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…

Cliff Notes to Rachel’s Adventures in Italy

I’ve only really posted hints and pieces of my adventures these last few weeks, so allow me to fill in the gaps.

When I arrived in Ventimiglia on May 27th, just over the border from France, I still hadn’t decided where in Italy I was headed. I stood in the train station looking at my map of the country and decided on Sestri Levante – for the simple reason that some Italian guy at table 50 on a Thursday night at Nopa in San Francisco had recommended it. One night there was nice, but enough. I hopped a few towns down to Levanto, just next to the UNESCO World Heritage Site, Cinque Terre. Levanto I loved (read my previous blog on it and you’ll see why). But it wasn’t just the magic of quiet evenings there, it was also the sharp contrast to Cinque Terre. While the “five lands” are world famous for a reason (beautiful villages stradling cliffs with cobbled streets leading to a green, green sea), they’re also jammed with tourists. As you exit the train you are run through a bottle neck, passing souvenir shops (albeit with a local flavour) and funneled down to the beach where you can drink wine and beer to your heart’s delight with a hundred other German and American tourists. It was nice for a day or two. Then I began feeling like I was participating in an upscale Floridian spring break. My recommendation: definitely check out Cinque Terre (preferably in the off-season), but stay in Levanto.

(click on photo to see the full slideshow)

I left the coast and headed for Florence (Firenze in Italian). My target from the beginning was Umbria – supposedly quite similar to Tuscany, but without all the tourisits, and an even slower pace of life – however, I thought I’d get some ideas and orientation first in the city. I can tell you almost nothing of Florence, as I quickly found a reason to leave (see my piece: “Romance in Firenze”). The day after I arrived I was in a car headed for the Tuscan countryside with a handsome, unassuming French olive farmer). For the sake of my younger siblings, I would like to note here that I don’t typically take off on roadtrips with men that I’ve only  met the night before. However, such a statement would be a bit of a lie. I don’t typically, but more because the opportunity rarely presents itself. In fact, my religious doctrine requires me to say “yes” to adventure (romantic interest aside), so long as my gut tells me that I can trust the person, and I can take care of myself should things go awry. This latter part is an intution and confidence one develops over the years. So kiddies: listen to your parents and don’t try this at home! (At least not until you’ve passed the wreckless stupidity of your teens, please).

Back to Tuscany. It rained all day as we wandered around the back roads looking for olive farms. Eventually we stopped at a small one outside of San Gimignano. The proprietors took us to their basement, which held 2 enormous vats of wine, multiple bottles, 4 pig rumps hanging to dry for prosciutto, and 1 giant container of olive oil. They spoke with Rémi about the intricacies of olive farming, and gifted us 2 bottles of wine. We departed for Sienna, touched by the generosity this family had shown to 2 strangers who appeared unannounced on their doorstep.

Sienna is a beautiful, medieval town with a massive piazza at its center (it was here that I ran into Cera – a girl that I worked with back in San Francisco). Between Sienna and Montelpuciano, where we stayed the following night, I played the part of the tourist and took dozens of photos. This left me utterly exhausted (like spending a beautiful sunny day in front of a computer screen) and grumpy. I am really tempted to ditch the camera in my future travels. Our place in Montalpuciano was an absolute palace. For 60 euros we had a huge kitchen/dining room (where Rémi was a superstar and made me dinner), 2 bedrooms, big bathroom, a pool, and a view of the vineyard. Agroturismo all the way.

The following day had us driving back to Firenze (for awesome pasta at il ristorante 13 Gobbi), and train-ing it to Roma in a private (though Italian-style grimy) car. We only had a few hours to catch Roma together before Rémi’s flight home, so we headed to the Colosseo. I’m not sure which I was more awed by: the Colosseo by moonlight, or the fact that the grocery store opened our beers for us so we could drink openly on the metro ride over and the streets beyond. Wow. God bless Roma! The next day I wondered the city alone…until I ran into Cera and Nicola from SF again! Crazy. Then it was killer pizza with friends and the Basilica de San Pietro.

That night I met Riccardo – a good friend of a good friend who hosted me for 4 days. It was a typically fantastic night in the life of a traveler. Meaning, I was yet again delighted by the spirit and generosity of strangers friends, and the natural unfolding of magical moments. My devilishly handsome new friend took me around his glorious city in his shiny red Mini Cooper: The Bocca Della Verità, Il Vittoriale, Teatro Marcelo, Castel Sant’Angelo, and 1/2 a dozen other sites I can’t remember. While we did a late late night driving tour of Roma, our conversations roamed from complete bullshit, to life philosophy and back again. Aside from the laughter, the coolest thing about the night is when Ric drove down a quiet street where two rifle-armed soldiers stood gaurd in front of a non-descript wooden gate. It was about 3 am and a handful of giggling teenagers milled about.  We approached the doors and Riccardo told me to look through the key hole. (???) I peered through and at the end of a veeeery long lane lined by cypress trees, barely visible, stood the lit dome of St. Peter’s Basilica.

I’d like to pause here and say “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” for all the adventure, romance and magic that I craved so much in SF and that is now filling my life. Seriously, how many late night tours of romantic cities with handsome men is a woman allowed to have in 1 week?? And what a difference to be so fully satisfied with the romance of the moment that I didn’t feel the need to “get romantic” with my tourguide!

The next few days were spent bumming around Roma and attempting to make plans to look for work on a dive boat in Sardegna. I woke up the morning of the day I was to catch my ferry to Sardegna, decided I really should just go to Spain and learn a useful language, and bought a ticket to Girona instead for the following day. As it turns out, Girona is smack between Barcelona and Narbonne (i.e. home of Monsieur Oliveman). Needless to say, I’m now learning French (instead of Italian or Spanish), getting fat on olive oil and chevre (rather than pasta and gelato), and wondering what I did to deserve such fantastic love (which I prefer to wondering why the hell there are so many disinterested men in San Francisco).

Yea, Life!!

Questioning the Big Question

He wishes me to get out of myself.
He wishes me to sit in freedom.
I was constantly involved with ambition,
and now he tells me to break all
the chains.
- Rumi -

I arrived in Italy less than two weeks ago by way of slow, grimy, rattling train from Ventimiglia. So much has happened since then. Life always manages to cram itself into the creases and cracks of time when you’re traveling. Of course it does. It’s basic biology. You put your energetic mass into creating surface area, rather than bulk – folding and crinkling your days like a great endoplasmic reticulum – and you have more space for life’s elemental interaction.

The luggage I had in tow included (amongst other things) a pair of hiking boots, a collection of Italian phrases, two harmonicas, Henry Miller and his Colossus, two passports, a map of da boot, mask and snorkel (an interesting thing to have hanging off your pack in the middle of the Roman streets), 1 pocket-sized Ganesh, a dice engraved with the 8 points of the compass (in cases of Nomadic Indecision, simply roll), and heaviest of all, the Big Question (“What the hell am I doing with my life?“).

The question weighed on me like a Byzantine cross. In France it was particularly burdensome. (This is probably due to the fact that I was traveling with my friend who works like a dog for his NGO (www.awely.org). My respect for him is enormous, and although I ache to do such noble work myself, that lifestyle of constant phone calls, computer time, non-stop running, going, and doing is one that would leave me spiritually exhausted). Within a day of crossing the border and treading Italian ground, I was relieved of my burden – if only temporarily. Sea, sun, and beauty might have been enough to do the trick, but I was also meeting others who were asking the same questions.

There was the American who’d left his successful path in international  business relations to seek out something more fulfilling. There was the Dutch woman who had given up a respectful career as a nurse and was happily in her 10th year of running the front desk of the Levanto youth hostel. It’s comforting to know I’m not the only one questioning the ideology of slaving away for the perception of success or the security of an unknowable future.

But still…what am I doing with my life?? It’s a kind of traveler’s manic depression: one moment this question reigns my conciousness, the next I am mad with joy for my life as a directionless nomad.

The thing is, I make a terrible tourist. I loathe being named as such. By-and-large I hate shopping, museums bore me, crowds of souvenir-toting Westerners irk me, and site-seeing is just never very satisfying. As if wanting to reaffirm this fact, I took an audiotour of the Colosseum by day. Interesting. Historic. Wow…ish. How am I supposed to feel the history rising off the stones, or the blood seeping through the cracks of this monumental structure when I’m surrounded by hundreds of photo-snapping tourists? And worse yet, when I’m one myself? In the daylight these placed are devoid of the passion of their past. Oh, but by night…! The Colosseo without tourists, guides, or souvenir vendors – with Artemis keeping solemn watch over the graves of her children – pure fucking magic.

Citizens of the world, in Roma you can keep your tourguides, your photo-ops, and all the riches and remains of church and empire! Just leave for me the quiet alleyways, the rusted biciclettas resting against faded walls, the sing-song voices of little bambini falling to my ears from windows above. I don’t want to tour, to see, to do. I want to listen, to feel, to share. I want to experience each place in the skin of its people; to know their joys, their sorrows, their fears and loves; to taste the passion of their burning past, their aching for the future, their bliss of presence.  I don’t want to see the world, I want to be the world. You ask yourself, Rachel, “What are you doing with your life?“. The answer is: just this. Do you think that’s enough for one lifetime?

Thoughts from Roma

Today I sat watching the sun set over an ancient city. TV antennae teetered on the rooftops like silent masts of a crowded port. Today I watched an old Chinaman smoking his pipe, picking at his crossword. I drank wine on the balcony while birds danced across the twilight to French bordello music and piano concertos.

Today I discovered gelato – really discovered it. I whispered words of adoration to a cone of ginger, cherry, and raspberry sage. I promised my chilly friends that if I were to find an apartment close to their proprietor, I would come to visit everyday, and we could grow fat – and young - together.

Ah, aren’t these moments of absolute irrelevence what make a full and glorious life? Aren’t these the moments to live for?

And let’s not forget the moments of divine significance – if you could only figure out why. Serrendipitous Sienna, for example. I was stretched out in the large piazza, soaking up the sun and trying to restore my joy for life after visiting the Museum of Torture (what a horrendous idea that was!), and there in front of me stood my friend from San Francisco! What are the chances?? In all the towns of Italy, on all the days of week, in all the minutes of the day…! And then (as if the Universe really wanted to rub it in), 2 days later I found myself raising my camera to take a photo of the Pantheon in Roma, and there she was again - blocking my view of history with her divine significance of presence.

These are the corners of life where we find our peace and joy. We may be poor,  we may have no impressive prospects for the future - nothing to brag about, no fortune to leave our children - but we are rich in these moments. These moments of just being no one can take from us.

(click on photo to see the full slideshow)