Rosanero

Deep into summer, the Sicilian city, Palermo, is almost vacant during a holiday weekend. The scene takes place in a parking lot filled with street vendors selling hot food and "Barbi-Pink" sports paraphernalia. I am at the tailgate festivities for a friendly match at the Palermo futbol stadium. The environment is  casual as people refresh themselves with cold beer. The largest bits of commotion rise from voices selling jerseys and a band of teens excited for the pre-season event.  

These guys thought I was some kind of promoter 

When I gave them my blog address they went to it immediately from their mobile device 

I guess salmon-pink was close enough; I was accepted. 
 My Brazilian friend Edu (on the left) was too.


The dedicated boys wearing bright pink make it obvious that their passion for the team is stronger than their identity with gender norms. Young masculinity melts away with the Mediterranean heat to reveal a love for the Palermo Rosaneros and fellow supporters. 

A large couch bus drove by carrying the challengers. Hissing and hollering signified the end of the pre-game festivities. The pink crowd followed the bus, filled with the Turkish team, into the stadium. 

The Stadium, although mostly empty, held something inexplicable. Perhaps it was the glow coming from the reflection of sinking sun off the surrounding cliffs. Possibly it was the magnificent green grass grown with a little something special. Maybe, my perception was altered by the Sicilian street food and the stadium was mediocre. In the end, it was probably the fact that soccer in Italy is more than just a sport. The feeling I felt, most likely, came from the lingering presence of generations past. 

The Castle overlooking the stadium, where the Pope recently stayed

The first sight of a glorified grass field ignites vibrations that are familiar 

Edu fell quickly for the Rosaneros

Yankee Stadium does not give you this kind of view

Not a ballpark frank, It is fired potatoes and chick-peas in a bun- soaked with lemon juice. 

Although entertained by the game, the 3-2 loss left me concerned for Palermo. Before the game I learned that Palermo was close to entering into the champions play last season. After the team learned they would not receive financial rewards for advancing closer to glory, they lost five consecutive games. Personally, I was confused. I wondered, how could a European futbol player be so consumed with money when this sport is supposed to be about passion. I felt like it showed poor competitive character. The Palermo fan who told this to me understood the teams lack of motivation.  He said this is their job...What about the job of bringing honor to the city. I am sure during Rome's rule this apathy would have not been tolerated. 

After the loss, the fans booed their players in disgust and in fear for a poor season ahead. As we walked home the vendors announced all products were on sale because the team was now worthless. I wondered about the future for the Rosaneros. In a nontraditional love-triangle, neither players, managers, nor fans were satisfied.  When did fanaticism become conditional, and when did athletes stop performing for pride? 

*Coming Soon*...While volunteering at an Italian SCUBA shop I am thankful language is universal under the sea... 

Finding Meaning

by: Nicholas 
There has been a change of plans for my worldly travel. I now seek opportunity and adventure without an equal partner. Naturally, emotions rise and fall depending on my thoughts; these thoughts vary in charge and intensity. Feelings can overcome and seem unmanageable, but I know that their form is truly impermanent. Just like the grey of an Oregon sky thoughts move on, as do the clouds, revealing a brilliant illuminated place. In that light, peace is discovered. Here, I find reason for journeying solo.

In the threshold of my own life transformation I captured this transitional sky from a rooftop at 17th and Mill St. Eugene, Oregon,USA. (Jan. 2010) 

Everything that happens has a purpose. This statement can sound like a cliche, but its meaning for me is not subjective. When a person says, "things happen for a reason," it is usually followed by the creation of a rational story to see an unfortunate event through a more fortunate lens. For example, in my case I might say, "Now I can travel alone and learn how to navigate the world with independence." This is defiantly a productive way to view my situation, but rationality is not the vehicle of my message.


The cosmos carry the intangible force that I mean to describe, and only the universe can tell the whole story. The very little I do understand becomes awakened when presented with challenge. My life situation, like all life situations, is an opportunity for growth. This is a chance to break the whirling cyclone of my past thoughts, actions, and diluted emotions. I strive to take this moment in which I have been hurt and prevent suffering. I refuse to let my unconscious see this as a defeat. Although I mourn the absence of someone that is deeply important to me, I know the energy within my absolute being is not altered by the loss. When I shift my attention to my core it becomes clear that gaining consciousness of my mind's patterns is the purpose. Strengthening the connection to this consciousness keeps me present in each moment. During my human imperfections I work to stay aware of my disconnect. Today I have an opportunity to awaken from my self-created negativity. I have a chance to dissolve a boundary that stands between my spirit and joy. Everything must happen for a reason because each instance on earth gives me a chance to become less identified with the stories my mind creates. 


*The new photo in the blog's header was taken during a past Barnstorming in Nicaragua (July-August 2010). The fertility and simplicity of my time there inspired me spiritually. The month I spent in Nicaragua, among thriving coffee plants, acts as a seed that grows and spreads through my life. The photo was taken near the village Chinendega at a beach hostel dubbed "Rancho Tranquillo." The night following this sunset displayed a celestial symphony. Falling stars danced a melody while lighting struck steadily as the beat. The above photo now serves as an icon for my own healing from painful events, and as a symbol of relieving suffering to allow being.

Adieu

by: Jennifer 


On the last day of January I cleared out my apartment and said goodbye to New York City, the place I'd come to know as home for the last 3 years. I was excited, scared, and cold. I rented a car and with a few belongings and my beloved Derby Blue, I drive upstate to the frozen town of Redwood, New York. After 3 months of an artist residence there - and just when it was beginning to thaw! - Derby and I flew to Oregon to stay in Nick's college house during his last month of school (from where I flew to California to see my family and Florida for a family wedding of Nick's). 

Back to the suburbs of New York to stay at Nick's dad's (on the couch, in his high school bed, in his sister's room) and his mom's (on the murphy bed, on the pullout couch), back and forth from the city to stay with friends. 


Next we departed for our trip, flying from JFK to Dusseldorf, and finally to Nice, where we were picked up by Markus the English farmer and driven to Villeneuve Loubet, where I slept in an illegal caravan at the edge of the farm's property. 2 weeks there then a rented apartment in Paris, then a little room in a big chateau in Sacy-le-Petit. Next I flew from Paris to Palermo and took a train to Balestrate, where Nick's sister Danielle has graciously let me stay in the room atop her 3 story house. Are you tired yet? I am.


When Nick and I started planning this trip it was last October. I had been living in the same place for 3 years, in a job where I wasn't happy, and my "gypsy blood" (my mother's words) was kicking in. Now, after 7 months of travel I long to have a home base. I want my own place, or at least my own room. I want to have my things around, my things that I miss: My silky comforter, my little gold jewelry box, and most of all my dog Derby Blue, who's in California being taken care of by my brother.


You all keep asking me "Why are you ending your trip?!" but I want to be home now. I want to get a job where I can write and start making money again. I haven't been employed since December and my savings will not last forever. I want to be able to sit on my couch and read without feeling like a guest on borrowed time in a borrowed  room. 


If you don't understand that's ok, because it's something that I have to do for myself. I have had an amazing 7 months and I appreciate everyone I have met and the great hospitality they have showed myself and Derby. Nicole of betterFarm, Aliah, my best friend, for letting me stay at her apartment for a weekend while she was away so I could feel like I had a home, Ian, Nick's roommate, Nick's wonderful and giving parents Steve and Fran, farmers Fabrice and Markus, Rhea for her friendship, Hermine of Chateau de Sacy, and Danielle, Nick's amazing sister, for her understanding and patient hospitality. 


For the past week I've been securing a place to stay in New York, searching apartments, and applying to jobs (and going to the beach - I am in Sicily). Tomorrow, after just over a week in Sicily, I fly from Palermo to Munich to Berlin to New York. 


I fully support Nick's continued travel. After just graduating college and being in the same place for 4 years, I encourage him to keep going. To keep moving east, like he plans to. I'll continue to follow Nick through Barnstormers and I know you will too. To follow me and my adventures in New York, go to Sugarheart. Thank you for joining me in my travels, you have all been a part of it.

Garden Relief (in photos)

By: Nicholas

Abroad a month and that was just the beginning . Through my words I have done my best to recreate for you the feelings France has brought to me. My attention focused on the moment I am in, I have experienced each scent, sight and sound as purely as one can. I have worked to capture the essence of each place and pass it on through written language. Unfortunately today, I cannot bring to life the past two weeks in this same way.

When the mind's race is at rest, the world shines with a deeper brightness. At times though, thoughts do not easily accept peace. My life situation is changing and fear stirs with the uncertainty. My discomfort is expressed through my inner voice's old patterns. A carousel of illusions, memories and plans have been preventing me from completely connecting. The chateau in Sacy le Petit deserves a description that tickles the senses, but I have been too far removed to receive the place's inspiration. The obstacle that I face will become more clear with time, but for now I will only share some things in and around the garden that have temporarily given me relief from my burdened brain. 

Plums

Jam Making: Bringing the attention to the hands, we first prepare the fruit by taking out the innards. 

Seething the medieval way is sort of like milking the fruit for juice-leaving behind the skins and sometimes worms!

Add heat

The backyard of Chateau de Sacy, a great place to read and nap

A single rose blooms between the thorns, growing and wrapping  around an iron heart

With Jennifer's table tennis skill growing exponentially it is easy to forget that carrier pigeons once roosted in that background tower waiting for their next delivery assignment  

My competitive opponent Lloyd. Probably allowing recreation to create room for inspiration before our next ping-pong match.

I enjoyed listening to Lloyd Durling describe his work. As he told of his ideology and inspirations, I observed the philosophy and thought come to life off the barn wall.

Making games out of cracking walnuts with our newly graduated college-bound Connor

Hello tall sharp tool. Help Nick invent a path through the Forest garden

The whole body's rhythm  provides meditation for the spirit

Escape the Chateau to pick up warm milk and fresh eggs from the farm  

What better for relaxation than helping life to succeed  

What better to help life succeed than providing warm loving words

Not too close to the barn, yet

BBQ dinners are the best time to listen to Hermine's stories of  un-welcomed artists needing a literal kick in the butt to be removed  from the chateau 

Hermine's connection with the grounds stems from childhood play with the gardeners daughter and a young love with the bakers son

She has grown with the land and her dedication to it is apparent everywhere. For instance in this archway of green beans

Although these wonders have been fogged by my own seperation, I do not  judge my distracted mind. I am grateful that I am able to sense, from the place between the thoughts, that struggle is not permanent. Life's love is always within. 

The Nest

by Jennifer

While weeding the potager and preparing it for new seeds, Nick and I came across 3 baby cherry trees. Beautiful and strong in their adolescents, we wanted them to flourish, to grow, to one day produce fruit and shade for wwoofers to come. With permission from Hermine, Nick began the process of transplanting them near the field with a couple apple and quince trees. When planting a baby tree, you must put a gate or barrier up to protect if from outside sources and keep it safe from harm. After transplanting the first cherry tree, Nick and Hermine wrapped around a thin green wire fence three times. I felt bad for the tree, looking imprisoned inside the metal gate. But it did need protection.

The next morning Hermine showed me a page from a French gardening magazine with a picture and the caption "Des bordures en lianes de clematite". Hermine to me, "You see those sticks there (pointing outside the window to a big pile)? Can you do this here, make this like this in this magazine? Do you think?" and her words hung there, waiting for me. My French is pretty cursory, at best, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to read the article. I tried to translate at least the caption on the internet, but it was no good. I put the computer away and went outside to stare at the pile. How was I going to make a fence out of this? I took a crafts class in college where I learned how to basket weave, but that was using a large needle and also some raffia to wrap the cord. Here I just had branches. 

I found six sturdy and straight sticks and hammered them into the ground in the shape of a circle. I picked up the clematite branches and started weaving. I figured I'd make it up as I went along, like everything else I do. And it worked. I kept going. I wove pieces into each other and slowly, I was erecting the nest. Over three days and tens of splinters, it was created. From nothing, something came. 

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

the boys made me get inside the nest, like a little egg

Me and the nest, Nick and his cherry tree

While making the nest I listened to music. Lady Gaga made me miss my friends, dancing, and wearing heels. Bruce Springsteen asked me if I was ready to prove it all night while I pulled clematite through itself, layer by layer. Sam Cook sang sad love songs into my ear while I wrapped the wood around sticks, as tightly and securely as I could, to maximize structural integtiry. I thought about home, my family, about saying goodbye, and about what might lay ahead of me. 

The irony was not lost on me. I was making a nest, lovingly, for the tree. A home, a safe haven, protection from the elements. I was making a nest for the tree, painstakingly, and then I would leave. Protecting everything and everyone around me, I had no home myself. 

When the nest was complete we picked it up and moved it over top of the tree Nick had planted so delicately. We hammered the six sticks into the ground and the nest was secure. We took some photographs and walked away from the tree and the nest. It's been raining since then, watering the tree and weathering the nest.

Chateau de Sacy

by Jennifer


From Paris we took the train an hour north to the small town of Sacy-le-Petit, in the village of Picardie. Chateau de Sacy stands tall at the entrance to the village, a grand mansion that's too old to know precisely when it was built. Hermine, the owner, tells us it's been in her family for seven generations. Before that, no one who's alive knows its story. But I'm getting ahead of myself. From the train station at Chevriers, we were to walk 5 kilometers to the chateau. With our packs. In the hot sun. Nick was in charge of hitching us a ride while I was trying to keep upright with my pack on, opening and closing my fists to try to get the circulation back in my arms that the shoulder straps of my green Kelty cut off. After a handfull of failed attempts, my body was waining under the pressure. I stood in front of Nick as a car approached and stuck my leg out in addition to my thumb. The man pulled over. He spoke French, and very quickly, but we understood that he was going the other direction from us, though he would take us as far as he could. I climbed in the back and Nick got in the front seat. The man spoke on, in French, and I kept nodding, saying "oui", and "bon" a lot, too tired to translate. His humanitarianism took over and he kept on driving past his turn. We arrived at Chateau de Sacy, greatful and exhausted. 


Through the giant ancient iron gates we walked back in time. The chateau stood tall and wide, with ivy flourishing and strong pale green wooden shutters, framing the thick old glass windows and into the dark rooms. I couldn't wait to explore. We had tea with Hermine, the 69 year-old French woman who runs the chateau, and Connor, the barely 18 year-old from upstate New York, a fellow wwoofer. After tea he showed us around and I fell in love with each step. In the rustic kitchen the paint had chipped and worn away on the outfacing wall to reveal the stones and mud concrete the original builders used. The varying shapes and sizes of the stones are an al fresco mosaic, striations forming fossils of the history of Chateau Sacy. Down the hall is Hermine's office, painted a warm sunflower yellow, a green and masculine billiards room, and my favorite room on the ground floor, the drawing room, outfitted with turn of the century red velvet couches and intricate regal apholstered chairs.  A thick but buckling creamy wallpaper with faded green and yellow floral design covers the walls, and giant gold gilded mirrors hanging off the walls somewhat precariously, while a white marble fireplace adorned with a porcelain bust sits opposite the door. A room so grand you feel the need to whisper inside it. The chateau holds two more floors, and my room is reminscent of Van Gogh's spare but lovely one with colorful walls, high ceilings, and a giant window. 

reading in the kitchen

Hermine is such a character I often can't believe I'm not reading about her in a book, but she's really here, doing and saying unpredictable things and running the grand maison. In her past lives she was a tightrope walker, a singing sensation (largely in Japan), and who knows what else. She's now the wife of famed English writer Hugo Williams, among other things. It's all there on Wikipedia if she's too "bored" (one of her favorite words) to tell you herself. She has rules for eating, like no butter on your bread at lunch or dinner ("daft Americans, it's just not done in France!") and if I get the wrong plates when I set the table ("those aren't for potatos, we're not having stew!") I get yelled at. She's interesting, scatterbrained, and always busy running around talking (to you or herself?). When she gives you a job in the morning she follows or proceeds it with "If it's not too boring" or "Can you face it? Is it too terrible?", and you do it, and hope it's how she likes, and that at the end she says "Ah, bon" and not "Oh, no! What have you done?!" which can sometimes be the case. 


The jobs we do are fairly easy. Weeding the potager (kitchen garden), planting new seeds (winter lettuce and beans), and clearing the paths from place to place. The landscape is vast and beautiful, with the potager, an open field, a small field of rasberries, a tree-lined square, a secluded path throughout the back of the garden, and beyond a locked old wooden door, the secret garden, or what Hermine calls the forest garden. At the edge of a wheat field, it has mostly weeds, but also a beautiful path (thanks to Nick) as well as a black plum tree and some small wild flowers. All the greens are lined with quaint rectangular english bushes, like a maze. Hundred years old pear trees, apple trees, and plum trees pepper the property, as well as a mulberry tree, red and white currants, roses, herbs, and flowers. The Chateau is quiet and serene, the only thing to interrupt you are the birds singing to each other and the occasional wild French cat.


I've made rose hip jelly, plum jam, and apple sauce with fresh ingredients harvested from the garden. An ordeal, I quite like making jam, and love the look on someone's face when they're enjoying it. After work I like to read at the yellow table with one chair hidden in the back corner of the property among the trees. We play table tennis with Lloyd Durling, the English artist in residence (who's said my rose hip jelly is the best he's had), and John, the English cyclist who's also wwoofing. I spend time gazing out my giant window, breathing in the fresh summer air, while the boys play French Billiards. 

Collecting apples for applesauce 

When I'm in the kitchen alone I look into the beautiful antique tin boxes full of tea, sugar, and coffee. I fantasize about what I would do if the Chateau were mine. The changes I would make and the things I wouldn't dare to touch. I picture myself walking around the big empty house in winter, clutching a sweater close the my neck, in wool slippers, tending to the fire in the drawing room and gazing out at the gray white sky deciding whether or not it will snow. Is this life in my future? Only time will tell.

Farewell Farm & Paris Pleasures (part 2)

by: Nicholas
...A chime over the train's PA system awakened me from my dreamy reminisce. A slew of melodic French words past through my ears and I recognized only one, Paris! The next three days were filled with site seeing, food eating, and moments only offered by the City of Light.


Sites:
I am a New Yorker.  I have commuted through Times Square, floated out to Lady Liberty, walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, and have seen images of the Eiffel Tower for as long as I have known I am 1/8th French.  With this kind of experience I entered Paris with no excitement for the glorified monument which over looks the city.  This unenthusiastic state did not last long. 


The Parisian flat that we called ours for the weekend housed my first sighting of the Eiffel Tower. Three windows looked out over the obviously Parisian neighborhood; not a hotel room, we were one step closer to the city's life than the average tourist.  Viewing the floral balconies of the street, a light dashed across my visual field. Giving my attention to the source of the light I saw, between the buildings, The Eiffel. Her light penetrated my eye and her spirit entered mine. Feeling grounded as if I too were a monument, a smile separated my lips and joy became associated with the sight of her. 
She followed me throughout my stay in Paris. If she wasn't watching from a distance or looking straight down upon me, her precence was felt like the closeness of a lover. 

With only three days in Paris many must-visit sites were not properly seen. The Louve and Notre Dame were passively viewed and documented as we moved to our next destination.  By walking all weekend we were able to absorb the history that swept the streets.  Although facts of the past went undiscovered, the remnance of an out-dated society was felt like a breeze in the air. 

Food:  
Three days, nine meals, and over a dozen courses accompanied this mini vacation. Four of these dishes still linger in my memory and on my palate. I would have them all in one sitting for the perfect Parisian meal.


The feast would commence with a cheese plate that I myslef constructed. Consisting of five cheeses, one of which was left over from a log of chevre (goat cheese) that Jennifer and I enjoyed under the Eiffel tower. The other four were from the pervious night's dinner. This plethera of rich cheese was served with grain mustard, jam, strawberries taken form the farm, and a warm-from-the-oven baguette. Also, a stick of butter that our waitress added to our doggy bag with the frommage (cheese). 

The place we bought our frommage

Next, a pate from land and sea. This slice was pale grey with a pinkish hue topped with a yellow that yelled in contrast to the neutral base; buttery egg was the taste of the noise. The rest was a blend of flavors that were obviously not from the land.  The salt-flavored, smooth-textured pate was spreadable over bread. It was made from a blend of salmon, caviar and foie gras. 

Mmm...

Following the sort of surf and turf a hollowed out bone was presented. Inside, a hot marrow produced steam that crept above the plate.  When placed inside my mouth, the marrow dissolved into my tongue giving the impression that I was consuming a liquid meat. As it sank into my taste buds, I sank deeper into oneness with the food.  This dish set a benchmark for anything else labeled savory.  


The finale, a dessert of course, was none other than chocholate. Le dome au chocolat was a baseball-sized dome of the most delicouse truffle-like chocholate. The dark delight was immobilizing on its own, but still the core of the gluttonous globe was filled with warm banana; thought evaporated and only pleasure remained. Red currents topped the dessert for a refreshing burst, and mint cleansed the pallet readying your mouth for the next bite of the multi-layer dish. 

Posing for Jen's sketch before indulging in le Dome 

Moments:
Of my time in Paris there were two events that no other city in the world could replicate. The first came after walking the alleys of Musee d'Orsay, where the art affected me in a way that art hadn't before. In the past I tended to study paintings in a museam as if searching for something. One by one, I would inspect each canvas looking for the beauties of each work. This day was not the same. Seeing from Jennifer's style of museum-going I shared space with the paintings from a new perspective. We walked down the halls filled with art only stopping at  paintings that reached out to us, almost inviting us to share a moment with them. As I follwed her lead I felt the power of the collection as a whole. The energy projecting from the walls overcame my body. It was not an idividual that moved me, but an entire genre that sent warm vibrations through my body, and deeper. All other museum-goers disappeared; my vision was tunneled with a continuum of color.  I was drawn past the Monets and Van Goughs, the lighting of the works combined, pulling me onwards. 


It was le place outside the Musee d'Orsay that I shared a moment with a living master of art.  His studio was the street, his instrument a scissor, his canvas black paper. Precision and these photos explain the rest...

5 euro, in under 2 minutes 

All the pleasures I enjoyed in Paris were unique to the city, but any tourist could have had the same meals, seen the same tower, and participated in the same street art any day out of the year. Paris found me to be a special guest and wanted to reward me for my visit. Without coordination, the Sunday I was in Paris was the finale of Le Tour de France! I perceived this as a once in a lifetime gift and planned to see the climax of the race. 


I showed up to the Champs-Elysees three hours ahead of time. It is tradition that before crossing the finish line each competitor completes eight laps through the Triumphant Arch, along the Sianne river and around the Champs-Elysees. I found a spot right at the entrance to the square and made preperations for the grand finale. 


The stage was set, but empty. Thousands stood anticipating the cloud of cyclists. As the time drew near a buzz grew of exciting cheers and people fumbling with their cameras. The commotion grew louder until the street was filled with an all out roar. Around the bend a streak of red appeared. It was a line of teammates out in front. The intensity and vigor was pouring down their faces in the form of sweat. I could feel their pride as they powered through the historic finish. Before I could fully experience the sight a wave grew in front of me. A formless mass, I only assumed were bikers, pulled the attention of everyone as it passed. A physical pressure was expelled from the street as they rushed by. Like the force of thunder, it was gone instantly and no trace was left behind. All the waiting was not for this one moment. I witnessed this explosion seven more times as the two-wheeled warriors fought their final battle. Each lap a smaller group was further ahead of the main pack and a larger group lagged behind. First, last, or lost in the middle, we the spectators cheered each man as if he was the champion. It is not a feat for one man to complete the Tour, but for the group. The glory is in the collective charge that storms as one throughout the country and across the finish-line. 

Your generosity was appreciated, Paris...