The Honest Truth

“La vita è strano (Life is strange),” says my great uncle, sitting outside on a white plastic chair. My Zio’s light blue button up shirt has ink marks on the breast pocket from where he puts his pen. His khaki pants, which he wears everyday, have slobber stains on them from the two dogs running around his yard and are just short enough to show the rough red skin around his ankles.

“Mahhh si, (Ahhh yes)” says my great aunt sharply, who’s sitting opposite him in a plastic chair. Zia wears an oversized floral dress from her 20’s that hangs so wide on her bony arms you can see her ribs.

It’s 6 p.m., the hour where they also sit outside everyday and talk or not talk before dinner at 8 p.m.

In Sicily, it finally starts cooling off early evening. During the day, it’s so hot there’s nothing to do but sleep. And sleep they do, every day after their 1 p.m. lunch, until four. They’ve been doing it for years…

My zii’s house is big, and at the very edge of a windy road that leads to the ocean. The road is so thin that going around corners you have to honk in case there’s someone coming in the opposite direction; a soundtrack every local is used to.

In front of the house, before the stairs leading up the entrance, is a big concrete yard surrounded by cactuses, trees, dried grass and plants. That’s where they sit.

It feels like the amazon. Little bugs buzz around in the trees creating a constant electric hum that invades the air. Since my Zii have lived here over 40 years, they have to think hard to hear it.

I’ve just come back from a day on the boat with my cousins (their kids). We stumble out of the SUV, sunburnt and waterlogged, to where zii are predictably sitting and everyone escapes inside with a few words.

I hang aroung, and my Zia says luringly “Perché non siedi-ti qui per un po? (Why don’t you sit here for a bit).” Well, ok. I haven’t seen them for ten years…

My Zio, who’s my grandpa’s brother, is a saint. Kindness spills out of his eyes. He smiles with the softness of Kermit the Frog. He worked a long career as a pediatrician, and is still famous in the small town of Augusta. He can’t walk down the street without someone patting him on the back and saying, “Ciao, dottore.” Once, he knew all their names, but now, things are more blurry.

At 83 years old, he had a heart attack that put him in the hospital. They say after dying, even momentarily, you never come back the same. Now, his expressions exude the same kindness and warmth, but are eclipsed by moments where he somberly looks down at the ground. He is more silent.

A lot of things can be said about my Zia, the only positive one usually being that she’s good looking. That she WAS good-looking. In her day, the woman was a knockout, and though she now has brown spots on her skin and some teeth missing, she still has remanents of her past beauty.

Her hair is ghost white (she stopped dying it after she became a grandma) and in a chin-length bob. She wears big red-tinted sunglasses, chinese slippers and jewellery any fashionista would be jealous of. She has poise.

Zia’s personality is harder to pinpoint. The last time I came to visit Siciliy was eleven years ago and I was 12. She lifted up my shirt in front of the rest of the family gathered in the living room to see if I had tits (A  family friend came to visit on our last day in Sicily with her 6 year-old daughter and Zia did the same thing. The girls just laughed. Maybe I’m too sensitive?)

I remember her complaining a lot and sitting in a chair, fanning herself. I heard talk in the family she was depressed and I was scared.

Zia worked for a year as a doctor, but likes to expand her career into more than it was. She’s always reading a book by someone “important” and “important” art clutters the walls of her house.

This time around, I found myself wanting to talk to Zia. Yes, she is blunt (“Credi in qualcosa? Do you believe in something?” She asked me the day after I got there and proceeded to lecture me on the power of religion). Yes, she is rude (see above tit anecdote). Yes, she is overbearing (her favourite perching spot is from her bedroom window which faces the yard so she can eavesdrop). But hey, she laughs at the end of her bitter jokes, and in her own house, at her old age, why shouldn’t she be allowed to stick her head out the window whenever she hears someone come through the gate?

We’re taking about being married, which no doubt came up because she grilled me on my love life. My Zio says having someone to grow old with is important. To be controversial, my Zia says it’s not. Even though they’re both clearly surviving old age because of each other, she insists companionship from one person isn’t necessary.

“Bahhh,” says my Zio, and then laughs.

“Si devrebbo ritornare in dietro, sposera ancora zio Giorgio (If I had to go back in time, I’d still marry your uncle, Giorgio),” she says, throwing in a dash of hypocrisy.

“Anchio (me too),” says Zio. “La sola cosa che cambero e che lei piacera un bicchiere di vino (The only thing I’d change if that she’d like a glass of wine.”

“Non non non,” says Zia, making a clicking sound with her tongue and shaking her finger. “Mi da fastidio di vedere le donne che bevano (It annoys me to see women who drink).”

It’s not enough for her to not like drinking, she rarely lets Zio touch the stuff. Yes, he suffers from diabetes and needs to watch his glucose levels, but If the poor man has a sip of beer, she gives him the death stare. When they have guests, he’s quick to thrust beer upon them so he can profit from the open bottles.

Zia asks me where the rest of the family is, and I explain they’re preparing dinner. After telling her the menu: barbecued fish, mussels and bruschetta, she grunts and rolls her eyes. “Loro pensano solo di mangiare (They only think of food),” she says. “Non dovrebbe vivere per mangiare, ma mangiare per vivere (You shouldn’t live to eat, but eat to live.)”

“I sto bene con la tua zuppa Mamma (I am fine with your soup Mamma)” says Zio, ever the peacemaker. Zia’s broth, which she is infamous for serving at lunch on the hottest days, is loathed by the rest of the family.

This inevitably turns into a conversation about weight. “Tu sei grasso (You are fat),” she says to me, grabbing a bit of my arm. I tell her in Italy it’s hard to stay slim and she snaps, “Mai tu eri grassa quando sei arrivata (But you were fat when you got here).” I tell her I’m happy, the only thing I think might get under her skin, and that maybe in Canada I’ll lose some weight. “Al meno quattro kilos (Atleast four pounds),” she says earnestly.

Zio who is sitting quiety, finally says, “I gionvani possano mangiare tutto (The young can eat anything). Quando Io ero giovanotto ho fatto la stessa cosa.(When I was young I did the same thing.)”

“Non sono giovani qui (There aren’t young people here)” she says, pointing inside to where her kids are. Their son, who lives in Northern Italy, is in his 50s and overweight. Their daughter, who is in her 40s and lives in Sicily, eats consciously and is always moving to avoid the pounds. She must get the lecture more often…

“Cosa dicci? (What are you saying?)” asks Zio, gently. “Sono giovanni (They are young).”

“Lei e giovane (She is young),” she says, pointing to me. “Per al meno un altro paio di anni (For atleast a couple more years).”

“Non,” says Zio, laughing his kermit-the-frog-laugh and looking at me with kind eyes. “Tu sei giovane, cara (You are young, sweetheart). Dopo 40 anni, tu svegli ogni giorni con un dolore nuovo (After 40 years you wake up with a new pain). Dopo 50 anni, tu svegli con un dolore nuovo la mattina e poi la sera (After 50 years you wake up with a new pain every morning, and then another at night.”

“A 80 anni (At 80 years)?” I say, smiling.

“A cara (Well sweetheart),” he says, letting out a sigh. “Gli uccellini non suonono piu (Birds don’t sing anymore).”

A group of young people walk by the house with towels slung casually over their shoulders, coming back from a day at the beach. The dogs run to the fence and start barking.

“C’è tanti giovani quest’anno (There’s a lot of young people this year)” says Zia, watching them walk by her fence. “Loro fanno una passeggiata alla spaggia, poi vanno alle sue case. Che vita la gioventu…(They walk along the beach and then go home. What a life being young…”

“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.

It had been a pleasant afternoon of gallavanting in the nearest town, Angles Sur L’Anglin. Population: half your high school. Charm: if your high school was a castle from the 14th century.

We put our bikes away, and peek shyly in the doorway. It would be a miracle if he wasn’t home, but of course, we hear stirring. Herman slams open the door (with him, this is possible) and stands there looking at us dumbly wearing a vest over his worn down collarshirt and smoking a cigar.

“Bonjour les filles, qu-est-ce que vous avez faites?” he asks, drawing out every syllable. The conversation always starts politely, but since Adrian has left for another farm and Herman’s  girlfriend, Christine, has gone back to Paris, things have changed. Since Christine showed up he’s been rude to us. At first we thought it was some macho way of proving his masculinity to her, but then we realized it probably would’ve happened regardless. Christine is a sweet saint, and never impressed by Herman’s commentary, be it perverted joke or dispariging comment about us, “les filles.” She’s quick to say “T’es fou, ou quoi?” or some other perfect sentence that gives Herman nothing to work with and shuts him up. None of us know this trick. For know we’re stuck with Herman alone for two days until she comes back.

We tell him about our day at the river in the small town quickly and neutrally to incite no discussion.After telling us about how he called Ruth’s boyfriend, Alex, because the number was left on his computer desk, he proceeds to tell us:

“Il-y-a-du-travail-a-faire demain,” and goes on about how we have to weed inbetween the cobblestones so he can spray a chemical called “round up” so they don’t come back. So much for the organic in WWOOF.

Next, he pulls out a famous line: “Je-vous-propose,” again said very slowly, and always followed by dinner plans. Tonight: “Le salmon et le boeuf.” He also says we’ll be listening to La Traviata, the famous opera, because it’s playing on TV.

In the meantime, we’re to prepare the barbecue. We tell him he hasn’t shown us how to do so yet, to which he grunts loudly, snatches his cane, and hobbles speedily towards the back door. The barbecue is an antique. It’s rusty as hell with a small  rack that goes ontop of coals and a rounded lid.

The barbecue has wheels, and Herrman grabs the handles, tilts it, and drags it along the cobblestones, making unecessary amounts of noise to indicate what an inconvienence this is.

He stops once we reach the shed where the paper and wood are. Ruth picks up a piece of newspaper, folds it, and trys to place it in the barbecue. Herman rips it out of her hand mid-air, crumples it up and says “C’est fait comme ca!” For some reason, he’s very offended by her getting this wrong.

We move onto the wood pile where he starts to violently break branches and throw them on the barbecue. Then he looks at us and says he’s already done half the work.

As we continue to break branches he hobbles over to the haystacks that line the wall of the shed. He puts his cane done, and starts climbing them without explanation. Once he gets to the top he says “Venez ici.”

Ruth, Sascha and I walk over and start to climb the height of five haystacks. I get to the top first and he points to an egg a chicken has laid there. They aren’t supposed to be let out of the coop unless they lay eggs, but since Edwina busted through the coop in the process of getting her collar a few days ago,  they’ve had free reign.

We climb down the haystack, and wait for Herman to come. He trips on the second last haystack, and falls to the ground slowly and akwardly, like a sack of potatoes. Ruth offers her hand but he insists it’s ok.

Herman hobbles back to the house, and we are left to wheel the barbecue back to its place. “Are you we supposed to light it?” asks Sascha once we get to the house. None of us remember what the instructions were. “Go for it,” I say. We’re about to eat dinner, and I don’t see why not. Sascha lights the huge pile of kindle upon which the metal rack uneasily rests and fire blazes.

Then she pokes her head in the door: “Le barbecue et prete,” she says to Herman.

“Nooo,” we hear urgently coming from inside the house, as if someone has just seen something they’re not supposed to. “Vous ‘etiez pas supposez d’allumer le barbecue.” We go inside. “J’ai vous ai-dites ca dans les instructions,” he’s saying, now very upset. “Est-ce que vous avez des problemes a suivre les instructions?”

None of us know how to respond. I try and say that he’s told us many things in the last couple minutes and I’m sorry if we forgot, but I fumble with my french.

When Herman stands up, he moves like a toy car spinning out of control. He slams the barbecue shut, while music from La Traviata flames up from outside. He orders Sascha to get something from the garden and Ruth and I follow him into the kitchen.

He stands at the sink furiously ripping lettuce leaves off a half rotten head.  “Surement a vos maisons, vous jetez toutes ca,” he says, pointing to the lettuce.

“On a du composte a la masin,” says Ruth, snappily.

Then he starts picking furiously at the drain. He says we’ve clogged it, and patrinizingly tells us the metal thing is to block food so we should use it. He drops to his knees and starts fiddling with something under the sink.

When he stands up, he takes another stab: “surement a vos maisons vous avez des garberaters qui faits toutes ca.”

My heart rate is rising, rising, rising. Who knows what colour my face is.

“Herman,” I say. “I’m going to say this in English to be clear. You can’t treat us like this. We’re volunteers. If we did something wrong we’re sorry but you can’t speak to us like this.”

He stares at me blankly and I have no idea what he’s going to say.

“T’as raison,” he says, calmly. “T’as completment raison.” I have no idea if he’s mocking me or being sincere. Then he turns to the fridge to look for something and starts mumbling about facism.

Dinner is tense. Ruth tries to make small about the opera that’s playing. I can’t look him in the face, and Sascha is confused.  All she knows is that something happened while she was gone that prompted herman to tell her that when he’s alone, he gets angry, and that I had been right on calling him out on it.

We scarved down our food, said no to the cheese plate, and filled a caraf of wine to bring upstairs. As we walked up the staircase, I glanced at Herman from the window. He was sitting at the picnic bench, hunched over a bottle of red wine, listening to the opera alone.

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…

Alright, my internet minutes are running out, this is the first time I’ve had access that didn’t cost more than a meal in days, and I’m late for the beach.

Currently in LaRochelle, small town three hours outside of Paris where Ruth and I’ve stopped before going to the farm to WOOF our faces off.

Sascha is only here with her sister and it is a PARTY. Seriously, last night after dinner of mussels and oysters we drank at a war themed bar and Sascha’s sister Alexa (also here) came up with a fitting lyric: “WAR, what is it good for? Making a BAR.” Had to be there? Seriously though, we sat on old fighter plane seats and looked at picutres of our bartender posing with various soldiers. Only in LaRochelle.

After that we stumbled upon a jazz duo playing outside a restaurant and pulled up a seat. They were great, and all around us were tqbles of people and old white walls that go up forever. Ironically, Ruth and I had unsuccessfuly been looking for jazz shows in Paris for the past three nights and co,e up dry. Turns out all we had to do was get a little deep in the country.

Speaking of Paris, here is a poem to summarize the experience:

shitty room in Hotel Bastille

sinking bed, atleast kindof clean.

Now when writers talk of   ”getting rooms” in Paris.

I know what that means.

Buttery croissants, karafs of wine.

Rolling drum, feeling fine.

Museum lines: “Fuck it. Let’s go somewhere smaller.”

100 euros= 160 dollars.

Skinny women, fat beef.

Agressive men, skinny frites.

A sidewalk cafe,

A smell of piss

the homeless in bed,

We all get a whiff.

Au revoir Gay Paris,

and your crusty white bread

Be well ma cherie

we have left your town red.

We’re on a mission for spacecakes. A brownie, cooked with that wonderful substance that’s nice and legal in the Netherlands (sorry, mom, when in Rome?).

Andrea, a friend of mine from high school now living in Germany, and I decided to take a trip to Rotterdam, a city in the Netherlands with the second largest port in the world (next to Shanghai).

The streets are bustling with music, the sounds of people pouring out onto patios and the stares of men that burn holes in your back when you walk by. It feels sexy and aggressive.

Rotterdam’s a weird place. Very spread out, with a mix of industrial buildings and picturesque cobble stone streets. Ruth’s experience there was going to a party in a converted warehouse. The guidebook says there’s clubs in converted grain silos and pharmacies. This is fusion people.

During the day we took a water taxi from the port to Hotel New York, a beautiful hotel on the city’s waterfront. The history of the sight is it was the former headquarters of Holland-Amerika Lijn, an organization for Europeans in the late 17thto mid 18th century that ran boats out of Rotterdam’s for people emigrating to New York. The building was sold in 1984, but remained empty for ten years before the hotel was built.

Andrea and I walked inside the hotel, where posh looking Dutch people and foreigners read the New Yorker at big wooden tables while sipping beer, before settling on some chairs by the water. Then we walked over a bridge back to the city centre to find a hostel.

After going for dinner (and getting containers at a nearby icecream shop to package leftovers, a concept Europeans don’t understand) we were ready for dessert of the space variety.

The guy at the front desk of our hostel showed us where we could get spacecakes on the map after telling me I didn’t have to whisper the word because “that stuff is legal here.”

We missioned to the other end of Rotterdam, passing many “coffee shops” along the way where they sell truffles (magic mushrooms) and weed. When we got the intersection, we couldn’t find the place, the name of which the hostel man neglected to give us.

We stared around confusedly, looking for the place we imagined in our minds: a quaint diner with our waitress serving us brownies on a silver platter with a knowingwink. Apparently, this didn’t exist.

A man pointed us in the direction of a place called Reefer, two to three streets up. It was hard to miss, with the word lit up in yellow lights flickering like they could go out at any moment.

Inside were a couple men behind a smoky bar, and more men behind a door in another room with pool tables.

“Space cakes?” we asked innocently to one of the men behind the bar.

“No,” laughed the man. “We don’t sell space cakes, they’re illegal.”

He explained to us that when pot is in food, it falls under different laws because it isn’t considered a smoking product.

After a 40 minute walk, and the anticipation of being high, we hesitantly decided to settle for a joint. The guy brought out different sized baggies and we asked if there was anything pre-rolled.

He brought out a joint long as my hand and the thickness of two fingers at one end.

“Two?” he asked.

Andrea and I could only laugh.

“One’s fine,” I said.

We walked out of the shop with our fatty and set out to find a picturesque spot to smoke it. A carload of guys pulled up and mockingly asked us if we knew where to get pot, said something we couldn’t understand, and laughed at Andrea when she took their question sincerely.

This was only the beginning of harassment from men via car. In Rotterdam, a common passtime for men is piling in a car, cruising the streets, and yelling at girls from the window or following them menacingly with your eyes.

Our tactic was to ignore, but that was made hard when a guy jumped out of his car to get our attention by chasing us.

“Are there no girls in this fucking city?” yelled Andrea. “What the fuck is going on?”

I know why they call it RotterSLAM. Every guy wants to get SLAMMED.

Inside the bars people were fine. Apparently guys prefer yelling from their cars than over a drink. This was fine by me, and after smoking our joint in a park, Andrea and I found a cute spot called Hemingway’s, filled with regulars listening to some guy wailing a radiohead cover. It was preferable to the street.

On our way home, we were again followed for three streets by a car full of guys who went as far as to reverse and block us when we tried to cross the street to avoid them.  As we dashed into our hostel they made a sharp u-turn and just missed my leg.

Maybe it’s better we never found those space cakes. Walking the streets of Rotterslam is a trip in itself.

As promised, a recap on Alexi’s last night: Bought 10 beers for 9 euros and went to the park by the Maastricht river. Tons of little groups of people congregate on the grass. One man provided the entertainment by singing American music from his ipod so loudly it provoked a younger guy to bust out his lighter. Reminded me of being by the Ottawa river, just with more people and booze.

After downing some beers we had sushi. Yes! Sushi in Maastricht. The sashimi was really good. The maki, a little less so.

After sushi went to the apartment of Alex and Ruth’s Dutch friends. The two girls, Inika and Marie-Helene were preparing for the graduating art presentation at the college of design. They worked in a room with a door facing the patio where us non-students sat making a tower of empty beer bottles and drinking red wine. It was very romantic. A hot Maastricht night. Art students working on their projects, and us, enjoying the other worldliness of it all.

The next morning I went to Germany.An hour on the bus from Maas and I’m in a sweet little town called Aachen. Known for its churches, it’s big plaza in the centre, and being founded by Charlemagne, the King of Franks, in the 800s.

There are a couple of main differences between Aachen and Maastricht: In Germany, most people don’t speak English and things are cheaper.  Both towns have many churches, and big plazas where people sit for a long time consuming various things.

Upon arriving I walk till I find the nearest schnitzel and coffee and sit down to eat and people watch. I don’t go deep enough into the city because I’m STARVING and realize later there is better food at better prices a quick walk away. Caught in the tourist trap.

But, hey, fried meat is fried meet. The plaza is beautiful, and I take pictures of street performers with white faces who rather than being clown-like, are smoking cigarettes or napping.

People all over sit at the hundreds of chairs, smoking and drinking beer. There’s a beautiful church near a square with German flags.

I learnt that payphones are “old technology” and that Germans are friendlier than their reputation. After a lovely glass of wine on a street off the main plaza, I made my way back towards the train.

Tomorrow, my friend Andrea and I go to Rotterdam to SLAM out. Also, hopefully soon I can upload my own pictures, but since I forgot the chord, enjoy the freedom of the internet.

Two Dutch couples sit on chairs facing the street, sipping on wine. Their chairs are straw, their expressions serious. In Maastricht, people watching is more important than dining.

There’s restaurant’s everywhere in this place. Some of them are six-star Michelin, but some are just bad. Ruth and her boyfriend Alex have been living here for then months though, and know where they party’s at.

Apparently there’s good indonesian food, because there are many Asian immigrants. Ruth says the sushi isn’t bad either. It reminds me of eating sushi at a Cuban resort, though. What you really should be having, if Cuban food.

Turns out, Dutch food’s a little weird. We settledon what looked like a classic Dutch pub because most restaurants are closed on the Monday. There is a lot of meat here in Maastricht. We order a platter of cold cuts to share with bread, and I order some scampi in wine sauce with salad to follow.

The beer is insane. The big group of Dutch people beside us must’ve had at least ten rounds in little pints. I have a light beer with a sortof nutty flavour. There should be wine labels for the beer: nutty on the nose, a hint of rasberry, pairs well with meat.

My shrimp are good. Alex’s spare ribs look dry, and Ruth’s pork is covered in a creamy gorgonzola sauce. They say that’s typical fare here. Nothing tastes amazing, but there’s always fries, meat and tomatoes. Fine by me.

Around us looks like Gotham city. The buildings are tall, streets are narrow, and it feels like there’s a mist hanging over the city. There’s something medieval about being here. Like bats could descend on us at any moment.

As for people watching, I’m too engulfed in conversation with old friends to take in the Dutch people passing by. Besides, our chairs were turned towards each other, rather than in a row facing the street. I took in the sounds, though. That hard dutch sound that gets louder with each beer. Those words that sound like they might be English, just a little different. goede nacht. good night.

We downed a couple more pints before stumbling down the cobble streets to the apartment. As we leave, Ruth tells me to look behind. One of the Dutch couples still sit at the table, their stern expressions not letting up despite the wine, staring straight ahead.

*Stayed tuned tomorrow for Alex’s last night in the deutschland. PARTY.