blog (February, 2003)
la tercera persona
He wanted to take the German Shepherd, Sally with him and go into town. She would keep him company for the thiry'minute walk, then he'd lash her leash around a pole while he sat in a cafe, or pretend to occupy himself with her while people examined the pair sliding along the sidewalk.
But Sally's owner didn't like her to leave the farm, and he, himself shouldn't go off either, and leave Mama in her caravan or the kitchen, alone. The weather was clearing up anyway, the fog lifting ever so slightly, the birds coming back out to catch up on all the gossip... the rain had even stopped, though it was still dripping down the concrete walls inside his room, he was sure.
So he sat in the kitchen, where there was light, and read his books, wrote in his journal, cracked almonds, squeezed orange juice -- the usual rainy day stuff. Sally lay on the floor in front of the unlit fireplace, agreeing that the weather was still too ugly to venture out and do some farmwork.
He rested his chin on his wrist, on the table, where he could smell onions and garlic, remnants of the last night's feast. His heels were up on the chair legs, toes on the ground, pointed inwards, and his belly, full from oaty breakfast crunch, hung comfortably over his belt buckle.
He heard Sally stir, and cocked his head in her direction. Her eyes glanced up and stared back into his, then returned to their half-closed state. She drew a loud, powerful breath through her nose, and then exhaled, blowing up a tiny dust storm above the concrete floor.
Half an hour and half a clear sky later, Peter arrived. Together they planted the remaining half of the 700 potato plants.
el gitano
I can feel the warmth of the fireplace on my back, and it balances out the cold floor tiles under my bare feet. Today, again, I've done a lot of wondering about what I'm doing -- the finca needs lots of work and I need lots of work, but this perfect fit is somehow obstructed by my here-and-there motivation. If the farm's owners were able to be more excited and energetic at the moment (less distracted,) I would be too, but that's no excuse for something I should be able to control and inspire in myself.
John left this afternoon for Albacete to work out details for the new boat he'll be skippering for his millionaire Spanish boss, and he took with him Olivier, a Belgian chef and deckhand who's been staying here the last couple days -- someone my age around the place for a change.
Yesterday morning the three of us, plus Mama (Simona's mother lives here with us -- my adopted grandmother for the month) went for a drive through the hills, then after lunch Olivier and I thumbed our way into Cabanes for a few glasses of the local tinto at a bar. Easy like Sunday afternoon.
Olivier and I are from different worlds, and I envy much his freedom and confidence. He was raised in the forest, speaks five languages, and seems to live from ship to ship, day to day; not afraid to pick up his things and go someplace else, knowing he'll find someone and some way to survive. He encouraged me to forget about my return plane ticket to the States thre months from now, and keep on living and exploring this area. I tried to explain my "need" to return and do something career-wise, excusing my fear of jeopardizing security by telling him I want to have a hand in something "bigger than myself." He spoke of working hard and saving money this summer, as $5,000 will buy him a beach house in Brazil.
off the grid
I've moved out of the caravan and into the bakery-to-be; a small stone room with a nice cast iron fireplace, and a sink I can use when we run the generator, (the solar panels aren't enough to pump the undrinkable water to my tap.) I've used the internet twice in the last three weeks, and the same for a toilet that flushes, (rather than one that keeps everything in a nice pile for you to shovel out later.)
I have a nice place to live and good food to eat, and in exchange I do this and that around the finca -- clear land, cut firewood, pile stones, plant grapes, crack almonds, weed, water the garden, etc.
I have work to do, books to read, mountainsides to run on, people to talk to, wine to drink, sunrises to watch, and animals to play with.
almendras
They're easier to kill than, say, pigs or chickens. You haven't go to coax them out of their pen, or string them up by their legs to cut their throat.
Just line them up on a large rock or concrete surface -- they'll sit still for you -- and give them a light but firm whack (with a great big hammer) to crack their head open, letting spill out the tasty meat hidden within.
I've almost got the whack mastered, (not too hard, not too soft;) most of the time I keep the innards intact. I line up ten at a time now: whack whack whack whack -- you know...
Simona admires my persistence. She says she'll fry the almonds up real nice once I've finished this bucket-full.