Angels in My Carriage

If ever you are in need of spiritual guidance or inspiration, take a train ride. Or a bus, subway, metro. I am convinced these are the congregation halls of angels. At the moment, it seems the vehicles of public transportation are indeed the only place I’ve encountered such beings. They certainly don’t exist on planes, or if they do, they only use them as their sleeping carriage, for I’ve never met a heavenly messenger whilst in flight. But Amtrak, TGV, TER, the SF Muni – even Greyhound! – are virtual breeding grounds for the buggers.

Most recently, I made the long trek from Murren, Switzerland to Narbonne, France by train: 10 hours each way, with changes in 5 cities. It sounds like a lot of travel in 3 days, but you know…I like trains. They’re slow. You can watch the changes in landscape and culture. (You know you’ve crossed the Swiss-French border when suddenly the clocks don’t work, the trains are delayed, and there’s a general feeling of dirt and disorder in the air). You’re forced into doing nothing (which includes such pleasurable activities as reading, writing, thinking, and sleeping). You also have plenty of time to pour your guts out to people you’ll never see again. It’s wonderfully cathartic, and a safe and socially acceptable form of intimacy with a stranger.

This time I was somewhere outside of Lyon when my neighbor and I exchanged a few words. Within the first few sentences I found out he was an energy healer – a term that might turn most people off (sounds too New Age-y). For me though, it was grounds for potentially interesting conversation. I bought him a coffee in Lyon and we took a seat next to each other on the train to Geneve. In the 2 hours that followed we covered politics, spirituality, love, sex, families, relationships, life paths, etc. Being that he was a middle-aged man I’d just met, maybe I should have felt uncomfortable talking about my love life or my private philosophical conundrums. Most of us are afraid to spill our soul to a loved one, much less a complete stranger. But why? The man is a healer. He hears these stories all the time. And even if he were a regular Joe, what of it? What’s he going to do with my “secrets”? Sell them to the government? I doubt they’d be interested. Why shouldn’t we share our stories of personal triumph and tragedy? Besides, it’s kinda fun to talk so openly about taboo subjects. I, for one, feel more human and less alone in this strange labyrinth of life. I suspect the other guy does too. This particular conversation confirmed my suspicions that I’m not maladjusted or an immoral freak of a human being…unless he was a maladjusted, immoral freak who just confirmed my likeness. Hmmmm…I’m gonna bank on the former. Regardless, there are other people that think, feel, and live the way I do (or at least, the way I’d like to, could I accept myself).

There’ve been other angels, always in the least likely places at the most urgent of times. There was the fisherman who talked to me for 5 hours on the Greyhound bus. I’d just dropped out of college and was headed back to Colorado – 3 days after I’d enrolled and moved my life to Bellingham for a 2^nd attempt at a college education. (My parents loved that one). Then there was Elder Willy White – the 70 year-old pastor who told me the most un-pastorly stories about his life, filled me with hope, and kept me from bawling my eyes out on the 6 hour ride from Detroit to Cincinnati. I had just had the most heart-wrenching breakup with the “love of my life” and boarded the bus for what I was certain would be the most painful journey in my 25 years of existence. I knew he was an angel the moment I sat down and he asked me, “So when’s the wedding?” We talked the entire way. Mostly it was him telling me stories like when he beat up his sister’s boyfriend for being an asshole, interjecting “Hallelujah!” and “Praise the Lord!” every few sentences. He said it with such conviction that within 20 minutes I was struggling to keep the evangelical proclamations from popping from my own mouth. As we pulled into Cincinnati he asked if he could pray for me. Then and there, at the front of the grungy Greyhound, crying children, drunks, rednecks, and gang members bouncing around the back, he bowed over my folded hands and prayed, in Jesus’ name, for my healing and happiness. Being that I’m not a Christian, and had only just come to terms with the religion, I felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Elder Willy White was so sincere and so genuinely loving in his actions, though, I could not help but feel blessed.

There are also the angels who fall more into the “lunatic” category. These are by far the most fun and, as could be expected, are in high concentration on the San Francisco MUNI lines. One of them caught my attention on the J headed downtown. I was feeling stressed on time and in those “what am I doing with my life” moments. Happy (yes, that was his name) and his wife were healers who “spread the light”. Social training had taught me these were the type of people I should dismiss as fruitcakes, but if all fruitcakes leave me glowing like that, I’ll take a second helping, thank you very much!

My other MUNI man was an angel to me simply for having the cojones to make such an ass of himself. He strutted onto the N train, headphones plugged in, belting out an R&B love song with all the passion of Stevie Wonder. This was entertaining enough, but then he saw me and decided I must be the object of his burning love. From Church St to Montgomery he wailed away, telling me I was a “true beauty queen”, the “woman of his dreams”; how his heart ached to make love to me. The other passengers at first looked angry for the annoyance of such inappropriate behaviour. Five minutes later he was still going, and what could they do but laugh along with me? As the train pulled up to the final stop, I waited for my Romeo to ask either for my number or a tip. He merely departed with a smile and a “Thank you, beautiful.”

Thank me?? No, no, no. Thank YOU! Thank you, you gorgeous, crazy mothaf—ers! Thank you for spilling your joie de vivre all over my lap! Thank you for having the balls to show yourselves! Thank you for having the heart to listen! Thank you for living, loving, laughing out loud! Thank you for giving me permission to spread my own brand of angelic lunacy around the world.

Murren: The First Month

I feel obliged to make an update to my blog. Trouble is, I don’t feel very inspired of late. It’s certainly not due to the environment – Murren and the surrounding Jungfrau region are one of the most breathtaking landscapes I’ve ever come across. But what is left to say about the beauty of nature? When I stand at the top of the Schiltgrat, looking across the valley to the Eiger (my favourite of these mountains), or on a night up at Sonnenburg where the Jungfrau glacier blushes under the light of a full moon, there are no words. There is nothing but the sigh of peace, and the knowing that everything just is. I’d like to think that it’s this outer silence that’s creating a paucity of expression within, though, more than likely, it’s the fact that I’m working too much (which, in my opinion, is anything more than 3 days/week).

Regardless, something about the blend of tranquility with grandiose scenery in this corner of the world do quiet the chattering mind, even during a raucous play session. But for those of you who’d like to hear more than just my sigh of contentment, here’s a lazy smattering of my Alpine highlights thus far:

New Year’s Eve: Maybe the best I’ve had, despite the fact I was working. Half way into dinner, 15 young men and women paraded through the restaurant ringing giant cowbells to welcome in the New Year. Bloody deafening. DJ Frau Gertchi spun what sounded like Swiss folk disco along with Michael Jackson. Just before midnight we all grabbed a glass (or 2 or 3) of Prosecco and toasted 2010 under a full moon and fireworks. I realised here that there maybe nothing so beautiful as the Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau mountains under a full moon, their blankets of snow throwing off a numinous light, giving contest to the stars.

Olympic Sledge Runs: Rémi and I went to “the other side” to test out the Eiger Run – a 12km, 45 minute sledge run from Kleine Sheidegg to Grindelwald. Growing up in Ohio meant 3-minute sled rides down the hill where the closest threat of danger was falling into the creek. Alpine sledding is not a joke, my friends. 2 hours of trains to reach our start point. We mounted our aluminum steeds and…HOLY F—–! We were flying down the mountainside at speeds of 50km/hr. There were no barricades to keep us from flying off course or prevent arboreal collisions. There were no warnings for parents taking their 5 year olds out some family fun. This wasn’t any straight, wide slope. There were curves and hairpin turns, 4-foot wide paths through dimly lit forests. At times you’d be flying along at break-neck speeds (completely out-of-control), only to spill out onto the ski slope, praying you wouldn’t run over an innocent child. Speed control was not possible, except by bailout. The crashes were numerous, but by God’s mercy, all ended in snow banks. Clearly, I wasn’t in the US anymore. Stateside, this would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. Our speeds picked up over the final few slopes, and as we made our decent into Grindelwald, we hit a double bump, ramping over a road, and coming to a landing in a parking lot. Grinning like silly bastards, we thought, “Who needs skiing?”

Other oddities: Here in Murren everything is slow, and few things normal. A traffic jam is when you’re stuck behind 15 late-night sledders. To buy a simple pair of (non-ski) socks, it’s necessary to go the hour+ by train into the nearest city. The doctor travels by helicopter. So do dead or injured livestock, felled trees, and large machinery (I’ve seen a cow dangling from a 100ft line flying over the valley). Certain afternoons can be spent drinking beers center-slope with men in spandex, while disco pumps from the speakers. Why not?

Big Moon Sledding: Again under the spell of winter moonlight, Rémi and I joined our new friend, Philip, for a sledge session. Giggling in the dark forest, blindly toeing our way along the narrow path, careful not to fall the 10 meters down to the creek, we came out again into light and made our way straight up the piste, towing our wooden sleds behind. Occasionally, we’d stop to catch our breath (and take swigs from the wine bottle). Out of the light of the village and the snowploughs, we’d lie on our backs and breathe in the stars. It’s a funny thing to share such a moment with a stranger. The air is so filled with romance and magic that the foreign body lying next to you doesn’t seem so foreign. At the same time, the friend you know and love seems a stranger in the vastness of the Universe.

It’s a bit of a time warp here; a place where I feel disconnected from the “real” world, but connected to something more. Take away the flashy entertainment, the pressure of the rat race, the noise of consumer culture, and what’s left is life – pure and simple. And it ain’t so shabby!


Malta, Gozo, and Sicily

The best thing about traveling is always the people. Always. The people I meet decidedly make or break a voyage. I might see beautiful vistas, and climb glorious mountaintops, or plunge into seas teeming with marinelife, but if these experiences aren’t complimented with inspirational human contact, the journey remains a silent stage – beautifully set perhaps, but storyless. This became crystal clear to me after my most recent venture through the islands of Malta, Gozo, and Sicily.

Rémi and I had our first (official) experience as surfers through the couchsurfing network (www.couchsurfing.org). Our first host, Stefan, picked us up in the airport on a Saturday morning, and took us to see Malta’s hidden gems – namely, the NW coast – the 1 part of the island not accessible by bus, and 1 of the few spots not plastered in cement and traffic. It was a stunning spot that we never would have seen without him. He invited us, two complete strangers, into his home, gave us a comfortable room to stay in, shared meals with us, drove us around the island, and answered our endless questions about Maltese life. We crowned him the most generous host we’d ever met. Five days later we discovered he had a fierce competitor on the neighboring island, Gozo.

(Remi and Stefan with vegetable curry)

A 25 minute ferry ride landed us on the tiny island, where we happily sucked in the open air and rolling green terrain. We arrived at Mario’s home at 7pm on a Wednesday night and were greeted with a warm kitchen, a bottle of wine, and a 4-course meal. Mario is a Maltese man in his mid-forties who works as guardian of a historic watchtower, and spends his free time fixing up his old stone-stable-turned-habitation, hosting couch-surfers, and above all, cooking. (His CS profile states his goal is “to make his guests fat”). The man cooked feasts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and heartily encouraged snacking in between. There were pastas, roasts, sausages, olives, local cheeses and honey, pizza, pies, cookies, and imbuya – a Maltese specialty composed of chestnuts, chocolate, and orange peel. Dinners were 3-hour affairs and always filled with interesting conversation. His hospitality and zeal for cooking were inspiration enough. Then we learned that he hosts 1 to 4 couch surfers most days of the year. What does he ask for in return? Only that you take a 2nd (3rd or 4th) helping.

(Mario and Tequila the cat, Click for slideshow of Malta and Gozo photos)

For days and 2 kilos later, we left the wilds of Gozo for a taste of Sicily. Here again, we met up with a CSer. Guiseppe had just returned from an extended visit in Turkey, but despite being swamped with things to do, he met up with us one night to show us all the hidden secrets of Siracusa. There were long talks of history, architecture, the Mafia, and vagabonding; wanders through the alleyways; star-gazing from seaside rocks; horsemeat sandwiches from the late-night panini truck; drinks shared at the anarchist’s winebar. And again, two days later, he showed us the fishing villages of Marzamemi and Porto Palo, then to his family’s farm in Pachino: acres of land for citrus, olives, and vegetables, with views of the sea and Mt. Etna. His mother stopped what she was doing to make us tea, and even offered me a hot shower after my cold swim in the Med.

(Remi and Guiseppe in Porto Palo. Click image for slideshow of Sicily photos)

What I found most remarkable about these people, was the mere fact that they took the time. I found myself wondering how often I take the time to talk to a stranger; how often I stop to ask and to share. How many times have I closed myself off to strangers, whether for time restraints or for fear? I thought of how we go through our day separating and distancing ourselves from the “others”. It’s a subtle thing, but the next time you’re in the store or crossing the street, ask yourself if you don’t feel this sense of separation from those around you, as if we’re all walking around in our own bubbles. It catches you off guard when you find yourself in a places where this isn’t the case – when strangers chat you up for no particular reason – you begin to think, “Why don’t I do that more often?”

There were others of course: the old men playing botchi ball in Marsalforn; the woman who offered me a ride to Rabat as I waited for the bus in the rain. I could tell you all about where we went and what we saw on our trip to these Mediterranean islands too, but the few “sites” we bothered visiting have been described countless times by others, and in the end they’re just relics of a historical play. Sure, Sicily’s ancient Greek theatre and Malta’s Hypogium (a necropolis built 6,000 years ago) were interesting visits, and getting salt-blasted by giant waves at the Azure Window was an unforgettable moment, but though we may fill our travel diary with the sites we’ve seen, and plug new pins into our world map, in the end, those only make memories. It’s the people – the life and breath of today – that are the epic stories to be discovered and shared. Isn’t it inspiring to think that the quiet old man you see on the park bench every afternoon once rode his Vespa around the world? And it’s not just the friendly, approachable ones that have something to offer. Quite often, it’s the lunatics and the bastards. That crazy guy who’s singin’ to himself on the subway? He’d give me his last nickel if I asked. And that grumpy hag who scowls at me every morning? She would offer me a gem of wisdom, if only I had the courage to speak to her. These people that I shy away from – that I pass up – are all refractions of myself: my own desires, fears, histories and destinies. If I get to know their stories, I get to know my own.

Mom Comes to France

I have the photos, but not yet the words. Here’s a start:

My Life as an Olive Harvester

I used to have it in my head that I need to do something grand with my life; some great and important works that would change the world for the better, forever. The all-consuming need to figure out what this work is exactly has landed me in some unexpected places and has spread my resume so thin and so broad that any potential employer must find me to be an utter joke. I’ve run the gamut of odd jobs: secretary, server, ski lift operator, nanny, bird catcher, bread baker, smoothie maker, caravan cleaner in Australia, shipboard maritime educator, English teacher in Vietnam, Hawaiian marine laboratory assistant, deckhand on a handmade boat sailing through the Panama Canal, San Francisco bartender/bandage-changer for the elderly, diabetic, bastard of a boss, canvasser for the world-shaking nomination of our president, and vintage motorcycle mechanic. The latest addition to this list: olive harvester.

Rémi (the “big boss” olive farmer/my boyfriend) cares for 600+ trees that are spread out over 4 neighboring locations in the SW of France. The olives – mainly lucques and a few picholine – are picked and sold to the local olive cooperative, L’Oulibo. He also grows several hundred trees of the olive oil variety. These he picks much later in the season and takes to a friend’s mill, where they’re pressed and bottled – destined for personal consumption, familial gifts, and neighborly bartering.

The harvest begins in early September. We wake before 6, shovel breakfast into our groggy mouths, down a mug of coffee, and step out into the dark morning. The first few hours are always the best: the drive to work takes us through stone villages in miniature, past still, black rivers and vineyards soaked in the pink of dawn; and one morning, an ancient watchtower, alone in a field of green, its crown peeking through the heavy morning fog. Rémi parks between the rows of olive trees, we strap on our green buckets and commence to pick. We’re one person to row, all moving along quietly – nothing but the snap of the fruit from its branch and the satisfying plunk in the bucket. The sun has risen; the fields are chilled; the birds begin their morning fuss.

We pick from 7:30 until 12, when we stop for a half hour lunch break, and then it’s on again til 5pm. It’s 9 hours of nearly straight picking, and for a girl that’s just come off 4 months vacation, it’s not a joke. The mornings are peaceful and I’m still feeling strong by lunchtime. It’s the afternoons that are rough. Once the sun is beating down in full strength, you begin to notice your discomfort. The olive branch, the international symbol of peace, becomes a vicious aggressor. It slaps you across the face as you pluck its precious gems. It plunges its leaves, long and slender, in your earholes, your eyeballs, and up your nostrils (I actually had a nose bleed from this the first day). But that’s just the physical strain. After 4 hours of staring at olives, my mind is twitching. I begin to forget what it is I’m picking. I start to mistake the olives for cashews, then limes, then chili peppers. Maybe they’re tiny apples or Muscat grapes. After 7 hours I’m beginning to think I’ve lost my mind. “Ack! Someone has spiked my pamplemousse with LSD! I’m surrounded by hundreds of little green testicles bouncing ‘round my head! Help!” By 5pm I’ve picked 115 kilos (250 lbs). My neck is aching from looking upward all day, my shoulders ache from the weight of the bucket, my arms ache from reaching and pulling on branches, my eyes are bloodshot from squinting in the sun, my back is killing me, and my mind is f—ed from the sight of olives, olives, olives. For the 5 days I close my eyes and see nothing but olives waving in the wind (or are they banana peppers?). I’m thinking, “How the hell am I going to keep this up for 4 more weeks??”

Having no other foreseeable job options, and not wanting to wimp out on my boyfriend, I suck it up. My body accepts the ache and pain before my mind does. For me (and I would imagine it’s the same for most Americans, trained to be perpetually stimulated by flashy images, constantly entertained by external action) it is the monotony– of action and of vision – that is the most difficult. But I’ve had 3 months of adjusting to the farming lifestyle, and after 1 week, the dull repetition has become something of a pleasure. I begin to soak in the little details of time and space. The sounds and smells: the whooshing of wind through the branches, the baying of hunting dogs, the thin dong of the distant church bell, the intercom of the neighboring village announcing the arrival of the fisherman selling his morning’s catch, and occasionally, the waft of a broken sewage line rolls through the orchard (hey – it ain’t all honey and roses in France). At one site, we’re picking from enormous trees. I climb and squat on thin branches to reach the fruit. I smell the rosemary and mint growing beneath and the fermenting grapes left to rot in the next field. It appears I have devolved: my days a repeated course of pick fruit, eat, poop, sleep. But I’m enjoying the simplicity of this lifestyle. I don’t have to rush around town, I don’t have to frantically climb the ladder of success, and I don’t have to save the world. Still, for someone who has been trained to value such things, it takes a lot of mental discipline and acceptance to feel at ease with such a job.

I remember the conversation I had with someone in the States. When I told him I was working as a harvester for the season, he asked, “Why don’t you use your college education and get a real job?” What exactly is a real job, I wonder. Is it one with a big salary and benefits? One that comes with a contract and job security? (And tell me: whose job is secure anymore?). Or is a real job one that is attainable only by the nobles and intellectuals of our society? For a life to have any real value in this world, one is expected to fill it with more school, more career, more money. But who here is truly happy simply for meeting such external standards? In the words of Henry Miller: when did buying the bread become more important than eating it?

Over the next 4 weeks, my thoughts ebbed and flowed as I plucked away at the branches. I thought of the thousands of migrant pickers in the States, and how they do this, not for 1 or 2 months, but year round – and without the romantic surroundings of ancient villages and small family farms, but on enormous tracks of industrial land. I thought of all those who protest illegal immigrants, yet enjoy the fruits of their labor, and I failed to imagine the same number of Americans lining up for such repetitive, under-valued, physically-exhausting jobs year after year. I considered all the fruits and legumes I’ve consumed over my lifetime without the slightest thought of the men and women who have sweat and toiled for my vegetal enjoyment, earning just enough money to feed their families. My short stint as an olive picker may not have had a significant impact on the world, but it has given me a whole new appreciation for the food that nourishes my body each and every day, and for those who work to produce it, and I wonder: what could be more real than that?

Raquelita-Martita-Barcelona

I’ve failed to write a blog about my time in Barcelona with Martha. In fact, it was so action packed, I barely managed to write anything in my journal. There was Gaudi, Sangrias, Beach time, wandering alleyways, late nights, discotechs, a group of crazy Frenchys…all the usual Barcelona things. Hope the pictures make up for it.

Hitchhiking, Honey, and French Pee-Pee

The trouble with living like a modern nomad is that you’re stuck between two worlds. There’s the modern world which entices you to invest in all the (SCUBA, snowboard and motorcycle) gear to give your adventures an extra boost, as well as the iPod, Macbook, and digital camera with underwater housing, to assist you with the recording of said adventures. Then there’s the reality of carrying all that shit with you when you move. Ugg. Each move calls for a different combination of gear, making a storage facility a necessity. (Thank you family). At this point I have multiple boxes in my mother’s and father’s houses in Ohio, one bag in my aunt and uncle’s in Switzerland, another at my boyfriend’s mother’s house in France, and a motorcycle in my cousin’s barn in California. My mother has the great fortune of being my personal secretary: tracking down articles and shipping them across the world to me (often, only to have them sent back a few months later). What makes it even more difficult is that I rarely have a plan, and even if I do, it always changes.

For my most recent move, I sent 1 suitcase and 2 boxes back to Mom, and left 2 suitcases in Switzerland while I went “house-hunting” around southern Europe. The lotto numbers were called in June and Narbonne was the winner: my new residence. Remi and I had invitations in Grenoble and Lyon one July weekend, so I tacked Switzerland on to the trip to retrieve my belongings. We hit the highway early in the morning, thumbs and cardboard signs at the ready. Hitchhiking is both legal and common in France. I like to think of it as reducing my carbon footprint, saving my pennies, and expressing my inner tramp. Not to be vain, but I doubt there’s ever been such a sexy hitchhiking couple. We were certain it wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes to get a ride. After 1 hour we moved under the shade of the toll booth and pandered to the cars as they stopped to pay. I ended up in the trucker’s lane, thinking “This will all sound very romantic in a few month’s time,” as clouds of diesel blew by. One hour later and we got our first ride. 5 hours later and we were in Grenoble. We spent two nights at his cousin’s pulling the honey from the bee boxes they had set up near Remi’s olive grove, and 1 night in Lyon for a field party – complete with DJ, disco lights, and a charred, skinless lamb turning on the spit. Three nights in Murren and I was back on the train.

The journey back was another reminder of why nomadic living (or just traveling) ain’t all fun and games. The Geneva train station was a nightmare: trying to exchange money, to get change from the stupid Frenchy-Swiss woman I bought a coffee from who is telling me she’s not a bank, all to purchase a photo for a Suisse rail discount pass that is twice as much as I’d anticipated. Then I find out that the 3 o’clock train from Lyon is sold out and I’ll have to wait until 7pm, making the Murren – Narbonne trip a 14 hour affair. I could have flown to Australia in that time. To pass the hours, I decide to go to a friend’s house not far from the Lyon station. I lugged my backpack and my bloated, red suitcase down to the metro, and picked out what I thought was the correct stop. My memory failed me completely (yet again). I spent 2 hours trying to find the right stop. It looked like this: exit train, lug 50lb suitcase up the stairs, realize it’s not the right place, cross the street, pull suitcase down the stairs and reenter the metro, barely squeezing the through the turnstiles. Try the next stop. The temperature was hovering around 93°F, and I was dripping with sweat. I had no money on my phone and no one sold the compatible recharge card, so there was no chance of calling Remi or his friend. Up and down, on and off I went. Sometimes there would be an escalator, but it inevitably led to the wrong side of the track. One time, I had to try 3 different metro entrances to get to the right track (the city clearly didn’t put much thought in how to design a metro station) – up stairs, through tunnels, down stairs. I finally gave up and decided to return to the station before having a full out-and-out breakdown. Back on the metro…in the wrong direction. Son-of-a-bsreijtch! @^#$!! What the sdfiu@*k?! I was in full rage now trying to keep myself from kicking the stroller that had just squished me in the corner of the packed train. Breathe, Rachel. Breathe. It’s going to be fine. I talked down the tears and crossed through the tunnel to make the final metro transfer. I was teetering on the edge of traveler’s sanity as I descended the stairs, enormous suitcase in my arms. My cell phone, tucked into the folds of my skirt, suddenly fell – straight into the gutter that lined the side of the stairwell. A young man dashed ahead to pick it up for me, and handed it to me hesitantly. I clenched my teeth to prevent the cataract of curses that was welling up just behind my lips. Mumbling “merci” I took my phone. It’s wet. Why is my cell phone…??

As anyone who has visited this country knows, the world is the Frenchman’s toilet. They piss anywhere and everywhere. I have yet to visit a city that does not have corners, walls, canals, gutters – any crevice where a man might hide his penis – reeking of it. There was nothing I could do but nimbly hold my mobile and make the rest of the journey back to the Gard. The train station, like every public place in France occupied by hundreds of people, had no public toilet or water fountain. I took a seat at a café and ordered un grand beire – as much for the soothing qualities of the alcohol as for access to running water. Before I could make it their washroom, though, Remi called. I held the piss-covered phone 2 feet from my face, and stood there at the edge of the café shouting into it.

Such occasions are inevitable when one travels. Fortunately, there is an easy remedy available worldwide: several beers and a good night’s sleep. By morning the horrendous events will be comical enough to provide the victim with a good laugh.

A Big Shout Out

Occasionally I am asked how I live a life where I’m constantly leaving my friends behind. Don’t I miss my family? Isn’t it difficult to start anew without friends, without someone to share it with? My response is always, “No. Not really.” In part that’s because I forget. Each and every time I embark on a journey I forget that it is difficult. I arrive in a new place and spend the better part of a month or two feeling an outsider, lost, insecure. If I don’t know the language, this feeling is compounded. I fear I won’t make friends, I fear I won’t find a job or the money to support myself, I fear that I am treading on culturally-sensitive toes. But this to is due to the fact that my memory is absolute rubbish. I also forget that I always make friends, that I always learn my way around, and that I always land on my feat.

There’s another reason I say this process isn’t difficult, though, and that is gratitude. The people that have come  through my life have never left me. I may not remember most of our conversations, or half of our experiences together, but their spirit is always with me. I catch glimpses of them throughout the day. I remember Eva’s legs flying about the dance floor with a joy of simply being alive, the way Canada could bring laughter to a complete stranger at any given moment, the kindness my SF corner store guy, Yousef, showed to each of his customers, the way Bergen made even the slowest of days an adventure. When I am cleaning bee boxes or pulling old vines from the field – tasks I would normally find dull and arduous – I am inspired by Jeff, Laurence, and Yasu and the care they put into each and every task before them. There have been hundreds who have influenced me, in ways they never would suspect. For this I am grateful. Their spirit lightens my heart on those days of discontentment, and reminds me that there are lessons to be learned in every nook and cranny, inspiration to be found on every street corner, if only I open myself to it.

And then there is my family. Aside from the way they support me by storing my belongings, shipping my things across the world, helping me out with all the annoying details that come with living a nomadic lifestyle…they have also taught me to love. It’s interesting. In many ways I have little in common with some of my relatives. When it comes to politics and religion, we’re on opposite ends of the spectrum. But despite the fact that we will never agree on the mankind’s two most delicate subjects – despite the fact that I choke at some of their outrageous statements (and they at mine, no doubt) – I absolutely adore my family. They are down-to-earth, rock solid, wonderful people. I could not ask for a more loving, generous, supportive family. And it brings me hope to know that in a world so split by politics and dogmatic beliefs, there is a bridge of love and kindness that crosses that divide. As much importance as we place on which God we worship, or who we voted into office, in the end what makes the world a better place, is the capacity of individuals to love. This too, is their gift to me.

So for all of you that have been a part of my life in any small way – thank you. If it weren’t for what you’ve given me, I wouldn’t be able to live my life this way…and I don’t think I could live it any other way.

Gypsy Boat Revelry

Days here in Narbonne tend to move particularly slowly. I guess this is to be expected in Southern France. Somewhere between dining with friends, going to the beach, and shopping for legumes, baguettes and fromage, I get a little writing done. But in the midst of all these slow moments, there is plenty of magic.

On my 3rd day in this new life Rèmi returned from the “olive estate” (as he calls it) and we headed to the city center to visit his friend who lives on a canal boat. En route he informed me that we’d first be stopping by his apartment to say hello to the couchsurfers  that were staying there (so far we’d been house-sitting his mother’s place up on the hill). “Oh! What? When did they…?” This tends to be the way things go down when you’re staying with locals in a foreign country and dealing with language barriers. You’re given some choice, but for the most part you’re informed piecemeal of the day’s activities, and generally only minutes before they happen.

We opened the door to the apartment – a gorgeous, light-filled studio that overlooks a 13th century cathedral – to find three young Polish girls cooking dinner. We joined them at the table. Paulina, Carolina, and Catherina were shocked that within 20 minutes of meeting them, Rèmi had handed over the keys and told them to make themselves at home. Such trust for complete strangers!

After dinner the 5 of us piled into Rèmi’s “corvette” (a ‘91 dented, scratched, multi-coloured 2-door Citroen, used for all his farming needs) and headed down to the canal. We boarded a run-down, pontoon-style houseboat that resembled a trailer more than a canal cruiser, greeted 3 young Frenchmen, all a bit scruffy round the edges, and proceeded to crack the beers. “Who owns the boat?” I inquired. “Malcolm. He’s not here.” Ah, naturally. I wondered if he knew 8 of us were making ourselves at home on his vessel.

People slowly filtered in over the course of the next hour. Each time someone new arrived there would be a procession of kisses and names exchanged. “Kiss, kiss. Melanie.” “Kiss, kiss. Mathew.” “Kiss, kiss. Chris.” “Kiss, kiss. Rachel.” And on and on. The typical French greeting of exchanging kisses always struck me as a fine combination of sweet and  sophisticated, but when there’s an entire line of people to greet it simply comes across as comical.

The conversation ensued – in French, English, and Polish. We talked about travelling, hitchhiking, philosophy, the generosity of the impoverished host. We each had our own stories of people we had met who, having nothing to give, shared everything they owned. How is it that the poorest of people in this world are the ones who invite you into their homes, feed you, offer you gifts, and ask for nothing in return?

I spent much of the night talking with Paulina: I was impressed with her comfort at hitchhiking through Europe, and she with stories of my travels. Towards the end of the night I found her sitting alone down the end of the canal. I asked her what was up. “After talking to you about all your experiences tonight, I was just thinking…I want to DO something with my life! I don’t want to just get a job and get married. I want to DO something with my life!”

I found this comment hilarious. DO something? Am I doing something with my life?? I’ve been asking myself for years – through all my travels – “what am I doing with my life??” I’ve been trying not to berate myself during my time in Europe for my lack of direction and focus – for what seems to be a complete dearth of prospects, an utter disregard of my future. I’ve been letting go of the need to DO anything. I have been struggling to pull my attention from action and put it on to being – to embrace non-doing. And now, here’s this girl, fresh out of high school, who is complimenting me for all I’ve done with my life. What are you talking about, girl? I’m a hobo, a bum, a tramp! What in the hell have I given the world? What is it you think I’ve done with my life?

Still I took note. Maybe this was the Universe giving me a little pat on the back, saying, “Yes, yes. You’ve been doing fuck-all. Congratulations. It’s working.”

The stars came out. We toasted plastic cups of cheap wine in 5 languages. Old-timey French music was played on the guitar; jigs were danced. Laughter. It was a gypsy boat revelling in the moment. A ship of fools without cause for celebration, celebrating. I thought of the occasions in my life where I spent weeks in anticipation, paid a pretty penny on a pretty dress, a fancy cocktail and a 4-course dinner, surrounded by beautiful people in a posh establishment. I thought of how none of those occasions compared to this: in the company of questionable-looking strangers, on a boat rendered immobile, drinking from the bottom of the barrel. Santé, Strangers – mes amis! À la vôtre, Poverty – mon bienfaiteur! Merci beaucoup!

(click on photo to see full slideshow)

Narbonne, France: The New Life

I left San Francisco in search of a slower life. I wanted more stillness, more moments of just being. I envisioned a quiet town with a little house where I could focus on my writing, maybe do a bit of cooking and experiment with the regional dishes. I might work on a farm or in a vineyard…learn a new language, have a little romance. I could picture the sun-drenched fields, smell the heat rising off the earth, taste the feasts of laughter shared with new friends on warm summer nights. There would be a river for swimming, certainly, and a bottomless supply of olives, and wine, and birdsong. I had no idea what would actually happen, but the picture I’d painted in my mind was a pretty one, and I felt it would all come together in  Southern Umbria.

I never did make it to Umbria. I fled Italy and ended up in this little corner of Southwest France. And yet the sun DOES beat down at midday, and the smell of hot earth and pine still rises off the fields – endless lines of olive trees and grapevines. There is not only a river and a sea here, but also the most beautiful  little canal that runs through rural  villages: lined with trees, and sprinkled with flat-bottomed boats happily floating along, working their way in and out of the antique locks.

When I first saw the Canal du Midi, I fell into into dreaming: I built  myself a little raft where I lived as “Lock Master of the Languedoc.” I was a water-bound gypsy, a top-rate river-rat, a redeemed hobo! My days were regular, but rich: after working through the daylight hours helping boats navigate the rusty, ancient locks, I’d tie up to shore, hang my hammock from my raft, and spend the evening with a cheap bottle of wine and my harmonica for company. I was just like Ratty from The Wind In the Willows. What perfection of life!

A sigh…and I left the canal as it was, knowing that the dream would probably have to be saved for another lifetime. Fortunately, this world supplies one with an infinite number of opportunities to dream and devise, and other, equally worthy lives lie just around the bend. In the meantime, I’ve been living the life of a Provençal farmer. My first days in Narbonne I’ve spent picking sweet, plump cherries, laying down fertilizer for olive trees, cleaning wax from old beehives, making rosemary tea and fresh cherry-ginger jam, and picnicking by the river. Thanks to the fact that I have no deadlines and no city steam pressing at my back, this is all just as quaint and wonderful as it sounds.

On my second night in Narbonne Rémi invited 2 of his friends – Nicolas and Mamou – over for dinner. We sat around the table pitting cherries and discussing travel, religion, and philosophy (all my favourite subjects). Nicolas’s English is strong and he and I ended up deep in a metaphysical discussion…only to discover that Rémi and Mamou were having the exact same conversation in the other room.  It’s a comfort to find that in this new life I’ve stumbled into, at least my companions and I are on the same philosophical wavelength.

After such a welcoming into my new town, it didn’t seem the following night could be any better. It wasn’t. But it was equally as good. And a bit of that gypsy-river-rat lifestyle that I’d so recently dreamt of.

More on that soon…