Naked Ladies

We've reverted in someway to our childhood selves. We skip to the park and I roll in the grass laughing when she climbs the tree and hangs upside-down, her long hair shaking about like a mane or tail. With her weight a few plums drop to the ground, others hit us on the head or leave splotches of mush on our t-shirts. With the sheet, Zoe and I collect the fallen ones. Carefully making sure to pick out those with wormholes. A crowd of soccer players is watching us and we only laugh harder. We wander through paths that take us through creeks and hillocks, trees and meadows. From afar I hear a shout of gleeful discovery, "Come look at this! What is this alien?" With a skip in my step I approach her only to feel a bit of color drain from my face. For I know these plants only too well. 'Naked ladies', I tell her before heading off down the path again.

Yes, the year has come full circle, the time has come.

Mid-flight revelation

5/7:

When I first sat down in my cramped seat, doomed to have to sit through seven hours of mind-numbing TV and sky mall magazines, I had no idea what was awaiting me.

It was as I scrolled through cheezy romances and horror films that a title finally caught my eye and I discovered my newest heroine: Temple Grandin.

It was one of those funny coincidences in life because I had been hearing about her in recent weeks but having forgotten her name, she had been stuffed back into a corner of my mind. Funny that I would then rediscover her while flying over Newfoundland in a stinky plane next to a lanky Irishman.

A day in Bray

4/7:

I'm trying really hard not to be biased against Dublin but I just can't help it. Maybe it's because I'm always here at the wrong time but the atmosphere just doesn't sit with me. It's the tinge of homesickness mixed with the drab buildings and eerie weather that make me feel ill at ease. A strong warm wind whips through the dirty dark streets and sprays dust and pollution into my eyes. I feel ready to go home.

At least I've made some friends at Ashfield House though. My french friend, Alizée and I took off to the town of Bray for thee day. But even this sunny beach town just lacks the spirit I long for. Alizée and I make the best of it though, I speak French to her and she responds in English, we sit on the beach and practice our speech. After lunch we hike up a cliff and get to a strange marker, a giant cross overlooking the black ocean that gapes at us with its mouth wide open. The wind is so strong I feel as though we will be pushed into the deepness but we cling to the rocks and make our way down to have ice-cream on the beach. Even the ice-cream tastes bad to me. It's tasteless and greasy, I miss those Parisian Berthillions!

When we get back to the hostel, I'm reminded it's the 4th of July. Here it's just any other day.

It's not that late yet but I don't really feel like gong out so I go upstairs to read and end up talking with my Brazilian roommate. She speaks Span-tuguese and I speak Spanish with a Brazilian accent. We understand each other perfectly. She tells me she also lived in Norway. My French roommate is doing WOOFing. I guess there are some similarities after all!

Monasterio de el Escorial

The "Monasterio del Escorial" looks more like an ancient fortress than a place where kings once lived. But apparently Phillip II was very religious so there you have it. The stone front rises up menacingly and when you walk in, the cold stone halls seem infinitely more austere and plain than the Palacio Réal with its enormous sculptures, golden curtains and velvet walls.
The tour takes you through the most important parts of the monastery which range from the architectural museum detailing the plans of the monastery to the collections of paintings (which include the painting El Greco produced to try and win over the king) to the chamber of tombs (where all the kings of Spain are buried) to the incredible library situated directly above the main entrance (symbolizing the overhwelming power of knowledge).
After leaving this magnificent hall with shelves and shelves of beautifully bound gold-leaf books, Chris and I wandered out to where the tour supposedly ended. But just as we were about to round the corner that would lead us to the exit, Chris remembered to take me to her favorite part. We retraced our steps a few paces and turned the corner only to find a thick red cord roping off the section which was normally open to the public. Looking all around us we quickly ducked under the rope and dashed up the stairs. I didn't see what was so incredible until I looked up, noticing that the entire ceiling was a beautiful fresco. Just as I was taking it in, a voice called us from the bottom of the stairs. At that moment, the guard had noticed us sneaking in and she yelled at us until we ran down the stairs and out of her sight. Well worth the scolding I must say!

Watching

6/15:
This Ryanair thing is really getting under my skin. All I see are people suffering, frantically redistributing weight, pulling out sweaters, stuffing in souveneirs.
Something is wrong here...

Waiting

6/15:
Nine hour lay-over. What do you do with yourself if you're in one building for nine hours?! I've already bought myself a sandwich a the crappy candy store but being as it is Par-ee the baguette is absolutely delicious. I've also won my first ever game of solitaire on my ipod. Woohoo! And I feel like I've managed to listen to all 1300 songs I have. I've even read an entire book which is very rare for me these days when time like this is scarce. Success!

The BFG

6/15:
3am. 3am!!!!! I creep out of my bunkbed and make it down to the reception where I pick up my pack. Enter Daniel. Hugely tall, chubby, and above all, supremely awkward. He is the essence of nerd, with philosophy papers and rubix cubes spilling out of his bag (3x3 and a 7x7!) which he has sprawled across the floor. With slightly crooked teeth but kind eyes he acts sort of like a boy trapped in a giant's body. His awkwardly large hands fumble at the zippers as he finally shuts his suitcase shut with a grunt.
Seeing that I'm travelling too, he asks where and when I'm going and we decide to go together since it is afterall the crack of dawn. He's from Spain and compliments my Spanish. We spend the next few minutes picking up our bags and trying to guess how much they weigh. (Ryanair is the epitome of strict for weight limit, 15kg check-in, 10kg for carry-on). Without much luck, we look at each other confused about what to do until our Moroccan friend from reception comes out smiling his bright smile with a scale in his hands. We thank him and then the next twenty minutes are spent laughing as the three of us strike funny poses with the luggage, trying to find the best measurement.
Daniel steps on the scale first, warning us not to look at the numbers. He gets back on this time carrying his ENORMOUS bag and nearly topples over. Mine are just on target but his is 20kilos. But just like a little boy, he is very optimistic. "It'll all be fine," he grins. We thank our friend and make our way out. When we step onto the grungy street I am so thankful to have him here with me. A big friendly giant is just what I need on these streets. For they are littered in beer and smell like piss. Every half block we find a different group of hoodlums. Some half naked people are doing cartwheels by the side of the road, others burp loudly as we walk by. Not quite as aggressive as his stature suggests, Daniel even admits he's a little intimidated.
We walk the yellow-green streets under neon lights but when we are more than a block away from the bus stop, we feel a big woosh of wind rushing by us. The great aircoach is already way ahead of us! I look at him and we make up our minds, I grip my bags harder and take off at a sprint, lugging my 15.5kg pack the whole way. Daniel lumbers along at half the speed but I reach the bus and between breaths manage to grab hold of the rail and pull myself in. The driver tries to leave but I beg for one more passenger and he waits grudgingly. On the bus I can still hear my heart drowning out all other noises.
We get to the airport much faster than we expect and step off the bus into the glow of the airport. Once inside we go upstairs to the Starbucks, the only place open besides McDonalds. Daniel orders a venti iced mocha and downs it in seconds. I can't help staring a bit so he says, "I drink a lot." I want to say "yea, I can see that" but I don't. "Yesterday I bought 1 liter of water, drank that, bought another, drank that, and had to buy another," he tells me. "America is better because they have waterfountains. Here you have to buy everything." But I'm pretty sure that's the only thing America gives for free. He buys another and we turn to find a place to sit but the place is like a graveyard. There are bodies covering every inch of the food court. Not one of them moves as we maneuver our way towards the only open table.
He tells me he's just spent one month in New York working at a hostel and at an animal shelter. His bags are so heavy because they are chock-full of books he's brought back. "This will last me maybe four months" he explains. I feel tenderness for him in this moment of fabulous nerdiness. His bag is all books and two rubix cubes, a few shirts, socks and a coat or two.
When it's time to check-in the trouble begins. His bag is over but he doesnt want to pay so I help him over to the side now that I've gotten rid of my own bag. We go through his stuff and he throws out almost everything besides the books, NOT the books, anything but the books! Toothpaste, deodorant, shampoos, soap, papers all go to the trash but his books stay safely tucked inside. Next we move onto clothes. It's painful to watch him, he explains these are pretty much his only clothes. Five or six old t-shirts, a pair of ratty sneakers, sweatpants, and 3 sweatshirts. He throws out socks but then starts piling on half of his wardrobe. Within minutes he is pouring sweat and his hand trembles slightly as he gives his brow a futile swipe. His hand glistens with sweat when he pulls away and he wipes it on his pants before moving back into line. But it's still overweight so we pull over again and he piles on more clothes. The rivers of sweat continue. Probably out of pity, they finally take the bag. But unbeknownst to them he still has two carry-ons which he's smuggled past. He peels off layers and carries his huge bundle out for a smoke, we say goodbye and I move on to catch my flight, happy to know that there are BFGs out there.

Dublin

6/14:
So here's the thing about being on the road, you get hungry after lugging baggage around. And after seeing what felt like the entirety of the Irish countryside I was quite hungry. After dropping my stuff off at the hostel I went to go explore Dublin. But after a while sure enough my hunger came after me.
After browsing all the tourist-geared pubs, I opted for the cheaper version which was the nearest Spar. Afgter browsing I finally found some precooked rice and some decent looking curry sauce. Normally I would never stoop so low as to buy dinner from a corner store but being optimistic I thought rice with some spicy sauce couldn't be all that bad. But ohhh, how wrong I was. With the first bite inducing almost instant nausea, I still ploughed on thinking maybe that particular spoonful had had something wrong with it. I kept telling myself this until by the sixth or seventh spoonfull I was really feeling ready to hurl. Holding back my queezy stomach from doing any funny business, I promptly tossed the whole of it in the trash and set off to find some real food. I ended up sitting down happily with a pint of Guiness and a heaping plate of fish and chips. It's times like these when you're sure it's worth the extra cash.

Days at Gubbeen are dwindling but I'm not inspired to write, I think my mind is too focused on the crazy traveling that lies ahead to really think much more of this place that has eased me so seamlessly into life on the road. To add to this distraction of trains and planes and buses, there is also the latest distraction of the 2010 World Cup. Starting on Thursday night there seemed to be a soccer explosion and suddenly all the TV channels and newspapers were dripping with news and lineups and speculations about the games. It's hard not to get sucked in (at least a little).

Culture clash

6/10:

I'm racing downhill on my bike to make it back in time for the bbq that's happening tonight. Tears are leaking out the corners of my eyes from the wind that's pummeling my face. I'm looking down and ahead at the same time, trying to avoid the cow pats that are sprinkled across the road. My obstacles are a good sign though, I'm getting close to the dairy, close to home.
My ipod is on shuffle and as I ride faster and faster a corrido comes on, one from the Barranquenhos CD that Chica gave me a few weeks back. The horns and accordions blast in my ears and I smile as I look down at the Atlantic shore and rolling hills of quaint farms. I feel bubbles of laughter inside as I think of this cultural clash, this music in this landscape.
But that's the wonderful thing about Gubbeen. In a minute, I'll be eating sizzling steak with the French intern while talking to Lindsey, Clovisse's friend from Canada/Berlin/Marin, and playing googoogaga with Olin, the little Irish baby with a mohawk. I guess love of food is a very uniting concept.

Not all happy cows come from California

6/7:
Even when the curtains are drawn I still know they're there because I can hear the soft munching next to my window. The tender grass around my trailer is all being pulled out at the moment by the 130 cows that make up the Gubbeen herd. I'm nibbling on some oak smoked cheese of theirs as I write this, looking out at the happy cows chewing away at the buttercup-covered field. I'm thinking about the story Giana told me yesterday:

It all happened a few years ago when the Irish drug trade was doing very well (as it still is to this day) in a small inlet just a few miles away from Gubbeen. The drug traffickers had brought a particularly large shipment in to one of the many hidden coves along the coast but just as they were about to reach shore their small dingy capsized, setting huge table-sized bales of cocaine afloat on the Atlantic. After one of them mistakenly called for help, the guards (police) intercepted the call and arrested two of the men. The other men however were nowhere to be found. (This of course is not surprising considering the sprawling countryside with endless shrubs and ditches to hide in.)
Anyway, it was not until about two days after this incident at around eight in the morning that Tom let out the cows as he does every single day. The herd filled the road just in time as two strangers came walking up the road. The men wore funny clothing, hats and wellies, the sort of all-weather gear that sailors would wear.
But luckily, being surrounded by country people here at Gubbeen, a suspicious neighbor had already called in the guards when he saw how clean their wellies were, for these were certainly not farming folk. Within minutes, the guards arrived and the two men who were by now completely surrounded by Gubbeen cows had nowhere to go.
Now that's what I call a civil arrest!!

Dreaming with reality

6/6:

Marion and I took the bikes first to the market and tehn to the beach where we spent the whole day basking under the sun eating fruit and getting updates about the French Open through texts from her friends. Everything was normal, relaxed. Until partway through my sun-induced slumber I was awoken by a different noise. Groggily I rolled around to find a huge white horse standing at my feet. Atop the white beatuy, a young woman dressed in black sat upright and alert. Just as soon as I had sat up to see better, the two trotted off towards the water. Completely unperturbed, the horse calmly walked directly into the sea. They walked and continued walking until the horse was swimming while all the while the woman sat straight up and mumbled sweet encouragement. I blinked to make sure I wasnt still daydreaming but sure enough the two continued further and further out. Still dazed and confused, I rolled back over for what I thought were some two minutes (but must've been 10) only to find that the pair was gone when I looked again.
And maybe I'm still daydreaming but Giana just invited me to dinner withe president of Slowfood IE.

Cape Clear adventures: Part II

Finally on the road agina, the wild magenta foxgloves and crashing surf no longer interested us as we spent the next twenty minutes discussing the world of Ed. Deep in conversation not realizing where we werwe going, the terrain suddenly changed infront of us. We rounded the bend to find a small gull-filled lake surrounded by cows and horses. Opening our map again we read that it was a magical lake that the villagers used to wash their clothes in. After reading that it was also capable of removing calouses and warts, Marion and I decided to climb down and dangle our feet in the water. Within seconds, a swarm of tiny insects gathered on our skin and begin to nible away! At first we jumped back in surprise but after regaining courage we managed to stay in longer the second time. The pinching hurt slightly but nevertheless we sat with our toes in teh water beneath the "No Swimming" sign for something like ten minutes, way below the suggested 45minute callus-removing time limit.
When our feet had dried off we set off walking again to visit Giana's other friend, Cathy, who had recently opened up a cafe on the island. We quickly ducked in to have a tea with her before running back down to the dock so as to not miss the last ferry home. The way back was peaceful with a soft light and almost no waves we rode back into shore while all the while the captain sang us Irish songs over the loudspeaker.

Cape Clear adventures: Part I

6/5:
The ferry men poked fun at us about our bikes for the majority of the 45 minute boat ride. But as soon as the rocky shores of Cape Clear appeared we realized why. The cliffs of the island towered above the ferry as we pulled into the harbor. One small beach was nestled into the hill while behind it, the spread of Irish green shrubbery sloped steeply upwards.
After a noble quarter of an hour pushing our bikes up a neverending steep grade, we ditched them by the side of the road and continued on foot. Without the bikes our pace quickened and we finally made it to the top of the ridge where a small road took us alongside a sprinkling of tiny cottages. Using our finicky map we guided ourselves to the house of one of Giana's friends, Ed Harper, a supposed goat farmer. Sure enough tangled in the nettle weeds and barely visible by the side of the road, a tiny painted goat face peeped out at us signaling towards a tiny cottage on the left hand side of the road. Cautiously, we opened the creaky gate and went down to explore only to run into a tiny old man whom we found to be Ed. He immediately invited us into the milking parlor with the promise of tea after the goats had been milked. It was only on our way down the windy path when he asked us the number of cats we saw that we noticed he was completely blind. A large barking german shephard named Zach fit into the picture perfectly when we noticed his guide dog vest. But Zach stayed inside as we went to see the goats and Ed carried on perfectly. Both Marion and I looked at each other questioningly when we saw the eight goats lined up and ready to be milked, wondering how he would ever manage. But Ed never hesitated, feeling each goat he named them off to us and then went on about his business, carefully cleaning udders and milking each goat one by one. With utmost patience, the goats treated him like an equal and Marion and I looked on in complete awe. Jaws dropped, we watched as he systematically milked every goat before filtering all the milk to later make into his special freezable cheese and icecream. All the while he talked on and on and we discussed all matter of goat-y things. He explained his recent problems with infertility in the herd and how he blamed GMO soy feed. To add to the series of curious events, the cashier woman from the Schull Eurospar store walked in halfway through and Ed later explained it was his ex-wife. Marion and I once again looked at each other in shock only to look down and notice we had already spent two whole hours chatting! Excusing ourselves, we didn't end up leaving without a 12euro copy of Ed's latest album and two free goat icecreams.

Bantry

6/4:
You have to blink a few times to remind yourself you're still in the same century if you arrive in Bantry on the first Friday of the month. The main plaza is full of people. Nearby, a horse is tied to a lamppost while at its feet a noisy cage crammed with chickens has a pricetag on it. Another man rides his horse through the square, announcing the price while a woman bargains over the cost of her two puppies with a customer. Knick knacks are everywhere and you can buy everything from Gubbeen cheese and sausage to wellies to fox traps to tomato seedlings to chicken feed to old watches and sandwich presses.

Chicks

6/4:
Chicken jobs seem to follow me where I go. First at Pie Ranch I was an egg collector, then at Full Belly a chicken catcher and now again here I'm a chick hatcher. Every morning I go into the "chick shed" to check our incubators for signs of life.
Half the room is already taken up by a flurry of feathers and a chorus of peeping from all the tiny chicks that have already emerged from their shels. But on the other side are all the eggs that are just waiting to hatch tiny balls of wings and beak.
I check them with excitement, watching, waiting for a crack or a hole, anything. I spritz them with water regularly to help the little ones along until finally, a crack! I pick up the soft, cream colored egg and tap it gently with my finger. A soft peeping tickles my ear and I feel a wiggle. Carefully, I put it down and wait a few more hours. When I come back, I find a wet, disgruntled little mass that's supposed to be a chick. To me it looks more likea hairball that a cat spit out. I gently pick it up and place the fragile body into the second incubator so its feathers can fluff up a bit.
After another half day, the chick is ready to join his flock mates. I place him carefully inside the cage and he stares around at the bigger chicks as if it were his first day of school.

Silage Part II

6/3:
My pants are so wet they stick to my legs and my fleece is slimy with mud and grease. Rain is back on schedule so silage work continues although now harder and faster. Rosie, Emmett and I are standing on the silage pit. After having already put down the tarps, it is now time to weigh everything down with tires so we wait above while Tom and Brennan load up the backhoe with slimy odl tires. We fing them out over the vast expanse of tarpo and moldy water oozes out, running down into the shed. To keep motivated we make competitions for ourselves, who is the dirtiest or who can fling the furthest.

Abracadabra

Gubbeen is full of secrets. Little nooks to hide in, beautiful tidbits, bizarre animals, exciting adventures. Yesterday while brining cheese, I discovered the most beautiful etching in a pane of glass. A man slowly evolving into a frog. It struck me as very fitting, for in a place as magical as this, a transformation so bizarre as that seems perfectly natural.

Silage

6/2:

Around here people still talk about "the olden days" on a regular basis. It's silage time now so of course it comes up even more often these days. Rosie explains that in other times, silage was a big happening about the community where all the neighbors came together to help each other out, each contributing what they could. Nowadays it's all done through contractors who come to work the whole day (8am-11pm). They're serious about their job and almost never utter a word except a few mumbles when they come in to devour their lunch.

Meeting Marion

6/2:

When the clouds of rain lift, Ireland is a totally different place. I'm in the top field and I look over my shoulder. For the first time, I see the sea! I can also now make out the many farms and cottages that mark the hillside. The flowers are vibrant as they soak up these few rays of sun. Marion (the french intern) and I have the afternoon off so we decide to take the bikes to Schull. The way is not far but walking up the hill we huff and puff until a sweat breaks on our brows. Just as we are getting ready for a break we reach the top house so we mount our bikes and ride full speed down into town. Marion knows the area better than I so she shows me around the piers and beaches. We stop at the pier to look down into the deep water and then walk to the beach where we can put our legs in. After, we bike to eurospar for a cool drink and some essentials.
When we come home, I help Marion with her cheese duties. We flip cheese and pull others out of the brine. Tiny cuts on my fingers burn from the salt. When we are done, we go upstairs to her apartment and we watch the French Open. She teaches me the rules and promises we'll go to a pub on Saturday to watch the semifinals.

Rabbit rabbit!

6/1:

My arms and legs ache. Not so much from hard work, but from nettle burns. I spent a good chunk of the sunny (!) afternoon carting wheel barrows full of stinging nettles down to Clovis' compost pile. Rosie taught me to use bruised dock leaves (which always grow together with nettles) to calm the welts but even with this trick I still feel slight throbbing in the affected areas.
The day was a lot less dairy-centric than yesterday because Tom pulled me aside to help with all the animals that had to be moved.
First Rosie, Brennan and I loaded up onto the moto to go pick up a newborn calf in the field and bring back its mom for milking. After heaving the slumbering calf into the back, we had to convince the new mom to follow. We managed to get her started with some cajoleing so we set off down the road to walk the mile of road back to the farm. Despite a lot of cow chasing and near escapes we made it back remarkably quick and left mother and child alone together in a pen.
Next on the list was to move three sows and their litters. First we moved the fierce wild sow with her tiny piglets in with the rest of the wild pigs. The second two moms were easier because they had been put into farrowing crates from the very beginning. After moving the moms first, we chased the piglets around the tiny room and caught them one by one, holding them by one leg as they shrieked bloody murder. After this crazy early afternoon of animals, I went back to weed more nettles before checking on the newest batch of chicks. I had found a few cracked eggs in the incubator in the morning so I sprayed them and waited for a few hours for the real hatching to begin. Sure enough when I went back, three new chicks had emerged and were peeping about the warm interior. One of life's greatest miracles fo sho.

A day of whey

5/31:
My first day was absolutely fantastic. Despite my excitement for work, my jetlag really took over and I didn't wake until around 11am so I started work late (Rosie had said to sleep in as much as I wanted). I went to the dairy straight away and was directed by Eileen to go upstairs to the cheese-making room. I donned a white apron, white wellies, a hairnet and a pair of green rubber gloves before entering through the glass doors. Inside, Eileen shouted out the names of the workers over the roar coming from the big vats of curds and whey but I didn't catch a word so I just smiled and nodded. The room was small and about a quarter of the space was taken up by the two big vats but there was room for about three stainless-steel tables. I was taken up to one of them where I met Linda, a pretty black-haired young woman who was very very sweet. We worked together at the table which was piled high with molds. Our job was to one by none take the weights and the lid off before banging the mold to loosen the cheese so we could flip it over. When the cheese was flipped we put the lid and weights back on and started on the next mold. The women moved quickly but my inexperienced hands worked about half as slow. Nevertheless, in a matter of minutes the whole table was miraculously done! After this I walked back downstairs to la bel all the cheese for a few orders until the second batch was ready to be put into molds. When I was done I again went pustairs where the women were already scooping curds into more molds. I washed my arms carefully from shoulder to finger with warm water and soap before walking over to the tubs and sinking my arm in alongside Linda. The warm yellow whey felt so good against my skin as I fished my mold around to collect the tiny soft pieces of whey. After about twenty minutes of scooping and filling most of the curds were gone so we went back to flipping the cheese. Outside the rain drizzled and two beautiful white geese stood and watched us work as their fuzzy yellow-gray goslings goofed around nearby. After this great morning, the ladies took off for lunch so I stayed behind to eat lunch with Tom, Rosie and Brennan. We ate together for about an hour until it was time to get back to work. Tom took off to finish pouring cement on the roof of Fingal's new house (it's going to be a grass roof) while Rosie went to go weed Clovis' garden and Brennan went to check on the pregnant cows. I headed back to the dairy where I met Derek Darius who vaguely reminds me of a polish version of Manuel from Fawlty towers. He's a funny little man with thick fingers and an even thicker neck who laughs a lot and makes lots of noises to supplement his mediocre English (mediocre is generous). When he first met me, he kissed my hand and just said "from Poland" with a wave of his hand. We spent the afternoon together laughing in "the dungeon" while washing mold off of the wax of the smoked Gubbeen cheeses. After an afternoon of washing and carrying heavy cheese the day was over so I changed out of my boots, apron and gloves and walked back to my trailer (I'll call it Browny?) only to find that the road was full of cows! But no matter, at least the smell of cows is infinitelty better than the smell of pigs.

Gubbeen at last

5/30:
I immediately show my true colors -- when Rosie picks me up we walk up to her little white car and I go straight for the right side. She smiles and I sheepishly walk around to get in on the left side. Kipper the bulldog is in the back and he greets me with a big doggy smile. The drive is nearly an hour and a half but it goes by in a flash for me. We pass countless towns, each beautiful and quaint with cobblestone streets and tiny colorful houses jammed together. I want to stop at each town. Rosie keeps apologizing for the fact that there's no roadway btu I assure her that I ADORE the tiny country roads and little sights we get to see. The radio quietly plays opera and Irish music as we cruise through green in a light misty sprinkle of rain. We finally round a corner and I see ocean, we've arrived at Schull and we pull off the road to see Tom at the Farmer's market. I shake his rouch hand and he feeds me salami with pistachio in it while Rosie hands me slices of Gubbeen. We stop at the stand next door to buy some Irish soda bread which looks dark and hefty. After getting two gourmet burgers at another stand we chew and swallow as we walk the main (and only) street of Schull. There is a film festival going on this weekend so the town is covered in blue and yellow confetti and streamers. We say hi to everyone that passes. In just the one street there are probably about 4 or 5 pubs. Rosie promises we'll go. We pass a bookstore, fish monger, grocery store, pharmacy, health food store and a handful of other stores before we come to the end. We turn around to get the car and then we drive for a few minutes until we get to Gubbeen House. We turn off the main road and enter through a beautiful wooded area that opens up to reveal a fairytale bunch of buildings. More cobblestones cover the ground and 300 year old buildings make it look like I've just stepped into a postcard. I can see why people believe in fairies, gnomes and leprechauns around here.
I take my bags over to my luxurious trailer (with electricity, hot water and even a bathroom!) which looks out to a buttercup-covered field.
After changing shoes Rosie takes me to tour the farm. The smell of cows scents the air gently as we walk the paths until we reach the dairy. The smell of cheese, brine, whey and salt fill the air. We pass hundreds of cheese rounds and I get more and more excited about my first day tomorrow. We meet Rose who comes every Sunday to brine and wash all the cheeses. After our tour of the dairy Rosie takes me to see the animals. A handful of chickens peck around the yard and a huge goose with a shining orange beak hisses viciously at us. Rosie sends a kick in his direction and he quiets down. We pass in to the incubator room where a rucous of peeping comes from dozens of chicks. Back outside peacocks strut about as we walk over to see the newborn calves, ducklings and piglets. Then Tom invites me for dinner and we eat delicious lemon sole, chips, and peas. I meet Rosie's boyfriend Brennan and then almost collapse from exhaustion on my way back home. The door of my trailer has barely closed before I land on the bed fast asleep.

Dublin

5/30:

I arrive in Dublin after six hours of 'puddle jumping' and I immediately get a livelier though dirtier vibe. Again it is early but this time instead of bums and pigeons, there's only a crowd of old men gathered around a single TV that's blaring some soccer match. I'm so early the ticket counter isn't even open so I go to look for the vodafone store only to find that it no longer exists.
Now I'm waiting for this tiny sandwich bar to open because I've been told they sell SIM cards here. I amuse myself by watching people, admiring the way-better European vending machine candy and watching the clever coke commercials.

Lethargy

5/29:

Exhaustion is setting in. People walk by in masses now and attention to detail is lessening. Maybe the heat has something to do with it too, the sun comes and goes but when it comes it's suddenly muggy and you can almost taste a heaviness in your mouth.
An iced tea break helps but I'm feeling lethargic in this chair.
Sitting here sinking deeper and deeper into the chair I start to people watch and that's when I begin to notice the button down shirts, loafers, sun dresses and khakis. All playing up the preppy stereotype I guess. Makes me feel glad I'm wearing the striped Lacoste that Natalia gave me since it's probably the only brand-name thing I own.

Travels in mass.

5/29:

Boston gets me excited for NY. I arrive almost at 6:30am so the city is empty except the other bag-carriers like me that just stepped off the plane and got onto the silver line. I made friends with the jet blue lady and she gave me front row seats so I managed to get off the plane quick which means I am travelling among the real Boston-ites who seem to know what they're doing. I'm waiting for the red line train with them, inside the metro smells warm and musty. I also get whiffs of my still-clean hair but I don't think this will last long as I still have more than a whole day left of travel.
Now I'm writing as I walk. Inside, it's not like BART. The seats are all funny and sideways unlike the forward/back facing ones we have in the Bay. I walk the empty halls of Downtown Crossing metro station closely following a middle aged woman because I'm scared of being alone down here where the sunlight doesn't reach. I emerge to find old buildings, wobbly streets. I have to walk this alley to get to the park so I put my hood up and quicken my steps. At this hour there are only bums and pigeons. I sit in Boston Commons to write and listen to birds.

A plastic bag slowly and gently drifts by infront of me. I am in a new place, everything catches my eye: A young lady smoking, a flabby woman jogging, a flutter of wings, a dad with his baby, a black porsche stuck in a flash mob of slow white taxis, the sea of green park infront of me accented by the red blanket that covers a sleeping man (reminds me of one of my moms' favorite painters), the stone carvings on the buildings (a boat, a goblet, an eagle), a rumble I can feel shaking the bench I'm sitting on (must be the next train).

I've been sitting in one place for too long now so will move on to Boston Gardens, to utmost serenity. I'm not homesick yet, but I still find comfort in similarities between new places and home. I see old men doing tai chi here in the park just like those foggy Berkeley mornings on the Ohlone Greenway.

A new chapter

5/29:
So few hours have elapsed and I've already learned a lesson that will serve me my whole trip: it makes a big difference who you ask so choose wisely.
I arrived in BOS a bit disoriented since it is afterall 2am my time and I barely slept on the plane. The flight attendant was a brat and all I gained from my so-called "rest" was a neckache.
Anyway, then I had to figure out what to do with my large backpack so I could go explore the city on my 12 hour (!) lay-over.
First, I naively went over to a non-American looking guy to explain my situation. He didn't really understand but shook his head angrily and then drove off in his little airport car.
My next encounter was the complete opposite because I accidentally ran into the sweetest young man who immediately started with: "I'm not supposed to tell you this but...." and then told me that I should leave my bag on the carousel and come pick it up from the lost baggage claim later. His shift will pick up again at 3pm so I'm hoping to meet him there before I leave. Glad to have found a little friend along the way, it's fun to know we're both in on the same little illegal secret! :)

Gubbeen is near

Ireland draws closer and now I'm scrambling to pack and get everything ready for the trip. Little things here and there are starting to make this almost imaginary trip more tangible. Most importantly, Giana of Gubbeen Cheese wrote me and instructed me to take the Schull bus to Skibbereen where I will finally be picked up by the Gubbeen crew. In total this makes my trip have four legs: SFO-BOS, BOS-DUB, Dublin to Cork, and finally Cork to Skibbereen. Phew!

Leche

We never planned to have this much milk but ever since Pinto Bean surprised us by giving birth, we've been milking three cows every day. (And two of them twice a day!) This means that we get around ten gallons of milk coming out every single day (do the math, it's about 70 gallons per week), so as you can imagine we've had to get pretty creative about how to use all of it up.

Drinking it in our cereal or using it to dip our chocolate chip cookies in at lunch, we've also experimented with whipped cream, sour cream, ice cream, cottage cheese, butter, gouda, and a lot of fresh cheese. It sure seems like we've tried almost everything under the sun but I'm so happy because I finally got to make my first batch of fresh goat cheese on thursday all by myself. After adding the rennet and the culture, I even crushed up some fresh rosemary and sage to add a little twist.

(Above, from left to right: fresh rosemary and sage Alpine goat cheese, fresh jersey cow cheese)

8 days

The days are numbered and it's a bittersweet farewell that awaits me in 8 days. In many ways I feel a deep sadness when I think about leaving this entire life I've created -- all my friends (both two and four-legged, and even those with trunks and stems), the ever-changing hills, the familiar noises, smells.

This big change leaves me stressed at times but it's when I finally go to milk in the evenings that I feel most at ease. In the warm barn with the sweet smells of milk, manure, hay, and grass combining in my nostrils I feel completely at peace. I listen to the streams of milk hitting the sides of the pail and rest my face against the soft, warm belly of Pinto, Mapache or Arnica. My arms contract rhythmically, left, right, left, right. Slowly, the world outside the barn melts away.

I know if I measured my time at Full Belly in terms of cow milking, I might see this final week as an adequate time to leave, a graduation of sorts. After my first brief encounter with teat pulling back in September, I didn't really start to milk officially until my second week here, way back in January. In those distant days, milking was not a calming experience. I awaited my milking duties with apprehension and even a bit of embarrassment. I remember pulling at Arnica's bursting udders, only to squeeze out a few drops of milk every so often into the pail. Dru would always take over after her side was done and I would watch in wonder as she withdrew gallons of milk in gushing streams. Months passed and I steadily improved; my triceps became more noticeable and my biggest honor came one day when Dru finally remarked at my skills. But it was really only last week that I finally reached my highest accomplishment, I self-promoted myself to milk all alone. Being up there by myself was the ultimate milking experience when the sounds of the milk, my breathing, and Pinto's soft chewing were really all there was.

It's funny to say this but I somehow feel ready to leave now that I've accomplished this small task. What seemed so impossible at the beginning is suddenly ordinary and very attainable.

spring sprang sprung

It's amazing how much everything has grown, how these guys:

Could so quickly turn into these guys:

Or how the roses could suddenly be in full bloom and the lilac that seemed like it was recently so fragrantly abundant is all of a sudden wilting away.

a wrist, a finger

My heart melted a little bit today when Pancho jokingly told me he's secretly planning the amputation of one of my fingers. He says if my wrist was an excuse for me to stay then surely a finger will do just as well. As the days left before Ireland dwindle, my heart strings are getting pulled in multiple directions. I want to, I need to, go to Ireland. But I also can't bear to go. Oh!

Edna

My right hand has sort of become the center of my life. Just enter our kitchen and you'll see my whole home-therapy station, complete with a pot of beans, scar cream, hand lotion, heat pad, cold compress, and exercise manual.

In the end it's just a classic case of "you never realize how much you use it until you don't have it". Thankfully I have little pain but I'm still always conscious about it and my eyes can't stop looking at the T shaped scar that's dotted with little stitch marks. It's like having a loose tooth in your mouth that your tongue can't stop playing with.

Every day I do therapy five times a day and at least ten people ask me how my hand is. That probably already adds up to at least a few hours of totally wrist-focused behavior per day. Then on top of that, twice a week I go see my therapist and we talk about my wrist for an hour straight. Tendons this, nerves that, etc, etc, etc. It completely fascinates me. Rawley says I was the happiest post-surgery patient he's ever seen and therefore thinks I should be a doctor. (We shall see about that).

But in all honesty, my injury has brought me almost as much good as bad. I look forward to going to therapy so I can see the progress I've made, the new exercises I'll have to do, the other patients that will be there and most of all to see my therapist. I'm starting to build a good relationship with her and we love talking with each other. Among other things we talk mostly about my work, the wonders of the Capay Valley, and all the discoveries her eight-month old is making. We talk about the pesticides that fill the central valley and how she's worried for her baby having to ingest them, but how at the same time all the organic food is so expensive. I can't wait to bring her a fresh basket of organic strawberries next week.

You never know what can happen when you just bake a cake

Love is definitely in the air. I see the cows licking each other every day as I milk, and even the cats seem to be grooming each other more frequently. On Saturday there's going to be a wedding too! There are shotgun shells lying in the yard to prove it. (The bachelor party was held here last weekend and all they did was shoot clay pigeons for seven hours.) We even butchered two lambs for the feast.

Unfortunately, I forgot all about this tiny detail Tuesday night as I walked into the cooler to get a cup of flour for a cake I was making. The sun having just set, I walked through the stretching shadows over to the crew kitchen with my bowl to fill up two cups of flour. To my surprise I opened the door to find two hanging carcasses dripping blood onto a parchment paper-covered floor. I jumped backwards in fright and almost dropped my bowl as I stood shaking, looking at the pink fleshy bodies hanging upside-down. But it only took a few seconds for my complete shock to turn into curiosity. I remember having passed by the same two sheep in the morning on my way to milk and now here they hung in front of me. What a transformation. Never had I seen an entire lamb like this, each muscle defined and sculpted across the body in different sections. It suddenly seemed so huge!

(agri)culture

Chyca's obsession with Winnie the Pooh started as a little girl. She loved everything Pooh so much that her adoration soon filled up her bedroom with stuffed Pooh bears, Pooh cups, Pooh boxes, Pooh everything. At night when she slept in her sea of Poohs she dreamt of going to the US where she would work enough to buy a life-sized Pooh bear for herself so that she could sleep next to it. But when the time finally came and she arrived in the US, her gigantic Pooh bear was nowhere to be found. She looked and looked but they simply didn't sell life-sized Pooh bears. Crestfallen but still determined, she continued on with her obsession and collected even more Pooh accessories than before.

Now years later, still toting her subtle Pooh bag, she describes this infatuation as a a thing of the past. She confesses that her fetish has subsided but she knows she will always love the idea of the chubby, carefree, happy-go-lucky bear that is Winnie.

I swear, being on this farm I have learned just as much about agriculture as I have about culture.

Warming and Swarming

Exhaustion. Today was the first day of real heat. And by real heat I don't mean the soft relaxing sun that comes at the beginning of spring, I mean heat that you can no longer enjoy. Bending over picking spinach, tokyo turnips, lettuce, sugar snap peas or whatever else it might be, the sun beats down relentlessly on your back, slowly covering your body in a thick layer of pure salt. Starting as early as nine in the morning, the intensity keeps climbing and doesn't stop until around 3 in the afternoon.

Bent over for a number of hours doing some flower transplanting, I was starting to feel like I was at my breaking point when all of a sudden I began to hear a loud and unfamiliar noise. It was like a thousand vibrations and suddenly the air seemed to come to life. My eyes finally left the crumbly dry soil I had been staring at since 11am and I looked up to see the huge swarm of bees that out of nowhere began to fill the air around us. Stuck in their cloud, we watched as they zoomed around in a frenzy, darting and swooping around. We imagined the queen bee somewhere amongst them but they turned circles around us and left us spinning before we could even begin to look more closely. After a few minutes, the swarm finally moved further away and we resumed work until we eventually forgot about them.

Hours later on our afternoon break, I lay down in the shade of one of the large walnut trees to escape the sun. I lay back to enjoy the breeze that was now starting to trickle in and at that moment I noticed one of the tree branches had an extra fuzzy mass covering it. I squealed and pointed upwards so that Rawley and Catalina could see where our new friends had chosen to live. Catalina was not so thrilled by the fact that they had chosen a spot so close to her work place but Rawley and I promised each other we will come back to visit often.

Bright lights

Last night I went to go see the Esparto High production of Alice in Wonderland. Today I felt like I was living in some sort of modern wonderland:

Pulling up to my oh so familiar driveway in Berkeley this morning I felt a sudden surge of emotion to see my faithful little yellow house waiting just where I had left it. I felt happy to have come back just in the nick of time to experience my favorite time of year at the Francisco house. Just like at the farm, all the flowers were popping and the green garlic that I had planted months ago resembled the plants I had just harvested the day before for the CSA boxes.

As soon as I arrived (of course only after showering my dog with infinite kisses), I quickly changed into my city appropriate attire so that we would be on time for our San Francisco tea party invitation. After a long day of chatting and then being stuck in the city's traffic we came home a bit exhausted only to see that I had left my car windows down and my ipod in the middle of the seat. These days at the farm I've become accustomed to leaving everything everywhere. As soon as the engine turns off, I toss the keys in the cupholders and fling my purse and ipod onto the passenger seat. I would never even think twice about leaving my brand new laptop sitting out in the backseat or my cell phone on the dashboard.

Similarly, Rawley said he was baffled when he came to Oakland last weekend for a backyard grill party only to find his best friend grilling eggplants over the coals. "Our eggplants are only four inches tall right now!" He explained as he wondered at the silly concept of those large purple lumps he saw grilling.

Secret

Every time I think I'm starting to know everything like the back of my hand around here, I find something I haven't discovered yet. Today while filling flats in the old barn, my big bro showed me where the barn owls live. My eyes searched the rafters where Rawley had pointed to and I finally located the serene being.

She sat poised at the very far end of the barn, next to an opening where the light streamed in. In the instant I saw her, it felt as though she understood everything. I stared at the creamy tan owl as though in a trance, watching her as she sat soaking up the day. It was stunning to look at her there by the window, her beauty and grace both absolutely hypnotizing. I felt her royal poise emanate and it felt as though I had been let in on a big secret.

paying the river

The deep green water rushed by quickly as tiny trickles of gravel occasionally fell from the menacing cliff face that dropped directly into the water. Digging my toes into the sand, I watched as the kids splashed in the water and the adults chatted around the sizzling grill. With the sun still high and bright, clouds of swallows flew at the cliff walls gathering bits of mud in their beaks to use for their nests.

We ate chili covered oranges and our faces grew sticky with the juice that dribbled down our necks. We jumped in again to wash it all off and lay back out in the sun for a few minutes to dry, lying on the warm sand as we inhaled the lush smell of the forest that mixed with the smoky smell of the carne that was azando.

After spending enough time at the picnic we drove with the kids to Guinda where the kids could play more easily in the shallower water. Standing up to our knees in rushing water, Mary and I held onto the kids as they dove around looking at fish and stones. Little Hector found the round stones and held them in his hand, calling them monedas. He threw each of them out to the river in payment for all the fun he was having saying, "here you go, sir" before tossing them downstream.

Fuzzy pods

With cottonwood flurries blowing around our feet and wood doves fluttering overhead to find a place for the night, my big brother taught me how to open up the premature almonds for a tasty snack. A big branch that hung over the trail to Rawley's trailer was heavy with fuzzy green pods and he reached up to pick one and cut it open. Inside a thick layer of soft white flesh engulfed a tiny creamy white almond. With a flick of his wrist he pried it out and I popped the watermelon rind tasting thing into my mouth.

!!!!!

Too shocked for words:

"If you're in Arizona and look even remotely like some policeman's idea of an illegal immigrant, a law signed today says you will have to produce papers showing you're in the USA legally whenever and where-ever an officer requests this -- and so will anyone else with you."

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/24/us/politics/24immig.html

Guess I'll be dyeing my hair anytime I go to Arizona...

Cackles

Today I laughed harder than I have in many months. Squeezed in the back of the pickup my ribs heaved and tears dripped from my eyes as I tried to hold the milk bucket still out the window. Both Rawley and Luke came to help me milk today since I can only milk with one hand and therefore go half as fast. (Although if I concentrate sometimes I can beat him!) With only two and a half people on the way back we didn't have a way to carry the milk since Mapache, Arnica and Pinto together produced six buckets. While Rawley drove carefully holding one of the milk pails, Luke held his bucket out the other window. Me being the smallest I climbed into the tiny back seat of the cab and sat backwards so that I could manage to fit my left hand (the good one) out of Luke's window. All crammed and howling with laughter we slowly made our way back to the farm only to find that we couldn't untangle ourselves too easily...

Menagerie

It makes me so sad that you can see a big portion of the Capay Valley's wild animals just by driving down Highway 16. On my way back from ultrasound therapy with my Edna Mode look-alike today I saw: a skunk, a fawn, numerous house cats, raccoons and even an otter.

To make matters worse, TD is going downhill again although this time it's her back legs that don't work.

On a happier note I got to spend the morning in Dru's garden weeding and making paths in the crazy weather. First it looked like rain but then the skies parted to show a peak of sun for a few minutes before showering hail down.

busy monday

A few things:

1) With rain due to come in a matter of hours, everything was on high alert. The pre-precipitation frenzy meant that most of us spent the entire day transplanting whatever we could get our hands on. (Corn, melons, statice, tomatoes, calendula etc.) It was great to finally see all our hard work in the greenhouses finally pay off.

2) More proof that Rawley should actually be my brother: today as we were transplanting melons with the water wheel, I was singing Jorge Drexler under my breath and he actually knew what song it was!

3) The lamb herd has been moved right below my trailer so I get to watch them chew on the trees. At this very moment Tiny D and Hazel are touching noses.

Up in flames

Rawley's friend Luke came on Thursday. Like Rawley he has the same skinny and tall build, so much so that they even joke that they are from the same stock, the skinny chicken leg stock.

He works at fancy restaurants as a barista.

Today the three of us went out to hike the Arbuckle Grade with Nellie. After kidnapping her in Rawley's new ride, we rode a few miles north to Rumsey and across the troll bridge to start our hike. The way up was sweltering hot but beautiful. Besides the turkeys and turkey vultures, we were completely alone in the dry heat until we encountered a gang of dirt biking teenagers and two men in a black pickup. Rawley of course commented on how vulnerable we were being all alone in the woods and mentioned how he had run into another person with an ATV and a rifle on another hike he had been on. Of course we were completely fine and made it up to the top of the ridge where we could see the entire Capay Valley in all its beauty. After locating Full Belly from those heights we noticed a huge plume of dark smoke not so far away. On the ride home, the smoke could even be seen above the trees so being the pyros that we are, we decided to go check it out. Stopping first at the Guinda Corner Store for some post-hike ice-cream, we watched Cole speed by in his bright yellow volunteer firefighting suit as we listened to the store women gossiping abut the fire. Apparently some people had wanted to burn some brush and then the fire had gotten out of control. Smelling the smoke beginning to waft through the store door we rushed out to the car to go see the fire for ourselves. We rounded the bend in the creaky Mercedes and all of a sudden the smoke was billowing above us in a seventy foot plume. A small house and some horses stood in the foreground and three kids threw a baseball around in the garden as though completely oblivious to the roaring fire behind them. But as we drove further down the road we could see behind the house to the big flames that jumped and twitched in a blazing orange mass.

Eggs-actly!

Forgot to mention a near catastrophe yesterday at lunch. With so many broken eggs that we can't sell at market I decided to make a crazy dessert item for lunch. If I haven't already said it, dessert has become close to obligatory now. Alex started it by making his signature chocolate chip cookies every lunch and since then it has taken off.

Well anyway, yesterday I decided to make meringues. The flavor turned out well but the presentation was a bit sub-par. The insides were deliciously gooey with a crunchy shell but as soon as we scraped them off the sheet they shriveled into tiny crumpled morsels.

After using up so many egg whites I decided something needed to be done about the yolks so I set off making an "eight yolk delight" with my last fifteen minutes. Being a bit rushed I read the first half of the recipe and then accidentally jumped to the second half of a completely different recipe! Instead of throwing it away I ended up spooning the thick, yellow, cookie batter-like substance into a pan just to try my luck and I'm glad I did because it didn't turn out quite as puke-alicious as I had expected. To my surprise it was not all that bad, just a bit plain and dense. Rawley convinced me to then spruce it up and serve it at his lunch today with a creamcheese frosting and some strawberries on top.

Primavera

I've been saying this for weeks but spring is finally finally here. After a bout of tricky weather full of surprises (big rain storms mixed with sunny skies) we finally reached the perfect spring day today. The evening was warm and sweet and the smell of fresh grass and spring was in the air. You can also tell the days are getting warmer because the everyones' faces are getting rosier as the days go by.

Crash course

My eyes must be getting bigger because everywhere I go now I find something interesting. Today I went to my first therapy lesson and walked in to talk to the fat and grumpy receptionist who coldly led me through the paperwork. Then my name was called by a petite asian lady with a clipboard who took me to the back room to start looking at my wrist. After a series of exercises, diagrams and explanations, she finally left me for a few minutes with a hot pad resting on my scar. As the warmth spread I began to finally look beyond the immediate problem of my unresponsive thumb and inwardly chuckled at the stalky man sitting at the table infront of me. Besides grumbling about being able to return to work at Safeway in the dairy department he didn't say much else and only sat hunched over typing away on his iphone (with his left hand) as the therapist worked on his fractured arm with an ultrasound. To my right an old Chilean lady and a therapist tried desperately to understand each other with hand gestures to no avail. After hesitating for a few minutes my frustration finally won over and I butted in to offer translation. The old woman had fallen and broken her middle finger which was now swollen to twice the normal size. After communicating through me that there was no longer any pain, she proudly held her hand up in a fist and smiled. The therapist nodded back, progress. No translation needed.

Olives

This morning Hallie told me the story about being bit in the crotch by a crazy Mongolian guard dog that was living with a band of traveling gypsies that once stopped by the farm. Today she and I lived through a market that was almost as surreal as the story she had so recently recounted...

Having forgotten it was Friday Hallie, Alex and I all scrambled to put together our weekly marketita for the local neighbors. With the vegetables just freshly laid out on the table, we sat down to take a few breaths of air before being bombarded by a very unexpected crowd of visitors. First a few of the usuals came by but they were soon forgotten when a mysterious market truck pulled up the driveway followed by a big cloud of dust.

All eyes turned as the truck lumbered in and then parked itself right in the middle of our yard. We watched as three unlikely characters stepped out of the cab and were surprised when they immediately set off yakking away about the motherlode of olives they had stowed away in their large truck. The most talkative of the three was an eccentric old french lady who rambled on and on about her husband's wonderful olives and their small goat herd. Next in eccentricity, her son (who closely resembled Aldous Snow, http://wedofunny.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/russell-brand.jpg), a strange parisian with lots of tattoos and eye make-up chimed in by rattling off all the nutritional qualities that the raw olives provided to the digestive system. His girlfriend (I assume) was a shy but edgy young girl with a short blond bob who simply stood and nodded the whole time.

While all this was going on, Hallie and I pretty much stood there dumbfounded while they stuffed olives in our mouths and talked to us about enzymes and the olive curing process. When they finally left we looked at each other and screamed "traveling olive gypsies!"

A warm day

The light is just at that perfect tipping point, there's still enough light to see but the bats are starting to come out and shadows begin to stealthily swallow the orchard around us. The heat of the day is still in the air and on our faces. A circle of hay bales surrounds a roaring campfire which sparks dangerously close to Rawley's fiddling elbow. I'm surrounded by kids and while they do their twists and flips I dosey doe to the music and inhale the elation that the kids seem to give off.

Clear signs

You know you live on a farm when...

I'm filling out my physical therapy questionnaire, it asks me what goals I would like to achieve at the end of my rehab listing examples like "play golf". I fill in, "I want to be able to milk a cow with two hands".

Holidays

April first is taken very seriously here. On thursday the pranks started at 6:30am with a call from Amon saying that Andrew hadn't shown up with the market truck and he was worried something had happened to him. Panicked and still half asleep Dru then dialed Andrew who kept it going by saying he had blown a tire on the 505 until he and Amon finally burst out laughing.

To pay back their prank we then spent our entire lunch hour plotting ways to get Andrew when he got back from the market. Among the best ideas was our plan to steal Andrew's truck. We would drive down to San Rafael with the spare key and drive the truck home while Andrew was in his meeting. As an after thought we decided it would be extra fun to leave behind one of those red and yellow Fisher Price toy trucks in its place and maybe even spray it with fish emulsion for a special touch. Next we decided it would be more clever to call ahead to the weigh station and have the CHP pull him aside for possessing a stolen vehicle. Unfortunately none of our plans really developed themselves except for a half-hearted attempt at scaring Andrew by placing a pigs' head from the butcher in the front seat of his car.

Thumbs

Rawley: "Opposable thumbs are what make us human".

With this logic I am half human.

family tree

Update: Rawley and I are officially siblings now. After Chyca once called him my brother a few months ago, everyone's taken to grouping us as brother and sister.

Plans

As much as I thought I was getting used to this whole "not knowing my next step in life" thing, a change in plans this big still shook me pretty hard. In a fraction of a second, my entire Ireland trip fell through my hands and now I'm facing at least a few weeks of confusion and mystery.

Despite my unsettling change in plans however, I can still find comfort in being at the farm and seeing that life here boldly marches on. It calms me to know that no matter what happens the cows will still have to be milked and the greenhouses will still have to be closed every day. No matter what happens, those bad radio stations will still exist and will still cause my brain to play random songs on repeat all day log (the one that's currently on loop: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93X2mZ5xT8Y). The world around us can go up in flames but chickens will keep laying eggs, grass will still grow miraculously in the back of the forklift where dust and soil has gathered, lambs will still need to be bottlefed, lettuce will still surprise me with its beauty, and pigs will still squeal when they see me coming with a bucket of scraps.

The blink of an eye

If the Full Belly gods thought they hadn't shown me the delicate balance of life and death well enough yet then they really proved their point last week. One second I was innocently washing out a stinky jar of milk and watching the two calves play in the sun, and the next I was running through the yard, clutching my bleeding wrist. I yelled over at the first person I saw but the adrenaline made me forget the pain, and my voice came out too calm. Chuy heard me and laughed, jogging over with a tiny bandaid in his hand. But when he got close he saw the fear in my eyes and the dark blood and he flagged down Paul who drove me to the hospital. Days later as I painstakingly type out letter by letter on the computer with my left hand, I look back and think how lucky I am to have been shown this lesson in the company of such wonderful people and not somewhere else.

Hoeing makes the world go round

It's just me and the broccoli. Well actually, it's me + broccoli + hot hot sun + soil + my hoe + my blister from the hoe....And probably a few other things I forgot to mention, but at that specific moment it really felt like it was just me and the broccoli. I even talked to it, sang to it, thought out loud to it. But after letting out a few Beatles songs I kept quiet, listening to the birds and going back to being perfectly content, completely alone in the middle of the field.

Sitting out there in the calm I thought mostly about my newest friend, Mickey, or Mickeydonas as they like to call him.

It seems every week I spend here I discover something new, something interesting, something inspiring. Today I found Mickey.

Mickey is a quiet character, I had already seen him around a lot but the most we had ever talked was only a few hellos and some practical conversations about lamb fencing. It's amazing what hoeing can do for people. I've discovered it can bring you together. Squatting down, dripping tiny droplets of sweat onto the same dry earth together we shared stories:

He's from Sonora, I was born in Switzerland. He has 4 kids, I have none. His license is from Arizona, mine's from California. His wife lives in Mexico, she has my same name. She once came to California with him but their daughter got sick from sadness so she had to go back. They walked the desert for 4 days to get here, they found two dead bodies along the way. After that, his wife said she'd never do it again. He's going to go back as soon as he can.

Hot!

Summer is really taunting us these days. After spending an entire day hoeing onions in the scalding sun, Rawley and I practically raced to the freezer to cool ourselves off with some popsicles.

Even after lathering sunblock I got a massive tan in the shape of my racerback tank. I'm thinking it's ok cause after all I better save up some sun for rainy Ireland. But I'm not gonna lie, I don't feel jealous of everyone here who has to work through the real summer months, this is only the beginning...

Sweet sounds

One of my top ten moments on the farm for sure:

A perfect day. Deep blue skies, hot sun and a sweet breeze, my hair flying in the wind as I ride the moto fast, savoring the smells of the different crops as I pass by. I screech to a halt in a cloud of dust as I come up to the truck thats idling by the side of the road. As I get closer, I hear a Bach suite drifting from the open window. Antonio is sitting inside, enjoying the last of the musical phrase before stepping out of the car. "You like that music?" I ask in surprise. I would never imagine it, judging by the loud corridos he likes to play when we clean out the barn. "Of course, don't you?", he replies. "Sure I do" I say, still skeptical. "It's so romantic" he adds. My jaw almost hangs open but instead of saying anything I swing my legs off the moto and begin taking down the electric fence we've come to dismantle.

Mental note to self: don't judge people so quickly.

Eyes.

As promised, a study of the eyes of the farm.

Darling the cow

Spot the sow

A freaked out chicken

Crackers the evil cat

Fern the dog

Neo the goat

Almond Festival!

Admitting that I'm not the Almond Festival's number one fan, I do have to give it credit for making me appreciate the valley's beauty even more than before. Starting off the day in Esparto among the throngs of leather-clad, mustachioed bikers, I then headed to the calmer scene over in Rumsey. With bumper-to-bumper traffic for a large stretch of road between the two towns I was given the chance to look more closely at the fields and rolling hills that make the valley so peaceful and breath-taking.

In comparison to the packed and crazed Esparto festivities, Rumsey was a completely different experience. With warm rays of sun coating the celebrations, the sweet smell of ribs filled the air as groovy blues musicians kept the atmosphere lively and relaxed. Summer seems to be approaching ever so quickly and beautiful days such as today quickly turn the recent heavy rains into distant memories.

Clear signs

You know you live on a farm when you gauge last night's temperature by how frozen your toothpaste is in the morning.

Camaleón

The song that is the soundtrack to everything here:

"Cama, cama, cama, camaleon
Yo soy el camaleon
Cama, cama, cama, camaleon
Yo soy el camaleon
A mi me dicen el camaleon por que cambio de color
Para cada situacion yo tengo un color mejor (bis)
Cama, cama, cama, camaleon
Yo soy el camaleon
Cama, cama, cama, camaleon
Yo soy el camaleon
Si me habla rosa me pongo rojo
Si tengo miedo amarillo es mi color
Si me andan buscando no quiero que me encuentren
Transparente tambien soy (bis)
Cama, cama,...
A mi me dicen el camaleon... (bis)
Cama, cama,... "

- Los Tigrillos

Quince

With all my thoughts about the quince roaming, I wasn't sure exactly how it would go. I first went over to Chyca's house to get ready and try on a bunch of different dresses. I managed to get away without her offering to lend me a dress or a pair of shoes but I couldn't escape her purse and earrings. In the end I chose a gold dress with the flashiest pair of gold heels I own to match and Chyca supplied a sparkly gold purse to top it all off.
After piling little Héctor and Chyca's young niece, Loret into the car, we drove over to the hall in Woodland where the party was being held. During the day I'm sure the building would have looked like any warehouse but that night you could tell from the outside that there was a lot going on. Lights and music were bursting through the roof and the parking lot was brimming as we pulled in. After we finally managed to get to the doors the security announced the capacity was already filled but because of our lucky inside connection, we managed to get in through the back. Ducking in through the secret entrance we made our way through the industrial kitchen where warm mole, rice and beans were being served to all the guests. After pushing our way through the crowds we eventually found ourselves in the big dance room where a mass of tables and families faced the big stage. All around the room had been decorated in pistachio green to match the quinceañera's dress choice, and big colorful lights swept over the band as they cranked out popular mexican songs (none of which I knew).
We ate and talked with the people around us as the usual quince rituals carried on. None of the people around us seemed to care so I continually had to poke Mari to ask her what was happening. With all the distractions, I'm pretty sure I missed a few parts but I did get to see the quince perform a series of studied dances (including a waltz), a very poorly choreographed michael jackson-inspired number performed by some boys in matching green suits, and the quince's parents present her a tiara and a pair of heels to transition her into womanhood.
After her dance, everybody joined together on the stage with no inhibition, old and young alike dancing together. Mari and her husband Manuel danced together while I danced with Chyca and the kiddies.
Finally after a dozen songs the kids began to whine so we decided to head home. But only shortly after all cramming into the car the kids started to complain of hunger so we stopped at what I imagine was probably the only taqueria open at such an hour. The kids nibbled on some tacos and horchata while we sat around feeling cold in our dresses and tiny cardigans.
But as we sat leaning against the wall of the restaurant we realized there was also a lot of music coming from inside the building. Leaving the kids outside with Mari, Chyca, Tony and I went inside only to have our ears greeted once again by the sounds of the uber-popular song, Camaleón. The dark room throbbed with music as we watched couples dance inside, bouncing to the beat. We watched for a few minutes as the sweaty, smoky room pulsed and then turned back to make our way homewards.

Empanadas

I went again to Chyca's chaotic but fun house yesterday. I'm getting used to the rhythm now, barely knocking at the door before going in to find the plebes (kids) crawling around the house like ants. As soon as you cross the threshold they swarm and pull at your clothes as you try to get your bearings.

I went over because I've been begging Mari (Chyca's sister) to teach me to cook and dance. And she actually took me up on it! She decided to start with the easier task of teaching me how to cook a meal that I love.

To make her famous shrimp empanadas we started by peeling a bunch of slimy gray shrimp and dicing them. We mixed these in with a concoction of tomatoes and onions that were simmering on the stove until they formed a nice pastey sauce. Next we made the masa and used the press to smush balls of dough into perfect tortilla-shaped discs. Filling these with our mixture we pinched each empanada closed with our fingers and then submerged them in bubbling oil until they were perfectly golden. Served with mayo and a delicious avocado, tomato, lemon, cabbage, and onion salad, not much could have been better.

Snickerdoodles

Today I was giggly for most of the day until yoga finally calmed me down.

Before I had the chance to do lots of downard dogs and warrior poses though, I made some snickerdoodles for lunch. I must have been the only one affected by the sugar because I was the only one that howled at Rawley's response, "snick me a doodle!" and "pass me a snicker, dude, ul." (But even after my hour-long yoga session, I still think it's clever) My favorite quote of the day by far.

Plums

Not many people have the luxury to finish a day of work and say that they built an orchard. I, however, have this freedom. Most of the day was spent stringing cords, banging stakes, and jumping through the tall grass that filled the entire plot we were working with. Every so often our work would be paused when Sergio would announce, "¡Cada quien a sus wiriris!", "Everybody, to their weedeaters!" and we would each don our goggles and earplugs, revving up our individual motors. After many hours we finally finished and laughed as we looked at each other, covered from head to toe in tiny green specks. Looking out at the field in my camouflage, I saw the neatly staked rows and thought how there are few jobs more rewarding than knowing that the trees I helped place will remain for years and years to come.

Pinto

I sit inside my trailer as the coyotes howl and the pigs grunt outside, thinking about my day. Our prized cow, Pinto Bean, was pregnant today. And I say pregnant today because we didn't know she was pregnant until this morning when we saw discharge starting to come out of her.

After this discovery, the whole day was spent somewhat on edge, with a scout going up to see her every half hour to make sure everything was alright. But I guess our scheduled scouts didn't do much good because it was the crew that first noticed that Pinto was finally in labor. On my way over to the sheep in the little Kubota, I noticed a van pulled over to the side of the road. As I drew closer I realized they were all pointing in Pinto's direction and motioning for me to come over. I pulled up to the window where Pancho told me to run and get Dru to help Pinto who was now standing with great discomfort in the middle of her pen, looking quite miserable.

Only minutes later Dru and I were standing by the gate together, watching Pinto struggle with the baby. After only a few minutes of watching, we couldn't handle it anymore so Dru went in and pulled at the calf until the whole body slithered out onto the hay. With quick movements she rubbed the body, trying to revive it but no matter how she did, the delicate body wouldn't show signs of life. In the end, the tiny calf lay there in front of us as Pinto regained strength and stood up again. It was with sorrow that we watched as Pinto nudged her dead baby and began to lick its entire, limp body dry. With each lick the carcass moved jerkily, flopping around as she lapped up the placenta that stuck to the baby's hind quarters. Her longing moos echoed in the silence of sadness that enveloped us as we watched the scene proceed. As Dru always says, "it never gets easier".

Identification

"Lente oscuro, marijuano seguro"

Dark monsters

Who knows if I've matured at all this year. But one thing I can say is that I'm no longer scared of the dark like I used to be. Don't hold me to my word if I'm stuck inside a haunted house or in a creepy alley but on the farm, I've come to really enjoy it.

Glamour and glitz

Rawley was a little bummed today when I told him he missed his chance at fame while he was away at market. It was a strange day, the crew didn't come so the yard was completely empty and very quiet. The only people that did show up to work besides us interns (obviously) was a chef and her camera man who were working on making a promotional video for her new cookbook. Aside from the prettier-than-normal tablecloth at lunch, the day carried on as usual despite the presence of the camera man and we even managed to give him a memorable scene of us all chasing a 1000 lb pig across the yard.

In the morning, Greg cleared out the field just below my Pinky and secured the fence so that we could walk Harriet over from her pen to the pasture. Not being sure how she would react we had all hands on deck, each of us waving big sticks and hollering as the massive, wart-covered sow made her way over to the pasture. I can imagine we made a very funny youtube video, although I'm pretty sure it wasn't quite the material the guy was looking for to put on his cookbook video.

Peepers

Months ago as I was walking home to my trailer one night I shone my headlight down into the meadow below only to find four or five pairs of glowing green eyes fixed on me. I stood frozen for a minute staring, until the adrenaline must have kicked in and I found my legs again, taking off as fast as I could towards my trailer and slamming the door shut behind me. I have since learned that those eyes were probably harmless, just a handful of feral cats that like to prowl. But ever since that night I started thinking more about eyes.

In the thick of lambing season, I compared the almost reptilian pupils that goats have to the slightly tamer lamb eyes I became so familiar with. I then moved on to noticing the funny chickens whose eyes only have one lid that closes from the bottom up and later the cows with their gargantuan eyeballs. Then one day when I brought this all up to Rawley he pointed out how unsettling the pigs' eyes were with their uncanny human resemblance.

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Following these discussions and observations I have decided that a photographic study of farm animal eyes is in order. So far it has proven easier said than done due to the bad combination of a slow camera and fast moving/disobedient subjects, but I expect a final project sometime in the next week.

Burros on the court

Not a PETA-friendly event

Donkey basketball is like walking into a bizarre dream, a warped Dalí painting. Excitement is in the air as the saggy looking donkeys are pulled around the court, slipping on the gym floor and being bumped around as competitive kids shove each other for a swipe at the ball. Over-eager parents shout from the stands, "Come onnnn Donna! The basket's on that side!!" "Oh for crying out loud, get on the donkey!" "Shoot already!"

Some of the kids struggle at getting on the donkeys with the ball in one hand and fall to the ground while others jump on swiftly with impressive ease. Two or three fat men wearing big "Buckeye Burros' Donkey Basketball" jackets hobble behind the donkeys, hitting their legs with a stick to get them to hurry in one direction or the other.

For the first fifteen minutes, you sit mesmerized by the commotion around you: the shouting parents, the excited kids, the stupefied donkeys, the energetic MC's voice over the loudspeaker. And then all of a sudden you find yourself in the thick of it too, shouting for the blue team's burros to move faster.

When it's over, you step out from the heated gym and gasp a breath of cool air, at last the dream is over.