The Honest Truth

Some time has passed, my friends.  Some time where there’s been an old man sitting in a chair, guarding my only hope of connecting to the word via interweb.  Life on the farm in Vienne France is a little hard to explain. It’s one of those rubrix cubes that has many colours that never fit together no matter how hard you try.  Endless contradictions. The best I can do, as always, is try to give a few slices of the pie. Let me preface by saying, it was the strangest 12 days of my life, and if not for Sascha, Ruth, and some other visitors, I would’ve peaced out long ago…

The Beginning:

He’s leaning against a stone wall in the parking lot. Just like in the pictures, he’s wearing a page boy cap, holding a cane, and smoking a cigar.

Before getting on the train we googled his name: Herman Bruce.  We found some online dating profiles, one listing his interests as “erotica.” The french profiles list his first name as Herman, the english ones as Bruce. His age: 70.

“It’s ok,” we assured eachother. He’s just a lonely, sweet old man and if not…WE ARE TOGETHER.

Herman, as he went by in e-mails,  doesn’t say much in terms of greetings. He hauls one of our packs awkwardly on to the top of the car, and mumbles something about having just bought groceries. We exchange nervous glances.

Ruth sits in front, her french being the best, though Herman isn’t hard to understand. He’s from Germany, and lived most of his life in London before moving to Paris. His British is obvious.

The car smells faintly of compost. There’s a book in the back of the passenger seat that’s called ” Renaissance Women” and one on wine.

The french countryside is beautiful, and Herman describes to us the history of the places we pass. The little towns all look similar: windy roads, tall buildings made of aging brick and cement and many flowers. The landscape of the farms are flat and the fields full of wheat.

I catch Herman’s eyes in the rear view mirror, and they seem kind. He keeps asking us if there’s too much wind and if we want to do up our windows. I think he is a nice, but shy man.

We arrive at his farm and a chicken comes to meet us. Herman explains calls her “la rouge” andexplains that after the other chickens attacked her one day, he moved her pen to the front of the house.

Inside, the house is charmingly rugged. There’s a big room that has a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a dining room table, and a desk with a laptop by the door. The sheets that cover the couch and chairs are slightly dirtied and thrown over the furniture dishevedly.

Surrounding the seating area are tall bookshelves stacked from head to toe. On the coffee tableare clutters of ashtrays and some empty bottles of wine.

The kitchen, small and off to the side, smells strongly of compost.

We go out back to the “farm” which is a huge field of dried, dead grass, a garden, and a big shed with a chicken coup, haystacks, and junk such as an old ping pong table and a rusty car. Also waiting in this shed Herman calls ” le Hangar” are two sheep. The black one is Mr.Robert and the white one is Edwina. Mr. Robert is tied to a leash that is tied to a brick. Edwina is tied to nothing but stands defesively near Mr. Robert. We get the point: stay away.

Herman explains one of our first tasks will be to put a leash on Edwina. Since it’s impossible to approach Mr. Robert without Edwina coming close, the game plan is to walk towards him and once Edwina is there form a human wall to capture her.

Back in the house he asks us what we’d like to drink. He offers every alcoholic drink imagineable and we decide on white wine. It’s 3 p.m.

After unpacking a little in our room in the attic of the house, which he’s named “Diva” for god knows what reason, we come downstairs for a glass of wine.

There are three glasses waiting and opera playing. Herman sits in one of the chairs with a glass of red and a cigar lit. “Racontez-moi un peu de vous-memes” he says, leaning back. As we go around the circle telling him what we do, he nods and doesn’t say much.

We learn he’s a retired economist who after living in Paris for ten years decided to come to the country. He has two daughters, living in Switzerland and London. One he refers to as a facist, because when she comes to visit she throws out all the rotting food in his fridge which he doesn’t think is rotting.

We hear a noise and Herman says “Adrian est ici.” Adrian is another Canadian WOOFER who arrived at Herman’s a couple days before us. He comes in wearing a bright blue shirt and many freckles. He has a sweet, young face. He pours himself a glass of red, and shly tells us that he comes from a small island in B.C., wants to be a writer and came hear to improve his french because he now lives in Montreal. He is already fluent with a beautiful accent.

We’ve polished off the bottle of white, and Herman brings out another. Adrian periodically dissapears into the kitchen and fills both his and Herman’s glasses. Then Herman brings out delicious goat cheese with toothpicks and we discuss what to make for dinner.

A beautiful song with spanish guitar is playing. I look over at Ruth, and she mouths the words “I’m crying.”

Sascha makes a salad with fresh spinach and another with tomatoes from the garden. We sit at the wobbly picnic table out back, with lights hanging from the tree. Herman brings out cold pork, and after that we feast on bread and cheese.

The conversation revolves around the multi-coloured glass fly traps Herman keeps on the picnic table. They enter through the bottom and get trapped and we watch them buzz around looking for a way out. Herman poses the question: If it’s ok to kill flies like this is it ok to kill humans?

We all try to give sincere answers in broken french, and we quickly realize he has a snarky comeback for everything we say. Adrain, by now, knows to keep his mouth shut.

Meanwhile, we’ve moved onto Rose wine, and nobody cares about meaningful conversation as long as the drinks are cold. The sheeps baaaa int he background.

Herman brings out a cherry liquor that tastes like rum and a golden one in plastic bottle that tastes like whisky. We take two rounds of shots. Tomorrow is saturday, and we don’t have to work.

After clearing the plates, Herman and Adrian are in the kitchen cleaning up and refuse my help.  My eyesight blurry, I give Herman two kisses and say goodnight.

The best party I’ve had so far in Europe is with a 70-year-old man and it’s nowhere near ending…