When in doubt, pull it out

Quick update: I suck at french keyboards and computer time has been limited here, in the land of the hobbits. No joke, I expect to run into Frodo Baggins every time I leave my charming cottage house in the morning. I am sitting in the office at an oversized antique desk that faces wall to wall windows overlooking the river and the valley. After months of speculation, I finally arrived in Bec Hellouin, France to work on the organic farm. It is beautiful – like the kind of beautiful that continues to stun you at various points in the day, everyday.

I have been here one week and thus far have spent a few afternoons picking (eating) berries, making (eating) jam, harvesting (eating) every vegetable under the sun, working with the horse, replanting leeks and squash and weeding. I am new to many of these activities and thus have had to develop a few strategies of my own. This has not always been succesful. My ‘when-in-doubt-pull-it-out’ weeding strategy went something like this: weed, weed, weed, beetroot (shit),weed, weed, celery (shit!), weed and so forth. I hid the evidence. My ‘one-berry-for-the-basket-one-berry-for-my-mouth-strategy’ led to a berry-overdose (yes, this is possible). Not to worry, I have since adopted a 10:1 ratio that has worked out much better. I am slowly hoe-ing my way along the learning curve.

I have never eaten so many delicously fresh veggies in my life. Lunch is a meal with the family and the other ‘workers’ (more on them later) and is never short of fresh dishes, fresh bread and tons of homemade cider. Dinner consists of a stroll through the garden to pick what I want to make that day. Lovely.

Much more to write about (including my african lover and my farm nemisis) but I am out of time.

Oh! And though I am having a wonderful time so far, its only going to get better as I have arranged for one of my favourite humans to join me for the rest of my stay!

Bike Adventure Pt. 2

So. Where were we? Right. Bike chained to tree. No keys.

I headed back over to Old Fashion with the feeble hope that somehow my keys would be sitting there in some bin at coat check, waiting for me with all the other lost keys with that smug look of a parent when they’ve taught you a lesson. No such luck. ‘Stefano’ however, was waiting at the coat check, although his look was more of confusion than smugness. After explaining to him my dilemma (My Keys! My bike! My Flight!) Stefano came out to investigate. He first offers to come back tomorrow with a bike lock and store my bike for me until I get back. Really? Really. But then he has a better idea. Next thing I know, he’s talking to the guy at the panini stand (and ordering himself some dinner) and Mr Sandwich man makes a phone call – his buddy will drive in within 40 minutes to cut the lock. Really? Really.

So, Stefano suggests I come wait back inside the club. It’s around 9pm and they are hosting a private apperetivo party – Stefano says he will return for me in 30 minutes. I opt to take seat inside the restaurant section, where there are a few (cute) idle waiters. The bartender starts showing off with some magic tricks (which elicits ’stupido!’ from the others), while this other weasel is playing a game where he’s trying to guess my life story. (I do NOT look 16.) Each new waiter that comes in gets to hear the whole story, and I inevitably get asked if I like Long Islands a little too much. I was (mostly) sober, thank you – it was my last night out! Before I know it, I’m having a complimentary glass of champagne to celebrate my last night in Milan, and then in a blink of an eye I’m saying goodbye to my five new friends to wait for the prompt arrival of my lock-man-saviour.

Enter the 5′5 Calabrese firecracker, Gio. He pulls up on his scooter, all hand gestures and outdoor voices. He pulls out five different lock cutters but decides he’d rather tell me his life story in Italian first (‘Calabria…do YOU KNOW?! Calabrese, bellissssimo). Panini guy starts yelling for him to hurry up because I’m late to meet some friends, but then they both start passionately applying bug spray to their exposed arms and legs and insist i get a spray or two for mine, and the next thing you know the parking guy is engaging  me in a discussion about Canadian politics. They finally go to town on my lock and set my dear Concetta free. Uno Bacio? Fine. A peck on the cheek and I hop on my wheels for one of the last times and peddle, peddle, peddle, my way to meet my friends for pizza.

I was a little bit sad biking away. This is exactly the nonsense that I’m going to miss about Italy.

Pack It Up Pack It In

Last night, my keys slipped out of my purse as I was attempting to dominate the dance floor at Old Fashion for the last time. Yikes. No roommates. Minor panic attack. After a serious search with no luck, and of course the realization that my bike was chained to a tree and was no longer viable transportation, I was having a not-so-minor panic attack. Thankfully, I had a knight in shining armour (or khakis and a button down) to locate my landlords phone number, throw me on the front of his bike and peddle me all the way home. Deserving of some pizza, no? I think so.

Grafetul to wake up INSIDE my apartment, I didn’t care so much that I had the daunting task of packing. This is especially remarkable when we take into consideration that it’s quite possible I am the world’s worst packer and best procrastinator – a truly winning combination. So, I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon….and early evening, packing, unpacking and repacking whilst rampaging through episodes of Californication like it was my job. I’ve managed to squeeze almost everything I’ll need for the next two months into my backpack, no small feat considering my attention span is completely…..

And so, the next adventure begins. Tomorrow morning, I will leave behind most of my stuff (including my computer, and my gelato obsession) and fly to Paris to spend a weekend with my sister.

And then:

Time to roll up the proverbial sleeves (it’s much to hot for them) for a solid month of heaving and ho-ing …or you know, whatever people on farms do….

Staying In

After spending Forrest’s last day in Milan running errands, eating gelato and having a final apperetivo, I had every intention of heading home for some much needed sleep. As I walked through the door however, I got a message telling me that my new Italian friends were going to a jazz concert, and would be by to pick me up at 9:30. Why not. So sure enough, I hopped into a car and off we went….to Switzerland. We drove the 45 minutes to The Lugano Jazz Festival listening to classic Micheal Jackson, Bob Dylan impersonations and french hip hop. Entertaining to say the least.

We arrived to an afro-fab beat, a packed square, beers and a dance party. The highlight was La Notte de la Tarranta that played with former Police drummer Stewart Copeland – 17 musicians on stage at once. All beat, base, melody and (my favourite) tambourine. Madness.

Cryatia

It could be my tomboy roots, or perhaps my current penchant for menswear, or maybe you could even call it ’stoic’ pride – in any case, I’m not a big crier. In fact, I generally refuse to shed tears infront of others unless a there is a movie involving notebooks or a kid from the slums. Though many gut-wrenching moments have found my heart lodged in my throat or drooping somewhere between my knees, my tear reserve remains fully intact. That’s Riwa.

However, upon entering Croatia, Riwa was re-named Riva, (meaning shore) – a croatian tradition. I was immediately welcomed into the Churkovich family with unimaginable warmth. Residing just outside the city of Zadar, in a lovely village called Ploca, lives Lucy’s family – home for the next five days. We hit it off right away and though at times there was a language barrier, one thing that never seemed to get lost in translation: “Mangia Riva! Mangia!” And mangia we did. Zuchinnis, potatoes, beets, olive oil, wine, green beans, cucumbers, tomatoes – all fresh from Zore’s garden. Each day Franca filled the table with a spectacular spread of delicious dishes. But the real mangia happened at Festa: the village’s St Peter’s Day celebration. A feast to end all feasts. (“This isn’t the main course?!”) We ate lunch until it was dinner time, and then….we ate dinner.

On a scroching afternoon, we  took a boat to a beautiful laguna for a dip in warm, crystal clear water; we walked through the bustling city and drank cold Karloveckas in little alley way cafes; we listened to melodies of the tide at the sea organ and had ample photo ops at the striking light installation that tributes the sun; we watched Angela (the Audrey Hepburn of Zadar) perform in an impressive puppet version of The Wizard of Oz; we visited war ruins and looked through old photo albums. We took walks with the kids, listening to Beyonce blaring out of little Anna’s cellphone. I competed ferciously at cards, despite the fact that my opponent was 10 years old. I watchd eagerly as Lela prepared hommemade desserts…mostly because she let me lick the bowl. One afternoon, in search of an unmet cousin, we knocked on a strangers door and within moments were smothered with hugs, kisses and of course food.

And before I knew it, it was time to say goodbye to my little Australian and her amazing family. Sad, but the distraction of having a ferry to catch, another adventure waiting always makes goodbyes easier. So big hugs, a joke or two, and I was on my way, tear free.

UNTIL I found the sneaky note left for me in my purse. A sneaky, but lovely note that made it impossible to ignore that ‘farewells’ mean you must eventually fare ‘without’, that sometimes endings deserve a little reflection. So. Right there in the country of Croatia, at the edge of Zadar, on the massive Jadrolinija ferry and infront of my new Croatian friend Tomas (with whom I was sharing a prime couch area) Riva took over and let out a few salty, seashore tears. The tears quickly turned to laughter as Tomas looked at me confused and earnest, and offered me a tissue and some of his ‘chippy chips’. (“Don’t tell anyone…..right, you don’t speak english.”) We sat in silence, eating chips  and watching the sunset until the ferry for our long overnight journey back to Italy.

Arts & Crafts

Last night’s farwell bash was quite a success. Conversation flowed as liberally as our beverages, tons of food, live music, fresh faces and some arts & crafts.

Arts and crafts? Oh yes, arts and crafts – scissors and gluesticks and markers (oh my!). The life of the party turned out to be a photocopier set smack in the middle of the room.  Guests made collages out of old photographs and photocopies (yes faces were photocopied, and no – no one dropped their trousers…surprisingly). As it turns out, booze and creativity are co-related and by the end of the night, we had quite the gallery.

And the afterparty? We headed to Just Cavalli, an outdoor club at Parco Sempione for more drinks, dancing and celebrity sightings [Chace Crawford(!)].

And the after-after party? Laura and I in our tiny kitchen, eating carrots and dip whilst discussing life and more importantly, the things we would trade for the saltiest of paninis…until the wee hours of the morning.

Finito

All done. I’ve spent the past few days appreciating this rare period of pause – momentary static, an intermission of sorts – very aware that life will soon require a move. I’ve had ample time to lie in the park and make up stories about strangers, model-watch, take Concetta out on our last rides, accompany Jon on his Prada purchases and try all the gelato places we’ve skipped in favour of ‘old faithful’.

It’s hard to believe my time of cab fights, manthropology and food comas is almost up. Lucky for you, this ain’t no sob story: the next couple of months are looking rather adventurous.

But first, tonight : My roommates finish up today, and our landlord is throwing us a little party in his art studio downstairs as a final farewell.

Oh, and listen:

A good reason to learn french…

Jeremy Clapin’s SKHIZEIN – a 14 minute, animated short.

And for my english friends….”Having been struck by a 150-ton meteorite, Henry has to adapt to living 91cm precisely from himself…”

“The More, The Best”

This heat wave of a weekend was as busy as it was scorching.

Friday, the Aussies cooked dinner for 20 – and it was delicious. Pumpkin stuffed pasta shells, roasted lamb, peach and gorgonzola pizzas, stuffed peppers, smoked salmon and grapefruit salad, couscous – the works! After dinner and recovering from a food coma, about half of the party moved from apartment to park/club/music festival on the outskirts of Milan to watch some DJ sets and attempt to win some dance offs. Amy and I were legitimately challenged by two guys, who for all intents and purposes could have been having seizures. Unfortunately for them, I have no shame when it comes to the dance floor and as for Amy – that girl can bust a move when you least expect it.

Saturday invoved  Gelato (Raspberry and Mango in Armageddon sized portions – Bruce Willis was pretty much in my cup), lunch with Lucy and a park nap – the ideal recipe for recovery. In the evening two Ivey boys arrived into town just in time for apperitivo followed by an outdoor wine picnic by the columns with some friends. (Conversations of particularl interest – Maine in May: a Stavros reunion!?!)

Sunday was spent reading each other articles in Cosmo over breakfast, taking our two buddies on the typical Milan tourist walk, cooling off with happy hour on my balcony, playing ‘Do, Dump or Marry’, hearing some of the most ridiculous travel stories of all time and then being invited over to the Italian’s for dinner. Dinner rapidly transformed into one of the most aggressive dance parties I have ever participated in – and there have been many in my time. It was about 100 degrees the kitchen of this apartment and the music was reminiscent of an eighth grade dance, and it was nothing short of epic.

Now that I’ve sufficiently blown of ’steam’, back to studying? The countdown to Friday begins.

And the best roommate award goes tooooo…

Amy finalllly returned from Paris – and she didn’t come home empty handed.

Sitting on my computer, patiently waiting my arrival was an oddly familiar yellow box. The colours were different – spring collection? – but then I spotted the name that can make me salivate on sight: Pierre Herme.  Inside? Two deliciously fresh, impossibly light, delightfully creamy and magical macaroons. Palatable, to say the least.

They were gone in about 2.5 seconds, far too quickly for any type of photographic memory-making…thank you Flckr.

Either my friends know me and the way to my heart all too well, or I am Pierre’s own PR machine – because surprsingly, this isn’t the first time a friend has left a PH box for me to find on my desk. A certain co-worker-turned-friend-turned-expat once brought me truffles covered in pistachios after his trip abroad – and to think I wouldn’t even share my almonds.