The message of the farmer

Being on the farm has been great. Making the transition from super busy Barcelona to the quiet isolation of the vegetable garden was initially tough. We are in full farm mode now and spend our morning doing whatever Tolo asks of us. Our tasks on the farm have not been big or exciting but they have been necessary to the on going life of those who reside here, humans and animals. When we decided to WWOOF we were looking for an experience that would deepen our understanding of the Gospel and connect us to the simple message of the farmer, not always being the one who harvests but one who is willing to protect and water the plant. Not always planting the seeds but being willing to blow leaves off the driveway from time to time. I’ve been reading Thomas Merton lately and have been challenged but his definition of the will of God.

“The requirements of a work can be understood as the will of God. If I am supposed to hoe a garden or make a table, then I will be obeying God if I am true to the task I am performing. To do it carefully and well, with love and respect for the nature of my task… is to unite myself to God’s will in my work.”

Merton's definition of God's will is not glamorous, fun, or blog-worthy. That, by in large is what we have encountered on the farm. Tasks lacking to finality and wonder but filled with a simple yet clear message, because they are necessary and because they are God's will.

The on going challenge for me has been what do I do when I am weary, when the instructions aren’t clear, or when I am ready for the next task and am just waiting around. These are certainly scenarios that occur daily on the farm. As for being weary, you can add blisters, sore muscles, and dehydration. All of these have often made it difficult to be true to the task I am performing. My physical needs are the voice most clearly heard and most frequently responded to.

The other day I spread compost on the garden while Rachel cleaned out the horse stall. We are not likely to plant or harvest olives but whether cleaning the poop or spreading it, we’ve been willing to do what is required on the farm. For now the message of the farmer is a story of one who is willing to toil in a range of tasks. Not merely the beginning or the ending, but the farmer is willing to begin tasks with uncertain ends or finish ones from uncertain origins. This is by no means, a lesson learned. In fact I almost didn't make this post because its certainly something I haven't wrapped my mind around nor do I fully grasp the ramifications.

And on Tuesday, it rained

Rain is an understatement. In a country that enjoys an average summer temperature of 86 degrees and where most of the rainfall falls in May, October, and November a rain storm in July is catastrophic. A deluge of this type and at this time of year is like rain in Phoenix or snow in Miami. Everybody abandons what their doing, freaks out and runs for cover. But this was no rain. This was the unleashed fury of trucks loads of pent up Mediterranean clouds bent on completely derailing the plans and outfits of thousands of residents and tourists. Rachel and I ventured out into the rain soaked streets filled with puddles and running Barcelonians who were equally drenched. Within moments I could feel the pounding downpour running off my light nylon jacket and down my pant legs, this was serious rain. This was confirmed when we saw the guys who typically hit you up to buy beer selling "para agua", umbrellas. And though you never say them drinking their own product, they were clinging tightly to their own "para agua" like a hooked drug dealer. We eventually found our way to a nearby restaurant that we frequented for dinner. It was filled in typical European fashion with people speaking a variety of languages, all wet, and all smoking. Nothing like finding a place to dry out where you know that when you get home you'll have to throw out your dry but smoke laden clothing.

Mad hot supper

We met a couple from Northern England on our return ferry trip from Mallorca, Gareth and Gemma. We had great time with them as we made our slow journey to Barcelona, exchanged contact info and made arrangements to get together later in the week. We met them in the massive Placa de Catalonia where you can see a cornucopia of people engaging in any number of activities. A short list: teens making out (hard core), men peeing, street vendors illegally selling handbags, said vendors snatching up their goods and running in packs from the cops like a Santa 5k, sleeping bums, spandex wearing roller bladders, endless lines of winking men selling beer (and "hash-eesh, coka, mar-dee-whanna") and pick-up soccer games with beer bottles as goal posts.

From the placa we walked down the Ramblas, past street performers, you know the kind that look like statues and when paid a bit they move, photos are taken etc, past more winking cervesa/ drugs dealers, countless newsstands selling respectable news publications from all over the world and other less then reputable periodicals as well, open air flower shops and my first experience with an open air pet stores selling everything from chickens to gerbils right off the street, before reaching the waterfront. From there, another couple Dan and Steph from Australia led us to the dining experience of a lifetime.

In a tiny champagne bar called Champagne Negra the six of us wedged our way into a corner before we burrowed our way up to a packed bar to order from a limited menu of sandwiches all containing Spanish pork or byproduct all of which were served with a glass of champagne. But ordering was no small challenge, the noise level of this place was deafening and the staff had the calming disposition of the Soup Nazi. If you didn't speak loud enough or with adequate Spanish you were served once but not twice. The floor was absolutely littered with napkins and bits of food which was added to throughout the night by the patrons of Champagne Negra. The staff didn't serve the food, they handed it to the nearest person who then passed it on the its intended diner who may or may not receive a full portion if the food or drink if spilled or dropped. Several times I just looked around at the thinly controlled chaos around me and just laughed. The food was warm, good, inexpensive and the company even better. If you get a chance to dine at Champagne Negra you'll need closed toed shoes, an assertive Spanish vocabulary, and friends to share in the experience.

Ostitos de oro- kids and grown-ups love 'em so

Let's face it Haribo makes the world's finest gummy candy. Right out of the easy to open pouch these tiny bears of gold are delicious. Just a tad stale like Mike & Ike's left out for a few days but have all the flavors I like and none I despise. (apple, raspberry, pineapple, lemon) I consider myself a gummy expert or sorts. I'll consume just about any fruit or animal shape if it's been molded in some factory out of gelationous goodness. I'll even eat the gummy's distant cousin the chicken nugget from time to time. The only gummy I shy away from the in the peach. I'll eat but I won't enjoy it, I have to draw the line somewhere.

Haribo's main head quarters is located in Girona Spain, about an hour (by train) inland from Barcelona. We had an opportunity to go but chose to visit the much heralded Tarragonia. Located on the coast, Tarragonia was named a World Heritage site in 2005 and is frequently named one of the best places to live in Europe. The town is full of great museums dedicated to the uniquely preserved Roman ruins and battles that have taken place as recently as the Napoleonic wars. Why wouldn't we go on our final Monday in Spain. So we bought our tickets, rode the hour long train and determined when the last train would leave cause we were going to paint the town. Well turns out that everything, I mean everything is closed on Mondays. Except for a bazar type store called Da Da Wang Wang and a few pastry shops. Many places are open on Saturday in Spain. In return they close on Monday adhering almost universally to a 2 day weekend, 3 if they can wing it. Not one museum, not one shopping store, not one of the "Heritage sites" were accessible except through a fence. There are few things in Spain followed more religiously then the Catholic Church and one of those things is the siesta.
So we bought a pouch of tiny golden bears and were back in Barcelona by early evening.

Travel lows

It happens to everyone. You lose your passport, unknowingly get taken at shady money exchange place, get seperated from your luggage, contract the trots, you know... traveling lows. None of these things have happend to us but the other day I had a few low moments. Here at the farm they we have a lot of ants and cockroaches in our apartment. Not a big deal, however they play a vital role in my low moment. P.S. you may not want to read on if you´ve ever used the term, too much information. P.P.S. there wont be pics with this post.

It started early, as good low moments do, when I got out of bed with an intense pain coming from my nether parts. As I checked things out I said out loud, ¨There is an ant biting my penis.¨ As shocked as you are, imagine how I felt. So naturally I killed the ant so that is wouldn´t tell its friends about how small I am. No, I set it free so it could brag. No its tiny, I killed it.
My second low moment can when I realized I didn´t have any underwear, clean or other. See we had attempted to us the washing machine the night before only to completly screw it up so all my underwear were soaked and not clean. So I did what anyone would do in my situation, I wore some of Rachel´s. As it turned out they where the pair that she was wearing when she fell down the stairs about a week (and 1 wash) ago. They were surpisingly comfortable but I sure didn´t tell Tolo.

And last but not least I almost got pickpokected in Palma. We were on the bus with our huge packs when a squirly teen with a backpack asked an older gentlemen with glassess if he could be next the window, next to me. I was standing next to my pack when I felt a subtle but certain tug on the inside of my front pocket where my wallet was. You might self-rightously say, well you should have done this or that. Well, Rachel had put velrco (loop) on the inside of my pocket and (hook) on my wallet. Also, the inside lining of the pockets is ultra light mesh so I have extreme sensitivity when it comes to anyone reaching into said pocket. Essentially he was reaching into the eqivalent of a Fort Knox spider´s web. Once I knew what was up I calmy removed my wallet, showed it to him, asked him if this was what he was after, and shoved it deep into the bowels of my backpack. He all of a sudden remembered that this was his stop and made for the door. There was some pushing, on his part to get passed the guy in the glasses and on my part to help him on his way. I even slapped him on the butt for good measure, which was not necessary and certainly caused what happend next. As he got to the open door he whirled around and spit in the face of the guy with glasses. I have no idea why. But the man calmly cleaned his glasses and his face not saying a word.

Low moments.

Meep, meep.

After our harrowing night ride we decided that we would need another way to see the island. In town we rented a scooter. A small one that tops out at 35 mph (50cc), which, my mom pointed out was as fast as Kevin Gereld was going when he broke his pelvis (Thanks mom). The guy who rented us the scooter must have been a little concerned as we drove away. I’ve never been good at driving 2 wheeled motorized vehicles. For one thing, I forgot that you need give it a certain amount of gas in order for it to drive straight and it´s more than you think. Attempting to be cautious, I upped the accelerator slowly only to nearly dump the scooter in the middle of the road with Rach on the back. But rather than dump it, we ended up swerving left then right as we waved back at the guy.

We had a lot of fun on the scooter (Meep). He has allowed us to go all sorts of places. Also, there is a certain amount of humility Meep has allowed for us to experience. Namely, frequently being passed and going up hills at around 15 mph. But there is something irreplaceable about seeing the island more slowly then in a car and you can park Meep just about anywhere. But you can’t drive anywhere come to find out.

On a day trip to an inner island city we ended up on a freeway. I say ended, because we’ve had several incidences where we’ve circumnavigated a roundabout, taken the correct offshoot, but ended on some road we didn’t expect. Anyway, we’re on this freeway for sometime, on the shoulder, cars flying past us when up ahead I see the Gaurdia Civil (the Fuzz) pull over and get out of their patrol car. Now there are certain cultural subtlties that I wont ever be able to pick up, but when this cop held his hand out to me, I was pretty sure he didn’t want a high five. I was also sure that I didn’t want to be Mallorca’s first slow speed chase victim so I came to a stop. They we all business and told us to take the next exit because our bike was too pequeno, Meeps feeling were hurt. We did as we were told but not before yelling as we “sped” off, “You’ll never take us alive Gaurdia Civil!”

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Ole!

In case you've been under a rock, Spain won the Euro Cup (soccer). They haven't won in over 40 years, its a big deal. We were in this small bar in Pollencia full with Spanish and German fans. Everybody had face paint and one old dude even had a snare drum to lead cheers. It was as usual, a smoke filled good time.

And Nadal just won Wimbleton. He his from Mallorca. The local news herald his achievement as heroic. We watched the final serve outside a huge German beer garden called Mega Park. We were eating bratwurst and kebabs hmmmm.