farms turned agritourism annul the agritourism's original goal, to make the farm more financially sustainable as it is. At my first agritourism in Gubbio, for example, the farm was completely secondary and completely taken care of by hired outside help, completely in contrast with agritourism's original goal.
For Isa and Mario, it is serving its exact purpose of making their farm more financially sustainable, but it is not being exploited beyond that. They are able to sell their products to their customer, but selling prepared salad in a meal that costs fifteen Euros a person is economically much better than selling it at a commodity price or not selling it directly through a market. Also, it gives them the opportunity to gain customers who will come back and continue to purchase their cheese and meat, their main products, in the future. The agritourism has not been so overwhelming that it has forced them to hire more help or give up parts of their farm work, such as the bees or the garden, but it has helped them make ends meet.
WWOOF Italy: WWOOFers Helping to Make Ends Meet
26 April 2011
Giancarlo lives alone in the house he grew up in..."alone" with an average of six WWOOFers at any given time. He has mainly olive trees, a garden, and an organic produce box drop off business. In essence, alone, this man organized with other local organic farms, gained clients, and now drops off boxes, general and upon request, every Wednesday and Thursday at people's doorsteps. It is a fabulous business, and it is amazing that he has somehow made it run so smoothly. It perplexes me the complexity of what he organized, and even more it perplexes me how he ever managed before the help of WWOOFers, which he has only had for the past eight months.
He needs to prepare how much produce to order every week because, only using organic, seasonal produce, the actual products change week to week and season to season. He then emails everyone who purchases a personalized box with the list on Sunday, and prepares a spreadsheet based on their requests on Monday. On Tuesday, he picks up all of the produce from several different farms, organizes it into different boxes, picks and prepares the produce from his own farm, and loads his truck for the drop offs the next morning. Wednesday he spends about ten hours dropping off boxes, returns home to prepare more, and has a shorter drop-off of more boxes on Thursday. The planning and the paperwork he does to prepare all of this is spread out through the entire week. This work consumes a good four and a half FULL days for him, so without the help of WWOOFers, I cannot imagine how he ever managed to maintain his own garden of produce before.
The work of his WWOOFers, thus, revolves around the garden and the olive trees. He has a regimented system: five hours of work a day, five days a week. We work in the morning, everyone 7:30 to 12:30, and then we enjoy the afternoon off. Giancarlo does a nice job of planning work for everyone. He either spends the time to demonstrate how the work needs to be done, or he makes sure that another one of the long-term WWOOFers can supervise. Thus, at any given time, he has between four and twelve young people doing work for him, each 25 hours a week, whether he is there with them or out running boxes of food around. That means that a HUGE amount of work is accomplished, unimaginable if it were not for WWOOFers.
WWOOFers at Giancarlo's farm are paid nothing to help his system work. However, they get exactly what they want: knowledge about agriculture and experience with it, without having their own farm.
Giancarlo lives alone in the house he grew up in..."alone" with an average of six WWOOFers at any given time. He has mainly olive trees, a garden, and an organic produce box drop off business. In essence, alone, this man organized with other local organic farms, gained clients, and now drops off boxes, general and upon request, every Wednesday and Thursday at people's doorsteps. It is a fabulous business, and it is amazing that he has somehow made it run so smoothly. It perplexes me the complexity of what he organized, and even more it perplexes me how he ever managed before the help of WWOOFers, which he has only had for the past eight months.
He needs to prepare how much produce to order every week because, only using organic, seasonal produce, the actual products change week to week and season to season. He then emails everyone who purchases a personalized box with the list on Sunday, and prepares a spreadsheet based on their requests on Monday. On Tuesday, he picks up all of the produce from several different farms, organizes it into different boxes, picks and prepares the produce from his own farm, and loads his truck for the drop offs the next morning. Wednesday he spends about ten hours dropping off boxes, returns home to prepare more, and has a shorter drop-off of more boxes on Thursday. The planning and the paperwork he does to prepare all of this is spread out through the entire week. This work consumes a good four and a half FULL days for him, so without the help of WWOOFers, I cannot imagine how he ever managed to maintain his own garden of produce before.
The work of his WWOOFers, thus, revolves around the garden and the olive trees. He has a regimented system: five hours of work a day, five days a week. We work in the morning, everyone 7:30 to 12:30, and then we enjoy the afternoon off. Giancarlo does a nice job of planning work for everyone. He either spends the time to demonstrate how the work needs to be done, or he makes sure that another one of the long-term WWOOFers can supervise. Thus, at any given time, he has between four and twelve young people doing work for him, each 25 hours a week, whether he is there with them or out running boxes of food around. That means that a HUGE amount of work is accomplished, unimaginable if it were not for WWOOFers.
WWOOFers at Giancarlo's farm are paid nothing to help his system work. However, they get exactly what they want: knowledge about agriculture and experience with it, without having their own farm.
WWOOF Italy: Pearls of Wisdom from Giancarlo
24 April 2011
The three best ways to loose your money.
The fastest way is gambling.
The funnest way is partying: sex, women, drugs, alcohol.
The slowest but most secure way: agriculture. You'll never go wrong. You'll DEFINITELY loose all of your money for good.
On the Economy.
I hope that the economic crisis gets worse. I know that people have not changed or learned because they still say, 'I have no money'. No!! There is too much money; THAT is the problem. As long as people see not having enough money as their problem, things will never be solved.
"Il povero non รจ povero; e semplicemente diversamente rico."
The poor man is not poor; he is simply a different sort of rich."
The three best ways to loose your money.
The fastest way is gambling.
The funnest way is partying: sex, women, drugs, alcohol.
The slowest but most secure way: agriculture. You'll never go wrong. You'll DEFINITELY loose all of your money for good.
On the Economy.
I hope that the economic crisis gets worse. I know that people have not changed or learned because they still say, 'I have no money'. No!! There is too much money; THAT is the problem. As long as people see not having enough money as their problem, things will never be solved.
"Il povero non รจ povero; e semplicemente diversamente rico."
The poor man is not poor; he is simply a different sort of rich."
WWOOF Italy: Agricultural Wisdom
23 April 2011
Agriculture is probably the most difficult profession that exists. Aside from the obvious physical work and the perhaps less obvious vulnerability of a farmer's livelihood, it requires incredible mental labor, as well.
Physical Labor: When speaking of serious, “respectable” farming,* farming is grueling work. Machines can make most of this farming nice and easy, but only few machines can be defended as part of respectable farming. I spent over an hour cutting salad greens in Giancarlo's greenhouse and then washed, dried and packed them. This all for about the equivalent of about four bags of store bought salad mix. How could it have taken so long only to do the very last step on the production chain? While before I complained about a costly $4 salad bag, $4 certainly could not cover the costs of the labor to make this salad. Those salad mixes come from farms where the ground is leveled to such a perfection that a machine can cut all of the greens at their roots in one easy sweep. Because they use a machine that does not differentiate between plants, they must use chemical pesticides to keep all non-wanted plants, or weeds, away, lest they make their way into the salad mix. Then, the greens are put through a giant machine that cleans and dries them; after they are bagged (by machine) with gases that make them keep fresher and longer so they can be shipped wide and far. For such expensive systems to be used, this must be a very large-scale system to make it efficient. Hundreds or thousands of acres thus need to be planted to make up the costs of these specialized pieces of equipment. With specialized equipment, they cannot rotate crops year to year as is healthy for the soil, so surely more chemicals are needed to make the same greens grow yearly on such over-exploited land. With a system this large and the consumer so far, the health and the safety is barely questioned, encouraging companies to skimp on both in order to raise profit margins (for example, using poorly paid labor). While this is incredibly financially efficient, it is hardly serious, “respectable” agriculture. This is “muscle flexing, conquer nature” agriculture. The amount of petroleum used for the machines is hundreds of times more than that used when doing it by hand. The earth that is leveled flat looses its much needed air pockets, and the pesticides ruin the natural soil humus and ruin water supplies in their chemical runoff. While on a large-scale it is certainly more economical than my cutting greens with scissors by hand, those bags of salad come at the expense of many, while my bags of salad come at the expense of few. I used water to water them from our manmade lake on our property, I fertilized them with last year's compost, I hand-picked out the weeds myself, and instead of blasting them clean with water, I hand rinsed them in a plugged sink. Nevertheless, my bag of greens would NEVER cost as little as the other bag of greens, not even when I, the unpaid WWOOFer, is the one who picked them. So imagine when it is a worker demanding a respectable wage!
This is where we need to come to terms with our food reality. We are what we eat. However, this seems little believed; rather we tend to all think that we are what we wear or we are what we own. We are willing to spend money on a better shirt or a better television set, but we try to pay the least possible for food.
No security: (As said by Giancarlo) A farmer takes his money and instead of putting it in an actual bank, he trades it for seeds. Then he buries the seeds in the ground, hoping that they will bear fruits that he can sell for more money. However, if the ground freezes too soon, if there is too little rain, if any number of factors present themselves slightly out of the ordinary, a farmer risks loosing all of that money he put into his underground bank.
Mental Labor: Andrea, a fellow WWOOFer who worked for years as a financial advisor, began WWOOFing, and now has quit his job to reawaken his grandfather's old farmland, said, “A farmer's analytical work is world's more complex than that of someone working in an office. An office worker analyzes fragments of information. A farmer, on the other hand, never makes a decision without considering a world of other factors. If he must choose where to plant a tree, he is not just thinking of the tree but how it will affect the life and structures around it, how it will be affected by the life and the structures around it and what it will be doing five, ten and twenty years in the future. He can never look at a fragmented picture: all factors must be considered.
Giancarlo had a friend, much like Andrea, who had lived his early work life in an office and not on the land.
“I know what farmer's do wrong,” he told Giancarlo. “They do not know how to schedule!”
Giancarlo tried to explain to him, “But agriculture cannot be scheduled. It is not an office job where if you do not finish the outline tonight you can finish it tomorrow morning.” Giancarlo's friend was convinced he had the answer, though, and bought a farm to try his hand at agriculture. After five years of learning and struggle, he returned to Giancarlo.
“You were right! I did not finish something one day in the fields. It got late, I got tired. It could wait till the morning, anyway, I thought. No big deal. Well, morning came, and it was raining. I said I would wait until it stopped raining. They next day it continued. Then it stopped, but the ground was wet. When the ground dried, it started raining again. By the time the ground was dry, it was too late and I had to wait until the next year.” Agricultural timetables are extremely precise and important...yet they are entirely dependent upon and vulnerable to outside factors.
*Serious, respectable farming is what Giancarlo uses when he means the utmost of organic. It is farming that does not reap benefits at the expense of the land. This means it respects natural cycles, respects how much the earth is able to bare, and does not attempt to collect more.
Agriculture is probably the most difficult profession that exists. Aside from the obvious physical work and the perhaps less obvious vulnerability of a farmer's livelihood, it requires incredible mental labor, as well.
Physical Labor: When speaking of serious, “respectable” farming,* farming is grueling work. Machines can make most of this farming nice and easy, but only few machines can be defended as part of respectable farming. I spent over an hour cutting salad greens in Giancarlo's greenhouse and then washed, dried and packed them. This all for about the equivalent of about four bags of store bought salad mix. How could it have taken so long only to do the very last step on the production chain? While before I complained about a costly $4 salad bag, $4 certainly could not cover the costs of the labor to make this salad. Those salad mixes come from farms where the ground is leveled to such a perfection that a machine can cut all of the greens at their roots in one easy sweep. Because they use a machine that does not differentiate between plants, they must use chemical pesticides to keep all non-wanted plants, or weeds, away, lest they make their way into the salad mix. Then, the greens are put through a giant machine that cleans and dries them; after they are bagged (by machine) with gases that make them keep fresher and longer so they can be shipped wide and far. For such expensive systems to be used, this must be a very large-scale system to make it efficient. Hundreds or thousands of acres thus need to be planted to make up the costs of these specialized pieces of equipment. With specialized equipment, they cannot rotate crops year to year as is healthy for the soil, so surely more chemicals are needed to make the same greens grow yearly on such over-exploited land. With a system this large and the consumer so far, the health and the safety is barely questioned, encouraging companies to skimp on both in order to raise profit margins (for example, using poorly paid labor). While this is incredibly financially efficient, it is hardly serious, “respectable” agriculture. This is “muscle flexing, conquer nature” agriculture. The amount of petroleum used for the machines is hundreds of times more than that used when doing it by hand. The earth that is leveled flat looses its much needed air pockets, and the pesticides ruin the natural soil humus and ruin water supplies in their chemical runoff. While on a large-scale it is certainly more economical than my cutting greens with scissors by hand, those bags of salad come at the expense of many, while my bags of salad come at the expense of few. I used water to water them from our manmade lake on our property, I fertilized them with last year's compost, I hand-picked out the weeds myself, and instead of blasting them clean with water, I hand rinsed them in a plugged sink. Nevertheless, my bag of greens would NEVER cost as little as the other bag of greens, not even when I, the unpaid WWOOFer, is the one who picked them. So imagine when it is a worker demanding a respectable wage!
This is where we need to come to terms with our food reality. We are what we eat. However, this seems little believed; rather we tend to all think that we are what we wear or we are what we own. We are willing to spend money on a better shirt or a better television set, but we try to pay the least possible for food.
No security: (As said by Giancarlo) A farmer takes his money and instead of putting it in an actual bank, he trades it for seeds. Then he buries the seeds in the ground, hoping that they will bear fruits that he can sell for more money. However, if the ground freezes too soon, if there is too little rain, if any number of factors present themselves slightly out of the ordinary, a farmer risks loosing all of that money he put into his underground bank.
Mental Labor: Andrea, a fellow WWOOFer who worked for years as a financial advisor, began WWOOFing, and now has quit his job to reawaken his grandfather's old farmland, said, “A farmer's analytical work is world's more complex than that of someone working in an office. An office worker analyzes fragments of information. A farmer, on the other hand, never makes a decision without considering a world of other factors. If he must choose where to plant a tree, he is not just thinking of the tree but how it will affect the life and structures around it, how it will be affected by the life and the structures around it and what it will be doing five, ten and twenty years in the future. He can never look at a fragmented picture: all factors must be considered.
Giancarlo had a friend, much like Andrea, who had lived his early work life in an office and not on the land.
“I know what farmer's do wrong,” he told Giancarlo. “They do not know how to schedule!”
Giancarlo tried to explain to him, “But agriculture cannot be scheduled. It is not an office job where if you do not finish the outline tonight you can finish it tomorrow morning.” Giancarlo's friend was convinced he had the answer, though, and bought a farm to try his hand at agriculture. After five years of learning and struggle, he returned to Giancarlo.
“You were right! I did not finish something one day in the fields. It got late, I got tired. It could wait till the morning, anyway, I thought. No big deal. Well, morning came, and it was raining. I said I would wait until it stopped raining. They next day it continued. Then it stopped, but the ground was wet. When the ground dried, it started raining again. By the time the ground was dry, it was too late and I had to wait until the next year.” Agricultural timetables are extremely precise and important...yet they are entirely dependent upon and vulnerable to outside factors.
*Serious, respectable farming is what Giancarlo uses when he means the utmost of organic. It is farming that does not reap benefits at the expense of the land. This means it respects natural cycles, respects how much the earth is able to bare, and does not attempt to collect more.
WWOOF Italy: Farm Five
Google Map:
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Farm Five's Personal Description:
'La Cascina del Finocchio Verde' is situated in Alta Langa on a hill with a view of the Piedmonte Alps. For over 10 years we have raised sheep and goats which graze freely in the pasture and woodland around us. We make high quality raw milk cheeses in our dairy from Spring to Autumn and sell in markets. We also have a fruit orchard and vegetable garden for our own use. This year we hope to keep bees again and make excellent honey, There is also a small agritourism attached to the farm with 6 beds and a restaurant for 16 where we serve our own produce. Accommodation in room with shared bathroom, minimum stay 3 weeks. Help needed with all aspects of daily work. In the winter the work is in the animal sheds, woodland, with pruning, making up baskets with our produce and with making salamis etc. We cook mainly using our own produce. French spoken and some Spanish and English.
View Larger Map
Farm Five's Personal Description:
'La Cascina del Finocchio Verde' is situated in Alta Langa on a hill with a view of the Piedmonte Alps. For over 10 years we have raised sheep and goats which graze freely in the pasture and woodland around us. We make high quality raw milk cheeses in our dairy from Spring to Autumn and sell in markets. We also have a fruit orchard and vegetable garden for our own use. This year we hope to keep bees again and make excellent honey, There is also a small agritourism attached to the farm with 6 beds and a restaurant for 16 where we serve our own produce. Accommodation in room with shared bathroom, minimum stay 3 weeks. Help needed with all aspects of daily work. In the winter the work is in the animal sheds, woodland, with pruning, making up baskets with our produce and with making salamis etc. We cook mainly using our own produce. French spoken and some Spanish and English.
WWOOF Italy: Farm Four
Google Map:
View Larger Map
Farm Four's Personal Description:
I live on and work this 20 ha organic farm the main production being olive oil, there is also an olive press on the farm where we press our olives. I also grow fruit and vegetables and exchange produce with other nearby farms to have a varied selection of produce to offer my customers whom I deliver boxes of vegetables to on a weekly basis. I need help all year round but especially during the olive harvest (October-November) and for pruning the olives (March-April). I can accommodate people for minimum of two weeks and give priority to people who want to come for longer. Our meals are mainly vegetarian using our own produce (but not exclusively). Accommodation is in the main house. I only speak Italian but am happy to host people who cannot speak my language. I live alone but fortunately never lack company, I always have friends and helpers who keep me company during the day and also during the evenings there are always people who like to share a plate of food and glass of wine with me. The farm is situated in the heart of the Maremma 15 km from the hot springs at Saturnia, 35 km from the sea.
Giancarlo's farm is in Ragnaie, located in the region of Grosseto, in the historical region of Marenma. Giancarlo's house is literally in a perfect location (if you don't mind living in the middle of nowhere), because it is a 15 minute drive from the largest natural hot springs in Europe; a 60 minute drive from the sea; and a 45 minute drive from the mountains. Giancarlo, when feeling in the mood, can drive to the town of Saturnia, and jump in the hot springs, parts naturally shaped like in a jacuzzi, and not pay a penny. And then perhaps after, if he pleases, he can drive the the majestic mideval town of Pitigliana, carved out of the mountains, to enjoy a nice pizza. Or if he prefers, perhaps the other way around. The hotsprings at night, usually with little to nobody around, are a perfectly romantic way to spend an evening, perhaps with some glasses of wine and dessert.
View Larger Map
Farm Four's Personal Description:
I live on and work this 20 ha organic farm the main production being olive oil, there is also an olive press on the farm where we press our olives. I also grow fruit and vegetables and exchange produce with other nearby farms to have a varied selection of produce to offer my customers whom I deliver boxes of vegetables to on a weekly basis. I need help all year round but especially during the olive harvest (October-November) and for pruning the olives (March-April). I can accommodate people for minimum of two weeks and give priority to people who want to come for longer. Our meals are mainly vegetarian using our own produce (but not exclusively). Accommodation is in the main house. I only speak Italian but am happy to host people who cannot speak my language. I live alone but fortunately never lack company, I always have friends and helpers who keep me company during the day and also during the evenings there are always people who like to share a plate of food and glass of wine with me. The farm is situated in the heart of the Maremma 15 km from the hot springs at Saturnia, 35 km from the sea.
Giancarlo's farm is in Ragnaie, located in the region of Grosseto, in the historical region of Marenma. Giancarlo's house is literally in a perfect location (if you don't mind living in the middle of nowhere), because it is a 15 minute drive from the largest natural hot springs in Europe; a 60 minute drive from the sea; and a 45 minute drive from the mountains. Giancarlo, when feeling in the mood, can drive to the town of Saturnia, and jump in the hot springs, parts naturally shaped like in a jacuzzi, and not pay a penny. And then perhaps after, if he pleases, he can drive the the majestic mideval town of Pitigliana, carved out of the mountains, to enjoy a nice pizza. Or if he prefers, perhaps the other way around. The hotsprings at night, usually with little to nobody around, are a perfectly romantic way to spend an evening, perhaps with some glasses of wine and dessert.
Friday, May 6, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Local Dinner
19 April 2011
Tonight’s Dinner:
Chapatti’s made with course flour, onions, and arugula, all from the farm.
Cooked beet greens, from the farm.
Fresh salad, from the farm.
Olive oil and vinegar, from the farm.
White wine, from the farm.
All ingredients came from within 100 m as opposed to the average, 10,000 mi. That is noteworthy.
Tonight’s Dinner:
Chapatti’s made with course flour, onions, and arugula, all from the farm.
Cooked beet greens, from the farm.
Fresh salad, from the farm.
Olive oil and vinegar, from the farm.
White wine, from the farm.
All ingredients came from within 100 m as opposed to the average, 10,000 mi. That is noteworthy.
WWOOFing in Italy: Cleanliness...is Relative.
April 14 2011
As I write tonight, I keep reaching up to itch my head. If you don’t already think significantly less of me, my shower average on this trip has been about twice a week (that average is relatively frequent, in fact, because when I was in cities I showered significantly more often).
I can’t be bothered.
First it was too cold to shower. Now I’m just used to it.
Working in nature, I feel so clean! I love dirt; I don’t love pollution. My boogers are never grey here; after one day in Rome they were the color of tar.
As I write tonight, I keep reaching up to itch my head. If you don’t already think significantly less of me, my shower average on this trip has been about twice a week (that average is relatively frequent, in fact, because when I was in cities I showered significantly more often).
I can’t be bothered.
First it was too cold to shower. Now I’m just used to it.
Working in nature, I feel so clean! I love dirt; I don’t love pollution. My boogers are never grey here; after one day in Rome they were the color of tar.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Time is Money...or Is It?
12 April 2011
It is 23:45, and I just spent forty-five minutes handsewing a hole in the butt of my work pants. Not a hole from a narly accident: these pants are so worn in that it takes little more than a strong wind to put holes in them. They were hand-me-downs from my neighbor at least eight years ago, they sat in my closet untouched for four, and I found them by chance the day before leaving for Asia two years ago. Turns out, that while they are not particularly fashionable, they make perfect work pants: linen, white and down to the ankles, good for strong sun and conservative cultures. After significant wear in Asia, they continued down the work path for last year's farming in Israel and now farming in Italy (and when you travel with only two pair of pants, they get sufficiently more wear than a pair of pants is used to). So a hole after all that? I think most would agree that these pants have merited the time spent to fix one hole.
Eight holes, however, is debatable. A month ago, I spent forty-five minutes sewing a seven inch hole on the other side of the butt: they are parallel, twin tears (precious! I suppose the one became lonely and beconned the second one on). There are at least four other one-inch plus holes, ten if we’re counting holes of any size. During the forty five-minutes that I spent fixing one of the holes, an eleven year old in China could have produced seven pair of potential replacement pants, probably at the cost to me of less than $20. Considering the two hours I would need to work with my last job's wage to make up that cost; considering the spectacle that I am with dirty, holey white pants with two big patches on the butt made of a non-matching fabric and green thread; considering that it is only a matter of days before more holes show up in new places in these terribly old pants making my hard repair work in vain; considering all of these factors, perhaps I should throw the towel in and buy new pants. Right?
NO!
“Time is Money” is one of the worst maxims to come out of our culture. Time is appreciating life! I appreciate life more in my holey pants because I played part in making them. They have part of my story in them; not like the factory produced pants at some store that will be identical to thousands of other pairs.
It is 23:45, and I just spent forty-five minutes handsewing a hole in the butt of my work pants. Not a hole from a narly accident: these pants are so worn in that it takes little more than a strong wind to put holes in them. They were hand-me-downs from my neighbor at least eight years ago, they sat in my closet untouched for four, and I found them by chance the day before leaving for Asia two years ago. Turns out, that while they are not particularly fashionable, they make perfect work pants: linen, white and down to the ankles, good for strong sun and conservative cultures. After significant wear in Asia, they continued down the work path for last year's farming in Israel and now farming in Italy (and when you travel with only two pair of pants, they get sufficiently more wear than a pair of pants is used to). So a hole after all that? I think most would agree that these pants have merited the time spent to fix one hole.
Eight holes, however, is debatable. A month ago, I spent forty-five minutes sewing a seven inch hole on the other side of the butt: they are parallel, twin tears (precious! I suppose the one became lonely and beconned the second one on). There are at least four other one-inch plus holes, ten if we’re counting holes of any size. During the forty five-minutes that I spent fixing one of the holes, an eleven year old in China could have produced seven pair of potential replacement pants, probably at the cost to me of less than $20. Considering the two hours I would need to work with my last job's wage to make up that cost; considering the spectacle that I am with dirty, holey white pants with two big patches on the butt made of a non-matching fabric and green thread; considering that it is only a matter of days before more holes show up in new places in these terribly old pants making my hard repair work in vain; considering all of these factors, perhaps I should throw the towel in and buy new pants. Right?
NO!
“Time is Money” is one of the worst maxims to come out of our culture. Time is appreciating life! I appreciate life more in my holey pants because I played part in making them. They have part of my story in them; not like the factory produced pants at some store that will be identical to thousands of other pairs.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
WWOOF Italy: Italian Women
17 April 2011
I flew into Rome the weekend of the “Protest of the Women” against Berlusconi. It was a beautiful thing to see: thousands of women and supportive men standing up for women everywhere. The message: “Forget Politics, Berlusconi. This is personal. The image that you have given Italian women to the international community is shameful. We are tired of a government run by machismo: shown in the jobs available to us, the pay, the respect and the way men like you think you can treat us. We work hard to get ahead, and we are offended to see you choose a woman for sex and then put her, unqualified as she is, in a high position as a personal favor. We work hard: let us earn our spots not because of our bodies but because of our brains.” (This is my summarized version of what I saw. )
Machismo pervades this culture. Berlusconi perpetuates it, but we certainly cannot blame him for starting it. That acknowledged, in something like 17 years in power, his influence certainly can be blamed for allowing it to thrive.
On all talk show-like programs, there is a slender woman, very made-up, dressed in a cocktail dress, tall, blonde and beautiful. In sum, not very not-Italian looking. She usually has scripts or comes on for the beginning or end, not trusted to make any off the cuff comments or speak candidly. Italian publicities have the same above described woman, doing very “womanly” things (based on Italian womanly of forty years ago): grocery shopping, cleaning or being beautiful.
The plastic surgery that I see in this country is HIGH. Berlusconi—the bionic man—is one example, but most obvious examples are women with giant, unexpressive lips sitting atop a wrinkly neck, sitting atop a Dolce & Gabana/Gucci/Versace poorly matched outfit. Classic.
Fabio, while talking about the difficulties of this life being a farmer and remaining in the country on a farm where you will make little money, said how difficult it is to find women for a lot of men like him. In fact, I’ve met several single Italian small-scale farmers, some of them older and never married. Side note: the first farm where I stayed, Angelo’s 28 year old godson had left his old life, moved in two years ago and was learning and preparing to build his own life on the land. Knowing that women-—especially decent ones-—would be few and far between in his future, he all but proposed to me to keep me for his country wife.
Fabio continued to explain, “It is difficult for someone to find a woman here who wants to stay in the country...they want to be in the city. All (puts his hands up in cutesy way) want to be “top model” (not translated). "Ma che ci fa' con un Top Model?!" (“what the hell do you do with a top model?!” is a decent translation, but you must picture it in Italian with all appropriate Italian animation, intonation and hand movements at their liveliest). *
I told him, in efforts to be a little easier on Italian women, that he needs to respect that his culture is much harder on women than it is on men. Advertisements are all directed at women, and public opinion expects much more of a woman. Women are expected to be beautiful and it is their fault if they are not; men come as they are. Intelligence is secondary, sometimes ignored, and sometimes not even wanted. Thus, for all women the need to be beautiful must have a strong presence.
Being a woman in a culture like this (expanding beyond Italy to most Western culture also included) is horrifying. How do you stand up against it? Even I see a woman in television and I assess her appearance; I do not do so with men (is she attractive/isn’t she; is she wearing the right amount of makeup; is she a suitable weight...I never do that with men, assessing sex appeal notwithstanding).
*Later I found out that Fabio's daughter made it to one of the final selection rounds in a Miss Italia competition. I laughed for five minutes straight—a Miss Italia competition represents everything that this man is against. I feel terrible for him; his family has not followed his lead. Nonetheless, the idea of them interviewing him about his daughter, long messy hair, flannel shirt, dirt caked on his hands, made my heart swell with happiness, at the expense of Miss Italia’s TV crew.
I flew into Rome the weekend of the “Protest of the Women” against Berlusconi. It was a beautiful thing to see: thousands of women and supportive men standing up for women everywhere. The message: “Forget Politics, Berlusconi. This is personal. The image that you have given Italian women to the international community is shameful. We are tired of a government run by machismo: shown in the jobs available to us, the pay, the respect and the way men like you think you can treat us. We work hard to get ahead, and we are offended to see you choose a woman for sex and then put her, unqualified as she is, in a high position as a personal favor. We work hard: let us earn our spots not because of our bodies but because of our brains.” (This is my summarized version of what I saw. )
Machismo pervades this culture. Berlusconi perpetuates it, but we certainly cannot blame him for starting it. That acknowledged, in something like 17 years in power, his influence certainly can be blamed for allowing it to thrive.
On all talk show-like programs, there is a slender woman, very made-up, dressed in a cocktail dress, tall, blonde and beautiful. In sum, not very not-Italian looking. She usually has scripts or comes on for the beginning or end, not trusted to make any off the cuff comments or speak candidly. Italian publicities have the same above described woman, doing very “womanly” things (based on Italian womanly of forty years ago): grocery shopping, cleaning or being beautiful.
The plastic surgery that I see in this country is HIGH. Berlusconi—the bionic man—is one example, but most obvious examples are women with giant, unexpressive lips sitting atop a wrinkly neck, sitting atop a Dolce & Gabana/Gucci/Versace poorly matched outfit. Classic.
Fabio, while talking about the difficulties of this life being a farmer and remaining in the country on a farm where you will make little money, said how difficult it is to find women for a lot of men like him. In fact, I’ve met several single Italian small-scale farmers, some of them older and never married. Side note: the first farm where I stayed, Angelo’s 28 year old godson had left his old life, moved in two years ago and was learning and preparing to build his own life on the land. Knowing that women-—especially decent ones-—would be few and far between in his future, he all but proposed to me to keep me for his country wife.
Fabio continued to explain, “It is difficult for someone to find a woman here who wants to stay in the country...they want to be in the city. All (puts his hands up in cutesy way) want to be “top model” (not translated). "Ma che ci fa' con un Top Model?!" (“what the hell do you do with a top model?!” is a decent translation, but you must picture it in Italian with all appropriate Italian animation, intonation and hand movements at their liveliest). *
I told him, in efforts to be a little easier on Italian women, that he needs to respect that his culture is much harder on women than it is on men. Advertisements are all directed at women, and public opinion expects much more of a woman. Women are expected to be beautiful and it is their fault if they are not; men come as they are. Intelligence is secondary, sometimes ignored, and sometimes not even wanted. Thus, for all women the need to be beautiful must have a strong presence.
Being a woman in a culture like this (expanding beyond Italy to most Western culture also included) is horrifying. How do you stand up against it? Even I see a woman in television and I assess her appearance; I do not do so with men (is she attractive/isn’t she; is she wearing the right amount of makeup; is she a suitable weight...I never do that with men, assessing sex appeal notwithstanding).
*Later I found out that Fabio's daughter made it to one of the final selection rounds in a Miss Italia competition. I laughed for five minutes straight—a Miss Italia competition represents everything that this man is against. I feel terrible for him; his family has not followed his lead. Nonetheless, the idea of them interviewing him about his daughter, long messy hair, flannel shirt, dirt caked on his hands, made my heart swell with happiness, at the expense of Miss Italia’s TV crew.
Monday, May 2, 2011
WWOOF Italia: Berlusconi!
16 April 2011
“Worse than Berlusconi in and of himself is Berlusconi in you.”
This was told to me by Fabio. Then he elaborated. Berlusconi has sold the dream to Italy that anyone can do anything. You can make money, you can get women, you can have success and fame. Italians have bought this dream; that is why many still vote for him. It is evident across the country; everyone wants their little piece of the sky. This is also why everyone is not outraged at his actions, his relations with women, his contemptible remarks. In the back of everyone’s mind, “If I were powerful enough to do that, if I were powerful enough to have all those women, if I were powerful enough to…” Berlusconi in and of himself is not that dangerous. It is Berlusconi in each and every one of us that we need to watch out for.
Perhaps he buys votes in the South (widely accepted belief), but the fact is many continue to support him. Fabio’s mother, three years ago, said “We are living in fascism again”. Fabio’s mother is 92 years old, sharp as a whistle, and if anyone can make that comment it is her, a woman who was in her twenties during the last world war. Fabio said that it's a new kind of fascism, but fascism it is: no matter how outrageous this man’s actions, people follow him like lambs.
“Worse than Berlusconi in and of himself is Berlusconi in you.”
This was told to me by Fabio. Then he elaborated. Berlusconi has sold the dream to Italy that anyone can do anything. You can make money, you can get women, you can have success and fame. Italians have bought this dream; that is why many still vote for him. It is evident across the country; everyone wants their little piece of the sky. This is also why everyone is not outraged at his actions, his relations with women, his contemptible remarks. In the back of everyone’s mind, “If I were powerful enough to do that, if I were powerful enough to have all those women, if I were powerful enough to…” Berlusconi in and of himself is not that dangerous. It is Berlusconi in each and every one of us that we need to watch out for.
Perhaps he buys votes in the South (widely accepted belief), but the fact is many continue to support him. Fabio’s mother, three years ago, said “We are living in fascism again”. Fabio’s mother is 92 years old, sharp as a whistle, and if anyone can make that comment it is her, a woman who was in her twenties during the last world war. Fabio said that it's a new kind of fascism, but fascism it is: no matter how outrageous this man’s actions, people follow him like lambs.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
WWOOF Italy: Reaping the Fruits of Someone Else's Labor So Someone Else Can Reap the Fruits of Mine
15 April 2011
It is early April on the farm: planting time. It is time to prepare the garden, collect the compost, and plant the seeds. In the summer, all farmers will add new seeds at precisely chosen intervals, tend to the growing plants, and in the fall, abundance comes. Apples and figs fall from trees that you almost forgot you had. Olives, grapes and almonds are ready to be picked. The vegetables that you collect from your garden are bright: purples, reds, white, all shades of green.
Then will come the panick: what do we do with all of this food? The fruits from the trees need to be picked before they fall to a bruised and splattered ruin. The vegetables in the garden need to be picked before they wilt or are taken over by nature’s molds and insects. Soon the rush to pick, clean, prepare, can, dry and give away as gifts begins. If you don’t make it in time, the fruits of your labor, sitting there in front of you today, will be lost tomorrow (it is some consolation to know that, in sustainable agriculture, its nutrients will go to the hens and back into the earth before they are lost or thrown away).
I will be here for none of this. I helped plant, prune trees, and spread compost now in the spring, but I will not watch the bounty grow in the summer nor taste the fruits in the fall. Another WWOOFer will be here then, tasting the fruits of my labor while laying the ground work for the fruits that the next WWOOFer will enjoy.
I, too, am enjoying the labors of someone else. Greens, grains and beans are the daily fair in this season. I eat grain [a half loaf of bread a day (a modest estimate), polenta (made out of the grain that makes the bread), or occasionally pasta]; an assortment of beans of all shapes and sizes; and an assortment of greens (we do our shopping every evening in the garden, selecting between wild greens and the remains from the winter that are still standing). Olive oil, wine, vinegar (made from old wine) and pepperoncino all add some flare, and that about sums up my eating experience here.
That aknowledged, I eat like a queen! Fresher, simpler ingredients, you have not tasted. Who would have expected flour cooked in water, eaten like oatmeal, to be good? That is the beauty of Italy: food grown with love on this terrain has a leg up on the same in most other parts of the world. If that same grain were purchased at a US supermarket it would be a flavorless mush; here the flavors of the organic, heritage grain grown 100 m away tell the stories of the earth beneath it.
It is early April on the farm: planting time. It is time to prepare the garden, collect the compost, and plant the seeds. In the summer, all farmers will add new seeds at precisely chosen intervals, tend to the growing plants, and in the fall, abundance comes. Apples and figs fall from trees that you almost forgot you had. Olives, grapes and almonds are ready to be picked. The vegetables that you collect from your garden are bright: purples, reds, white, all shades of green.
Then will come the panick: what do we do with all of this food? The fruits from the trees need to be picked before they fall to a bruised and splattered ruin. The vegetables in the garden need to be picked before they wilt or are taken over by nature’s molds and insects. Soon the rush to pick, clean, prepare, can, dry and give away as gifts begins. If you don’t make it in time, the fruits of your labor, sitting there in front of you today, will be lost tomorrow (it is some consolation to know that, in sustainable agriculture, its nutrients will go to the hens and back into the earth before they are lost or thrown away).
I will be here for none of this. I helped plant, prune trees, and spread compost now in the spring, but I will not watch the bounty grow in the summer nor taste the fruits in the fall. Another WWOOFer will be here then, tasting the fruits of my labor while laying the ground work for the fruits that the next WWOOFer will enjoy.
I, too, am enjoying the labors of someone else. Greens, grains and beans are the daily fair in this season. I eat grain [a half loaf of bread a day (a modest estimate), polenta (made out of the grain that makes the bread), or occasionally pasta]; an assortment of beans of all shapes and sizes; and an assortment of greens (we do our shopping every evening in the garden, selecting between wild greens and the remains from the winter that are still standing). Olive oil, wine, vinegar (made from old wine) and pepperoncino all add some flare, and that about sums up my eating experience here.
That aknowledged, I eat like a queen! Fresher, simpler ingredients, you have not tasted. Who would have expected flour cooked in water, eaten like oatmeal, to be good? That is the beauty of Italy: food grown with love on this terrain has a leg up on the same in most other parts of the world. If that same grain were purchased at a US supermarket it would be a flavorless mush; here the flavors of the organic, heritage grain grown 100 m away tell the stories of the earth beneath it.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Trials and Tribulations of a Traveler's Stomach
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.
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.
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
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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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Crashed laptop...Bah!!!
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 )
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 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.
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