The Honest Truth

“ApplaUUUUUUUUUsssEEEEEEEEE,” says the group in bright-coloured t-shirts, busting through the restaurant doors. The word is the same in Italian (prononciation excepted) but the way they draw out the syllables, it sounds like the English word with a thick Italian accent. “ApppplaUUUUUUUsssEEEEEEEEE.”

Thirty seconds ago, my Italian cousins and I  we were calmly eating our “primi piatti” of pasta with ragu sauc. Now, half the room is clapping and yelling and suddenly we’re eating in a highschool cafeteria.

“Boun a-ppe-t-ito,” some tables chant, clapping their hands or banging their utensils to the rhythm. Others, like ours, look down to avoid eye contact. Is this a bad dream? Does this mean I have acne again?

It’s our first night at a resort where myself, my cousins, and their 10-year-old son are sojourning for the next week. It’s called Costa Degli Dei (the coast of Gods) and is on the heavenly (!) coast of Capo Vaticano with it’s angelically white (!) beaches.

We’ve come from  Sicily where we stayed with my great aunt and uncle (my cousin Paolo’s parents). They have a beautiful house on the sea, but as this is Paolo’s only vacation time, he and his wife needed some time away from family. So here we are, five hours and a different ocean away ready to be treated like gods.

I find the idea of being a resort in Italy strange. It’s such a beautiful country, and holing up in a touristy microcosm of beauty seems odd and unnecessary. But I digress, I’d be a fool to say no to all inclusive pasta and a green sea.

The group of seven in their bright red t-shirts are the “animators” of the resort. After the noise settles they go around to each table introducing themselves. To them, we’re just another group of people they have to smile at and act enthousiastically towards.

There’s the pretty blonde one who flirts with all the men. There’s the nerdy looking girl who’s good with the kids. There’s the slightly overweight but attractive girl who can sing really well and a pretty brown-haired one who’s good at dancing.

There’s the jocky-looking cocky-acting boy with a shaved head. The the alternative looking one with piercings who rolls one leg of his pants up to be “different” and the slightly feminine, overly stylish one with a faux-hawk. Every guest has someone to relate to and\or be attracted to.

The resort restaurant is big, and has two floors of tables. We’re on the upper floor, table seven, distinguished only by the plant that hangs above it and keeps shedding leaves on my 10-year-old cousins plate.

Everybody sits at the same table everyday and it’s like eating with a large family of people you recognize, but don’t know. The tables are nicely set with pale yellow table clothes. The waiters are young and dressed formally in black slacks and white collar shirts with black vests. There’s a Maitre’ de dressed in what looks like the male version of a gurdle over his pants, who intensely surveys the room and quickly converses with the waiters passing by.

When we arrive at our table, 8 p.m. sharp, there’s a piece of paper waiting. It lists the primi and secondi piatti (plates)  for the next day’s lunch and dinner. We tick off what we want and give it to the host. It is like this every day: you have to know what you want to eat tomorrow before even starting tonight’s dinner. If this restaurant was a pregnant woman I’d call population control.

By the third day at the resort, the waiter’s have your type of wine and water waiting for you on the table (everybody in Italian orders either fizzy or natural water at dinner). You feel “looked after.”

The waiters wheel out the antipasto on a tray, followed by two large metal dishes, usually of pasta. You choose which kind you want, or opt for both, and they dole you out a hefty portion. After that comes a side dish, contorno. Then, after you already feel comfortably satisfied, comes the main dish. Dear Africa: I am so SO sorry. The world is not fair.

The table sitting behind us has 13 people, all from Sicily. In Italy, Sicilians have a reputation of being hard-headed, loud, lazy, and tempermental. The big family and their significant others chant along every meal with the “animators”. In fact, they’re the ones who start the “Boun a-ppe-t-ito,” song.

The animators always end up at their table, having a glass of wine, and laughing at some inside joke they made on the beach earlier that day. Then, just when it starts to get quiet, and the animators settle into their places, the table of 13 starts heckling from across the room or attempting to revive a chant.

The first night  we stare awkwardly at our plates, feigning agitation. A part of all of us wants to be sitting at the table 13, where it’s permissible to act like animals. They do look like they’re having fun…

Meals the entire week persist like this. Every lunch and dinner the animators bust in the restaurant wearing different brightly coloured shirts.  By the third day my ten-year-old cousin memorises the timing of their entrance down to the second and waits to applause with anticipation. His father, a man of intimidating stature, bobs his head to “Boun a-ppe-t-ito” and his wife, a mousey, keep-to-herself type, claps along.

I find myself banging my fork along, and letting myself enjoy the feeling that a food fight could break out at any moment.

On our seventh day, we are eating lunch before we leave that afternoon. The restaurant is a graveyard of what it once was. Tables are empty, and with them, the family you never knew and will never know again have left. There’s no piece of paper waiting to be ticked, and table 13 is eating, subdued.

Three of the animators walk in, later than usual. They’re wearing regular clothes and there’s no applause. They go around, doing their regular chit-chat, but no one’s banging their forks. Some new people have come, and they look around like awkward school kids on their day.

Two other animators dribble in, and a few minutes later, the last. The energetic blonde bubbly one went home. Halfway through lunch, her replacement comes in, who is greeted like an old friend by the other animators.

I never wanted to come to this place. In fact, I thought the whole thing was pretty lame.   But fuck it, applaaaUUUUUssssing was fun. Table 13 ended up being great drinking companions, and I’ll be sad to eat my next meal at a civilized volume.

I noticed him in line behind me. Atleast I think it was my line. The bus stations in Italy are zoos. For this reason they have “fast ticket” machines which can usually be identified, if not for the bright yellow colour, by someone swearing or pounding their fist on the screen.

The man looks middle-aged with balding hair wearing a green golf shirt. The only thing that makes him stand out is he doesn’t have any baggage. A local in this sea of tourists.

The guy at the machine with the towel slung over his shoulder is having problems. Maybe he pressed the wrong language button, maybe his credit card isn’t accepted. He’s looking confusedly at the screen, then to his buddies who are equally confused. They’re holding up the line.

The ordinary looking man scurries over to the group of boys. He asks them a few questions in english with an Italian accent, and swiftly presses a few buttons. The tickets pop out and the boys set off for their day at the beach. The man scurries back to his place behind me.

I walk up next, determined to conquer the machine. Cockily, I select Italian as the language. Afterall, I AM half Italian. I select my destination, Lago Como (where George Clooney has a house, by the by). From Milan, where I am, it’s about a half hour bus ride, and what my “Europe on a Budget” book calls a “delightful day trip.”

Promptly the machine freezes, and I stare dumbly at the screen. I press a few buttons and feel the heat of a million antsy travelers’ eyes on my back. The ordinary man scurries up to me. I start to think maybe this is his job, but he’s not wearing a uniform.

“Dove vai?” he asks me and I tell him.

With the same ease as before he presses a few of the touchscreen buttons and tells me my train is full. I sigh dissapointedly but truth is, I’m on vacation, and the only difference of an hour is less time for a Clooney spotting.

“We can try something else,” he says, with the deligence of one of those rare helpful customer service people. A few other quick movements of his finger and we’re at the alternative routes section. There’s another train, but problem is, it leaves in 3 minutes.

“Can I make it?” I ask him vulnerably, as if he holds all the answers.

He’s already pressed okay. “Yes, but you have to run,” he says. I put my five euros in the machine and grab the ticket. “Gate seven,” he tells me. “No,” he says, looking at a screen on the wall with all the listings. “Gate eight.”

“Thank you,” I tell him exasterbated, slinging my bag over my back. As I’m about to charge up the steps he stops me.

“Change for coffee?” he asks, politely. I give him the leftover change I’m holding from the ticket.

Frantically running to the train, I think for a second I might’ve been gyped. How do I know this train’s at gate 8? How is he so sure I’ll make it? Was this an elaborate way of panhandling? Did I possibly waste four euros and the chance to see George Clooney? Now that I think of it, he did look a little down and out.

When I arrive at gate eight, I don’t recognize the final destination on the screen. I run on anyway, and sit down beside a couple.

“Vado a Como?” I ask, catching my breath.

“Si,” the man replies. “Noi andiamo la anche.”

It was the best euro I’d spent so far.

Christine keeps looking shiftily at the road. We’re sitting around eating a lunch of roast chicken and various mayonnaise salads at the picnic table. Sascha, Ruth and I are still wearing our farm clothes after weeding all morning. Today Christine’s son, his girlfriend and their one-year old twins arrive chez Herman.

After our “confrontation” not much has changed, except I feel I understand Herman a little better. He has an inner battle between his intellectual and practical side that he takes out on others. A very academic man who chose to move to a farm to lead a self sustaining life and is failing miserably at it. He calls doctors “incompetences de la vie” (incompetents at life) while he lives in a cloud of rotting food and bugspray. He despises “the bourgeois” and spends his time reading philosophy, right-wing blogs, and drinking good wine.

When Christine came back to the farm two days ago her demeanour had changed and her eyes looked puffy. Maybe they had a fight in the car? Everyone was subdued that night. Herman was mad at us for making salmon for dinner while he was at the train station instead of his suggested meal of eggs Benedict on stale croissants with a weed from his garden he insisted was inedible.

The day before it was  pouring rain in the morning. He had me tying bundles of sticks together with string for his fireplace in a barn  he calls “the hangar”. He calls the process “faggotage.” The girls were cleaning up the “latierie,” a musty shed converted to room decorated with cobwebs, peeling paint, and a damp bed.

Herman came out from the house to where I was working and we started to patch up the chicken coop that Edwina the sheep had busted through. We sat in silence nailing wire into the wood. When he spoke, he told me Benjamin, Christine’s son, had been in a car accident last year, and hasn’t been the same since. No one was hurt, though he, the newly born twins and his wife had to spent the night at the hospital.

Christine’s eyes dart from the road  to the table, counting the seconds until she can be sure her family is safe. Her son and his girlfriend live in L’Ile de la Cite, an hour outside of Paris, but are coming here to work on their medical theses for two weeks while grandma babysits. We finish lunch and sit outside in the sun reading. After a couple of minutes, we hear some commotion, and Christine’s voice becomes high pitched with excitement.

What happens next is in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n. A young man with jet black scruffy hair walks into the living room and bends down. His pants are low and his underwear says HUGO BOSS. A pretty, bubbly late-20’s looking girl comes to the porch door to shake our hands. Her name is Marie. Then the man comes to the door. He’s wearing black sunglasses and moves them on top of his head. His eyes are dark pools of the richest chocolate and a perfectly sized moustache sits atop his full lips. He is the most beautiful man we’ve ever seen (second only to Alex Derry and Daniel Girard, of course).

Benjamin shakes our hands and we mumble whatever French we can remember. We linger awkwardly around the door as they unpack the car and their beautiful twins, Edgar and Rose, run around the living room. Stuffy doctors? Straight-edged parents? The sexiest man alive and his beautiful girlfriend just arrived on Herman’s farm.

We walk over to the pool to digest. How is it possible that on Herman’s decrepit property, the same place where it’s a hazard to open the fridge and we spend hours listening to right wing ideology, that we’ll be co-existing with these people? And what do they think of Herman? Thank god for Christine and her wonderful genes (it should be noted Herman had no part in creating Benjamin).

“I don’t think I can talk to him,” I say to the girls, as we all take deep breaths. Despite our varying tastes in men, we all agree this one is beautiful.

We spend the afternoon away from the house. Partly to give the family space, partly to give ourselves time to digest what the next couple of days will be like. We were ready to flee the farm a few days ago, but now, maybe we should extend our stay…

That night we have a lovely meal. Christine cooks a delicious pot roast. Around Benjamin, Herman is quiet. It’s a miracle. No asking our thoughts on war which are inevitably wrong or telling us what he knows about our lives. When Herman lived in Paris with Christine and Benjamin, they never got along. Benjamin treats Herman with a patronizing humour, and when he expresses his offbeat opinions, Benjamin challenges him. We-are-slowly-all-falling-in-love.

Benjamin speaks confidently. He and Marie are 30. He is verrrrrry french, uses his hands a lot and draws out words like “nooooooooooooon” and “voillllllllllllllllla.” His movements are sharp and decided. He could say anything, and I’d believe him. Marie is sweet and funny and probably really smart but…let’s talk more Benjamin.

The twins are asleep and we’re drinking wine and wine and wine. For the first time, Herman and Christine pack it in before us. We start talking about music, which Benjamin and Marie love and know a lot about, and Benjamin brings out his laptop. He plays some songs while Marie hums the words beside him. We probably look like dogs with our heads titled sideways and our eyes doopey. Ruth is so nervous that when she goes to say Iggy Pop it comes out “Iggy Bowie.”

Marie decides to pack it in next. After all, they both insist they’re getting up at the crack tomorrow to start working despite the fact it’s 2 a.m. and five bottles of wine later. Benjamin stays and plays us a couple more songs. His hair is all messed up and he passionately recommends bands for us to check out. Anything you say…

The next day is our last. In the morning, after weeding between stones on Herman’s patio for an hour, Benjamin comes down. He’s got bed hair and is wearing boxers and a t-shirt. “Comment ca-va les filles?” he says standing in the doorway smiling, with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Bien,” we all say in unison. Then he offers us some and we all say yes. When we finish work there are fresh croissants on the table, which Benjamin and Marie bought in town. We eat and watch Marie feed the twins.

At lunch, Benjamin sits between Ruth and I AND OUR LEGS TOUCH. I don’t speak the entire time.

For dinner, Herman has invited a couple we’d been introduced to earlier, Jacques and Claudine. We had a glass of wine at their house earlier in the week where Jacques openly hit on us, Herman told them we were bad workers, and Claudine joked about her and Jacques lack of sex-life after his heart surgery. Ah, the French.

Benjamin is ignoring Jacques who he rightfully thinks is a putz,and Claudine is trying to tell a story but is giggling too much for anyone to understand. Claudine and Jacque’s daughter of 30-something years sits there miserably, and their 12-year old grandson, Lucas, sits red-faced in a white collar shirt drinking coke.

The food is incredible, because Christine cooked. Quiche, potatoes, beef stroganoff, salad, cheese and bread. For dessert, a delicious chocolate cake made by Claudine. The oldies sit on one end of the table, and us girls, Lucas and the beautiful couple on the other. The best part is, we can barely hear Herman’s babble or Jacques come-on’s. Oh, and, we’re all sitting across from Benjamin.

When the Prouteau’s leave (Jacques and Claudine’s last name, which Benjamin tells us with glee means fart in French) we all sit outside drinking and smoking. There’s a storm about to come, and the sky’s black and heavy, ready to burst. A few drops fall, a warning sign, and then the lightning begins. We go inside and sit in the dark, damp livingroom and watch through the open doors. Christine and Herman sit together on one seat and Benjamin and Marie on the other. We decide to go upstairs and pack, and when I come down later to grab something, they are still all up and drinking wine together.

That night our windows, the kind that you push outward and can rotate upside down, flip inside out from the vicious wind. Rain hammers on the windows, and the twins wake up screaming.

In the morning, all is calm. We’re up at 7 to catch our 8 o clock train. Downstairs, Herman is predictably smoking a cigar and on the living room floor sit four empty glasses of wine. We boil water for tea and stick our croissants in the oven. After loading our knapsacks in the car, we go inside to say our goodbyes.

We knock on Benjamin’s door and a groggy voice says “Oui.” I open it a crack and say, “Nous partirons  maitenant.” He comes out of the room in tight underwear and no shirt. S-L-O-W M-O-T-I-O-N. We all try our best to look him in the eye. He hugs and kisses each of us and says, “J’etait enravvisant de vous connaitres.” He was enravished to meet us.

After driving us to the train station, we say goodbye to Herman and Christine. Herman forgets my name, which I didn’t take offence to considering the other day he didn’t remember his cats’.  Though he didn’t teach us a damn thing about farming, we learn that not everything beautiful has to be organic.