Antibes

by Nicholas
Antibes is an old port town about seven kilometers west of the farm. There among the shops, restaurants, tourists and locals,  is a long standing marche (market) that is held each day. The merchants have held their same positions week after week, and are threatened by new competition. On this day Fabrice (our host) Rhea and Markus will represent our farm at the market for the very first time.  I intend to bike to Antibes with Jennifer, follow the buzzing of trade, and find our farmers turned sales reps.


As I begin I am feeling down. The joy of partnered adventure is not present; my day-trip will be alone. The bike intended for Jennifer was not built for her unique size and so I leave the farm with her encouragement. I ride south toward le plague (the beach) then west for Antibes. Pushing down each leg with growing intensity, I pedal in rythm and gain speed.


Sweating and with heavy breath, the low of the morning rises with the sun to high noon. For now, independence is my companion. After arriving in Antibes and searching for the marche without success I decide to enjoy the narrow winding streets without cause. The herbed and oiled meat caresses my appetite. The vibrant gelato cools my skin. These fulfilling eatables are enjoyed only through my eyes and nose. Feeling satisfied, I decide to head in the direction of home. Making a turn down a more broad street I see, at last, the marche! I dismount the bike and enter the pavilion with accomplishment and pride. This is what I find...

The empty cases and vegetable remains were surely left by my farming friends, but I am too late to share a greeting. The marche is over. Not disappointed by my tardiness,  I buoyantly walk away. Through an archway along the port and through another arch way, I strole a few hundred yards to find this  place to write...

Perhaps, next, a swim....


*Other images from Antibes*

Gourmand

by Jennifer


Two and a half weeks have passed since we've been in France and New York City feels like a lifetime away. Our hosts maison (house) smells like honeysuckle, and to enter you must walk under an archway pregnant with the beautiful and aromatic plant. The fields are full of corn, courgettes (zucchini), aubergines (eggplant), basil, pepper, many varieties of tomates (tomatoes), radishes, beets, fennel, dill, lettuce, strawberries, carrots, haricot vert (green beans), and peas. The courgette are the best I've eaten in my life; they're a specific variety only grown in Nice and they taste like butter. We have them with every meal. 


We wake each morning just after the sun rises and I stumble into the kitchen and make coffee for myself and oats for Nick. I brush and wash in the bathroom and then change into my work clothes: shorts, sports bra, tank top, socks and my work shoes. They are ugly and functional. In the morning we harvest for the day's sale. This is the best time to work because it's not yet hot. I prefer to harvest the salad, or lettuce. There are five varieties and they are always crisp and fresh from the early morning sprinklers. They grow out of the ground just like they sell them at the store, and you have only to cut the roots off the bottom. When I cut them with my knife they bleed a thin white watery liquid, and cool earth gets all over me. After three hours of harvest we take a small break for the ou cafe, which I usually make for everyone, and I sit in a plastic chair overlooking the farm. If I sit too long the tired washes over me, so I sweep up the kitchen or put away dishes to stay on my feet. At 10am it feels like I've been working for ages. 


After tea we continue to work. This is the hottest part of the day and the hardest. I weed or rake or prune the gourmand, which, like many French words, doesn't translate literally to English. A gourmand is like someone with a sweet tooth who likes very rich things, and the one on the tomatoes steals all the nutrients from the plant and takes it for itself. Hungry for the goodness, we must cut it off so the plant can grow and fruit. As most of the tomatoes are inside a tube/tent (sort of like a greenhouse) with no air moving through, it gets extremely hot. I sweat enough that it's most comfortable to take off my shirt and work in a sports bra, but the more the tomate touch your skin, the itchier you get. My hands turn a powdery green at first, then a deep yellow and into a black the more I work. When I leave the tunnel my hands are black and my arms are yellow. The thick powdery and sticky goo grabs on to my arm hairs and turns them a stiff dirty yellow. After a few more hours of work I go in to wash up with a lot of savon (soap) and a hard wire brush. After about 10 minutes I stop and dry off, and though my hands still look filthy, with black around the fingernails and inside all of my cuts, I resign that they're as clean as they're going to get.

I usually make lunch as well, and if something isn't in the fridge, I harvest it. This is truly farm to table. Our host, Fabrice, makes olive oil in the winter, and there's tons at the house. I cook everything in it and dress the salad with it. It's thick and delicious with a peppery aftertaste. I work until 6 hours are up and then sit for a moment letting my body rest and relax. If I have the energy Nick and I go into the village, to le plage (the beach), or to the river, which is cold and amazingly beautiful. The water is completely clear and there are waterfalls and lush green trees everywhere. Le plage is the famous cote d'azur, so of course it's a treat for the eyes. The striped umbrellas pepper the rocky beach and the Mediterranean sea is a light turquoise blue. The water is perfect swimming temperature, refreshing but not cold. With the work in the sun and the beach, I'm getting very tan. Today we went to Nice and the shopkeeper's all spoke to me in Italian, which means that 1. I don't look French, and 2. I don't look American either. There are many musings to share with you, but as my day off is coming to an end and I'll be back in the field in the morning, I will say bon nuit (good night). 

Villeneuve Loubet

by Nick


We settle first 14 km west of Nice, France in a place dubbed Villeneuve-Loubet.  The magic of the farm is not seen through a broad lens. The treats of Fabrice's (our host) land are only witnessed through more narrow inspection. We walk through the garden and the simple-looking farm begins to reveal its treasures...


Dill and basil catch the attention of my nostrils. The tomatoes peak out from their vines like giant red blinking christmass lights as I walk down their queues.  For more presents one would have to dig even deeper, and I did, just under the soil, to find radishes in colors only seen on candy.  The seasoned air lifts me as I continue on through the length of the fields.


Although the gems of the garden are inspiring, each time they are taken in through the visual and olfactory system, the vegetables truly overwhelm my sense of taste.  The flavors of each vegetable sink into my mouth and deeper yet into my body. Every meal highlights another legume. The zucchini stand alone as an entree, tasting as if they were bathed in butter.  The sweet and full flavored tomatoes proved and example for others to follow while sharing their essence with all that are near.  The eggplant, not covered with breadcrumbs, marinara and parmesan, make me crave their savory meat. These vegetables are the best tasting I have ever had in my mouth. I will report back with Fabrice's secret I soon as I find it.


*The harvest and jet lag has prevented me from capturing these specialties on film but photos will follow shortly.

On My Back

A 75 liter Deuter backpack holds all that I anticipate I will need. Formed nicely to the contours of my back, this pack is my closet, cabinet, and home until I return to NY. 

The surface area of all I carry is close to that of a full size bed sheet. Clothes are the majority but I look forward to the use of other items too. Books, journals, toiletries, and travel accessories take up what the garments do not. A stop-watch, my Canon EOS, and the netbook I type on are the only pieces of the digital world I bring along. 

I never go on an adventure without a bandanna; this one requires two. A first-aid kit, which we hope gets no use, makes me feel prepared. When natural light fails to illuminate my path, the headlamp will help me to secure my footing. I am repurposing  my dive knife as a land tool, and reusing quick dry towels from a past trip. My most useless item is the collapsible frisbee, but the University of Oregon gift is small and not a burden. I also carry a harmonica, perhaps I will learn it on the way. 

-Nick

Thin German words float above me from the loudspeaker as I say a silent goodbye to Manhattan. Home is an illusion now, or maybe always, and like Nick, I have to rely on my packing ability to get me through the next undetermined amount of time. And of course, there are always stores that sell things if something should become necessary along the way. 

Reading Gopnik's Paris To The Moon, I'm trying to add to my limited (and mostly fictional) knowledge of France. I hope to get as much out of my experience as possible, squeezing each opportunity good to the last drop. Every tent, hostel, and apartment will be my home for the night, and I will stare up at the same stars and let the moon tuck me in once again.

People keep saying how lucky I am to be going on this trip, as if I won it in a raffle or someone is footing the bill. I am lucky in certain aspects of my life, but this is not one of them. I made this from scratch, and it wasn't easy. All it takes to cancel your existing life and start a new one is courage. And luckily for me, that's one of those "fake it til you make it" sort of things. 

from Dusseldorf en route to Nice, Jennifer