7/3 - Berlin, Germany - Back to civilization
Have emerged from the sticks. Survived large spiders, manual labor, and milking goats. K and I are in Berlin now, where we hope to stay for a while. This city is astounding.
My plan is to work backwards, recount my farming experiences over the last few weeks until I'm no longer in the hole.
Rudimentary logic tells me that this doesn't add up at all.
In the mean time, please enjoy my back catalog of A/V entertainment.
5/31 - Prayssac, France - Spelunking
Life in Prayssac is tranquil. Work the garden. Tend the llamas. At the end of the day I like to hop on the bike and take a dive down a cave.
5/26 - France - Drive to Prayssac
Drive from Anlhiac to Sarlat and stop
Off for coffee,
Talk about serial killers,
Then back in the car winding down
South.
The sky is gray, rainy.
The fields are empty.
Climb up Domme just in time for the
Church bells
Then down the other side
to a town
I can’t remember.
Have a lovely lunch of eggs, cheese
More coffee.
Stroll thru the medieval garden there beside the church.
I go to pull up some weeds
And am yelled at by the gardner
Bon jour bon jour
I use spray for the garden
You pull and spread seeds
Just look, only look
No touching just look
I spray all the garden.
Then arrive in Prayssac. La Bouyssette. Our new home for the next two weeks.
Off for coffee,
Talk about serial killers,
Then back in the car winding down
South.
The sky is gray, rainy.
The fields are empty.
Climb up Domme just in time for the
Church bells
Then down the other side
to a town
I can’t remember.
Have a lovely lunch of eggs, cheese
More coffee.
Stroll thru the medieval garden there beside the church.
I go to pull up some weeds
And am yelled at by the gardner
Bon jour bon jour
I use spray for the garden
You pull and spread seeds
Just look, only look
No touching just look
I spray all the garden.
About 20 km north of Prayssac we stop in the little village of Les Arques where French sculptor Osip Zadkine worked. Interesting fellow. Had a Futurist-Cubist vibe going. There’s a museum where his studio used to be, his sculptures scattered through the square, in the church, beneath the alter in the crypt.
Then arrive in Prayssac. La Bouyssette. Our new home for the next two weeks.
5/25 - Anlhiac France - One last run
On the eve of our departure one last run through Anlhiac. All day the skies have been dark. Strong winds. Rumbles of thunder. Start running in the evening and near the road to Genis, rain finally hits us. We duck beneath an awning and watch it wash across the countryside.
5/22 - Anlhiac, France - Ronnie Caryl
In the evening we travel to Genis to see Ronnie Caryl perform at St. Christophe’s bar. Ronnie Caryl is a guitar player and used to work with Phil Collins. To repeat, Phil Collins had a guitar player and I saw him play in Southern France. No, I am not making this up.
We pull in and the square is full of cars, the bar full of life – Folks young and old smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, holding plastic cups of beer while children race through the crowd. We meet a young French woman also working as a farmer. She says the work makes her tired but then she knows she’s alive.
Near midnight, Ronnie takes the stage with his band right behind him. He is large and they all have ponytails. Something like Jerry Garcia with a lizard for a keyboard player. After fumbling through a few verses of “Mustang Sally” everyone takes solos.
How strange: to be in a French town full of French people, watching them dance to shaky covers of American music played by a bar band. I suppose it was refreshing to be in front of live musicians again. But it was also surreal and a little upsetting. Iowa’s open mic night as an American export, following me to France like the monster follows Frankenstein. Ronnie plays well into the night, far later than I care to remember. For the record, there was no “In the Air Tonight.” Though quite a funky version of “I Can’t Dance.”
We pull in and the square is full of cars, the bar full of life – Folks young and old smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, holding plastic cups of beer while children race through the crowd. We meet a young French woman also working as a farmer. She says the work makes her tired but then she knows she’s alive.
Near midnight, Ronnie takes the stage with his band right behind him. He is large and they all have ponytails. Something like Jerry Garcia with a lizard for a keyboard player. After fumbling through a few verses of “Mustang Sally” everyone takes solos.
How strange: to be in a French town full of French people, watching them dance to shaky covers of American music played by a bar band. I suppose it was refreshing to be in front of live musicians again. But it was also surreal and a little upsetting. Iowa’s open mic night as an American export, following me to France like the monster follows Frankenstein. Ronnie plays well into the night, far later than I care to remember. For the record, there was no “In the Air Tonight.” Though quite a funky version of “I Can’t Dance.”
5/21 - Anlhiac France - Digging up an overgrown garden
Visit with S. and her husband, S., an American couple living outside Exideuiel. Locals say that gypsies once lived in their home, used the first floor as a dog kennel, let their children play on the roof. We work the overgrown garden and limbs of plastic dolls come up in the dirt. As I’m digging, Katie shears a bay leaf hedge and the air smells like crème.
When the work is finished, we head inside to share a delicious meal, discuss American writers and the dangers of French real estate. I’ve forgotten how valuable it is to sit down with others at the dinner table. Such a satisfying form of communication.
When the work is finished, we head inside to share a delicious meal, discuss American writers and the dangers of French real estate. I’ve forgotten how valuable it is to sit down with others at the dinner table. Such a satisfying form of communication.
5/20 - Anlhiac France - Gherashim Luca
Travel to Saint-Yrieix-la-Perche with Katie, Leni and S. Visit an exhibit of Gherashim Luca’s Fluxus artwork then listen to Michael Lonsdale read his poetry. All in French of course which turns the evening into one long sound poem for me. I dig it. The collage work, especially.
Afterward, there is dinner and I have pizza. Always pizza. Still different from America of course - European pizza is thinner and made for one person, uncut. Still, I have to laugh at myself for moving here and eating dishes not too far off from what I’d have in the states. No place for vegetarians at the French dinner table, I’m learning.
Afterward, there is dinner and I have pizza. Always pizza. Still different from America of course - European pizza is thinner and made for one person, uncut. Still, I have to laugh at myself for moving here and eating dishes not too far off from what I’d have in the states. No place for vegetarians at the French dinner table, I’m learning.
5/17 - Anlhiac France - Town Ramble
To be fair, Anlhiac has 300 people living here and of those 300 I've only met a few. Still. Of those few. I must say, they can walk impressively long distances.
Today was the Town Ramble. A yearly event in which those that live here take a rocky and gorgeous stroll thru the country together. We meet at 9 am in the center of town. Then head into the woods. Then re-emerge 4 hours later. Grand total : 12 kilometers. The paper even took a picture. Somewhere tomorrow, there will be a happy group of French folks with my beard and sunglasses interrupting the back row.
After the walk, everyone has lunch together in what used to be the school. As we eat, a set of dark haired brothers patrol the dining room, weild plastic guns and execute tables full of grown-ups. They serve bowls of rice and macaroni salad. Pork. Sausage. More meat I don't really recognize. Then unveil such a smorgasbord of home made desserts that I can't help but stuff myself.
Today was the Town Ramble. A yearly event in which those that live here take a rocky and gorgeous stroll thru the country together. We meet at 9 am in the center of town. Then head into the woods. Then re-emerge 4 hours later. Grand total : 12 kilometers. The paper even took a picture. Somewhere tomorrow, there will be a happy group of French folks with my beard and sunglasses interrupting the back row.
After the walk, everyone has lunch together in what used to be the school. As we eat, a set of dark haired brothers patrol the dining room, weild plastic guns and execute tables full of grown-ups. They serve bowls of rice and macaroni salad. Pork. Sausage. More meat I don't really recognize. Then unveil such a smorgasbord of home made desserts that I can't help but stuff myself.
5/11 - Anlhaic France - Day trip to Perigeux
Up at 6 45 for our second bike ride to Excideuil. This time to catch a bus that will take us into Perigueux, the region's capital some 45 kilometers southwest of Anlhaic. In the morning, it is quiet, there is little traffic. As I'm pedaling I try not to topple over and go back to sleep in a ditch.
Arrive by 7 30. Find the bus stop and park the bikes beside a restaurant. In the distance, Excideuil's church chimes 'Ode to Joy' in a key that is off and makes the song sound broken. We have time to kill and so Katie finds the bakery while I stumble around the castle. At 8 o clock the bus pulls up to the corner.
Read Raymond Carver and watch the country side roll by. Small towns, green fields. A man in his garden, peeing. I find it impressive that this trip is forty five miles long and only costs me two Euros. By the time we reach Perigueux it is close to 9 o clock.
We're dropped off in the middle of town, right outside a movie theater showing Madagascar 2. I suggest we ditch the history tour and nod toward the marquee. Katie has never seen Madagascar 1 and anticipates the plot will be too hard to follow.
What we think of as Sunday in America is more like Monday in France and so many of the shops are closed today. Still, as we squeeze thru the city's narrow streets there are a few shops that stay open, lure us in with fresh baked bread products dangling out open windows. I try to imagine an analog of this back home and come up with gas stations and bags of Wonderbread hanging above cigarette racks. I am still very glad to be here.
Perigueux dates back to before the Roman empire and is known for its immaculate cathedral of St. Front as well as the remains of a Gallic temple and amphitheater.
Also, for the conspicuous amount of airline traffic forever streaming overhead.
Lunch at a cafe. K has pasta carbonara. M has vegetarian pizza. After-meal espressos for both. Quite good. We board the bus back to Excideuil and find it filled with noisy kids heading home after a long day of school. Think, sitting in a kindergärtner's chair and trying to retain your dignity.
Afterward, the grueling uphill trek back to Anlhaic where we collapse on the couch and instantly fall asleep.
Arrive by 7 30. Find the bus stop and park the bikes beside a restaurant. In the distance, Excideuil's church chimes 'Ode to Joy' in a key that is off and makes the song sound broken. We have time to kill and so Katie finds the bakery while I stumble around the castle. At 8 o clock the bus pulls up to the corner.
Read Raymond Carver and watch the country side roll by. Small towns, green fields. A man in his garden, peeing. I find it impressive that this trip is forty five miles long and only costs me two Euros. By the time we reach Perigueux it is close to 9 o clock.
We're dropped off in the middle of town, right outside a movie theater showing Madagascar 2. I suggest we ditch the history tour and nod toward the marquee. Katie has never seen Madagascar 1 and anticipates the plot will be too hard to follow.
What we think of as Sunday in America is more like Monday in France and so many of the shops are closed today. Still, as we squeeze thru the city's narrow streets there are a few shops that stay open, lure us in with fresh baked bread products dangling out open windows. I try to imagine an analog of this back home and come up with gas stations and bags of Wonderbread hanging above cigarette racks. I am still very glad to be here.
Perigueux dates back to before the Roman empire and is known for its immaculate cathedral of St. Front as well as the remains of a Gallic temple and amphitheater.
Also, for the conspicuous amount of airline traffic forever streaming overhead.Lunch at a cafe. K has pasta carbonara. M has vegetarian pizza. After-meal espressos for both. Quite good. We board the bus back to Excideuil and find it filled with noisy kids heading home after a long day of school. Think, sitting in a kindergärtner's chair and trying to retain your dignity.
Afterward, the grueling uphill trek back to Anlhaic where we collapse on the couch and instantly fall asleep.
Anlhaic France - 5/7 - Cycle to Excedeuil
A hilly bike ride to Excedeuil. Going down is much more fun than coming back.
Anlhaic, France - 5/6 - till/plant/walk/run
Over the past few days I have:
Tilled two patches of ground in preparation for sewing. The soil is thick here. Closer to clay. I unearth with a pitchfork then smash down all the clumps.
(Casualties ? Yes. One wooden rake handle.)
Together, with Katie planted a long row of corn, a set of herbs, two lemon leaf trees...
Walked thru the countryside exploring, exploring.
Running again. Follow paved roads that turn into dirt, into rutted two tracks that disappear in a field. I jog past and the cows near the fence stop to survey my form.
Tilled two patches of ground in preparation for sewing. The soil is thick here. Closer to clay. I unearth with a pitchfork then smash down all the clumps.
(Casualties ? Yes. One wooden rake handle.)
Together, with Katie planted a long row of corn, a set of herbs, two lemon leaf trees...
Walked thru the countryside exploring, exploring.
Running again. Follow paved roads that turn into dirt, into rutted two tracks that disappear in a field. I jog past and the cows near the fence stop to survey my form.
Anlhaic France - 5/3 - Harvest Willow branches
Leni is building a willow bench and we head down to
the river for bendable wood.
the river for bendable wood.
Anlhaic France - 5/2 - Thiviers Market
In the morning we head west to the outdoor market in Thiviers. Booths full of fresh produce, fresh breads and artisan cheese. The weather is wonderful and so we wander off thru the city. Stop in to a pâtisseri. Munch on an éclair that, with each bite, dismantles all memories of Dunkin' Donuts from my mind.
Afterward, we reconvene at a coffee shop. Talk about what it means to be happy, what it means to be content. In the corner there is a flatscreen showing Eminem on MTV. As we leave, we cut thru the market and walk past a tent with roasted chickens slowly spinning on rotisserie.
Afterward, we reconvene at a coffee shop. Talk about what it means to be happy, what it means to be content. In the corner there is a flatscreen showing Eminem on MTV. As we leave, we cut thru the market and walk past a tent with roasted chickens slowly spinning on rotisserie.
Anlhiac France - 4/30 - Arrive
Fill up on questionable hotel breakfast then take tube
to train
to airport
to France
Limoges is three or four hours south of Paris.
We arrive around 1:30 p.m. and Leni picks us up.
Anlhaic, the area where Leni runs her farm is another hour south of Limoges. We drive thru the country and my face is practically pushed out the window. Rolling hills. Winding thru the tiniest villages with buildings that have no context in my head and so I think I'm in a cartoon.
Silly, of course. Since if anything is to be labeled: real/authentic it's
the three-hundred year old farm house I'm going
to be sleeping in.
What I learned on the drive:
Narrow roads.
Spectacular scenery.
Cows. Sheep. Cows - not like northern Michigan.
People drive faaast out here.
Some villages have fifty people.
Ours has around three hundred.
We live on Le Bourmier. There is no house number.
The postman just remembers who lives in
what houses.
to train
to airport
to France
Limoges is three or four hours south of Paris.
We arrive around 1:30 p.m. and Leni picks us up.
Anlhaic, the area where Leni runs her farm is another hour south of Limoges. We drive thru the country and my face is practically pushed out the window. Rolling hills. Winding thru the tiniest villages with buildings that have no context in my head and so I think I'm in a cartoon.
Silly, of course. Since if anything is to be labeled: real/authentic it's
the three-hundred year old farm house I'm going
to be sleeping in.
What I learned on the drive:
Narrow roads.
Spectacular scenery.
Cows. Sheep. Cows - not like northern Michigan.
People drive faaast out here.
Some villages have fifty people.
Ours has around three hundred.
We live on Le Bourmier. There is no house number.
The postman just remembers who lives in
what houses.
London day 2 - 4/29
Spend the day exploring the city. Incredible old building alongside marvelous old building across from stone church in the middle of the street. In high school, I took a trip here with a group of my classmates. As I'm walking I try to retrace my footsteps. Find the first tube exit we exited from. Stand outside the tower of London. Clumps of rowdy school children speaking French, Italian, American English. I cross the square and look down to the old moat where period piece British people put on a show for tourists, use a giant wooden catapult to hurl blue water balloons at the castle. The contraption takes forever to load and as Lord Eddy talks about history Master Bill works the gears. Then all together: '1-2-3.' Ka-chunk. When the balloon bursts onto the grass everyone claps.
There's something about the layout of London that lets it breathe more than big time American cities. Smaller buildings. Less congested. My neck isn't folded backwards as in New York city.
Around lunchtime, I find myself at St. Paul's. White marble cathedral gleaming from the afternoon sun. In the square, speckled pigeons flutter by the fountain, to the steps where a group of children wear pressed shirts and snack on crackers. From the far entrance, a single row of Buddhist monks, their robes the brightest reds and yellows crossing slowly thru the square before disappearing behind a tall set of columns. The battery to my camera dies out soon after. I kick myself each time I see another picture.
In the evening we take a bus thru the city on our way to Brick Lane. Home of Rough Trade record shop. Little Lower East Side. I feel like I should be playing Piano's or smoking 10 dollar Camel's. There are lots of vintage clothing stores, hip little coffee bars and Indian restaurants. We decide to eat at the one that doesn't feature bouncers ordering us to eat their dinner special. Afterward we walk back to the hotel.
There's something about the layout of London that lets it breathe more than big time American cities. Smaller buildings. Less congested. My neck isn't folded backwards as in New York city.
Around lunchtime, I find myself at St. Paul's. White marble cathedral gleaming from the afternoon sun. In the square, speckled pigeons flutter by the fountain, to the steps where a group of children wear pressed shirts and snack on crackers. From the far entrance, a single row of Buddhist monks, their robes the brightest reds and yellows crossing slowly thru the square before disappearing behind a tall set of columns. The battery to my camera dies out soon after. I kick myself each time I see another picture.
In the evening we take a bus thru the city on our way to Brick Lane. Home of Rough Trade record shop. Little Lower East Side. I feel like I should be playing Piano's or smoking 10 dollar Camel's. There are lots of vintage clothing stores, hip little coffee bars and Indian restaurants. We decide to eat at the one that doesn't feature bouncers ordering us to eat their dinner special. Afterward we walk back to the hotel.
Arrive in London - 4/28
after flying in airplanes for fourteen hours. Detroit to Newark Newark to London. No sickness but bleary eyed, a little delirious. In Heathrow, the gate is broken and we exit down a tall set of metal stairs. On the televisions in the terminal, news reporters warn of swine flu, show maps with red clumps that glow and get bigger. I'm surprised at how easy it is to get thru customs.
Afterward, we board the tube and ride through the country, the back yards of peoples' homes, London looming ahead. There is a kind of green in England that does not exist in Michigan. Richer, more wet.
Emergency service on the train line means waiting, means waiting. A congested voice reiterates the reason but is impossible to untangle. 'I think he said we don't stop at those stops.' 'I think he said we need to get off now.' The two of us so beat and not trying to look like tourists with our bags stuffed up to the ceiling. At some point, all cleeer to hamursmeeeth! all cleer to hammursmeeth! and we lurch forward.
Enter London and exit from the tube. Drag bags through busy streets toward hotel. The skies are gray but no rain. We check in to the Presidential Hotel. Find our room. Rearrange ourselves into something less like pack mules. By the sink there are crumpled packets of instant coffee and an electric water heater. Katie says, 'This is their coffee and you'll have to get used to it' then hands me some kleenex to clean up my nose bleed. When finished we walk to the river and spend the rest of the day in the Tate Modern.
[ statue outside the Tate ]
[ Robert Therrien - No Title (table and four chairs) ]
[ Turbine Hall in the Tate ]
[ Outside the Tate ]
[ Katie ]
Emergency service on the train line means waiting, means waiting. A congested voice reiterates the reason but is impossible to untangle. 'I think he said we don't stop at those stops.' 'I think he said we need to get off now.' The two of us so beat and not trying to look like tourists with our bags stuffed up to the ceiling. At some point, all cleeer to hamursmeeeth! all cleer to hammursmeeth! and we lurch forward.
Enter London and exit from the tube. Drag bags through busy streets toward hotel. The skies are gray but no rain. We check in to the Presidential Hotel. Find our room. Rearrange ourselves into something less like pack mules. By the sink there are crumpled packets of instant coffee and an electric water heater. Katie says, 'This is their coffee and you'll have to get used to it' then hands me some kleenex to clean up my nose bleed. When finished we walk to the river and spend the rest of the day in the Tate Modern.
[ statue outside the Tate ]
[ Robert Therrien - No Title (table and four chairs) ]
[ Turbine Hall in the Tate ]
[ Outside the Tate ]
[ Katie ]A sprawling mess of a museum. Dark and disorienting. Old power station ironwork still crawling up the walls. Special exhibition on Rodchenko with rooms full of enormous tables and paintings like this:
The Tate wins, the Tate wins.
The Tate wins, the Tate wins.
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