happelsauce

Sevilla felt like storybook Spain. The streets are lined with orange trees. Strangers are friends. And, the city smells good – a mix of citrus blossoms, sunshine and sangria. If I could bottle the scent and take it with me, I would.

Victoria and I arrived on Tuesday evening and found Sevilla bustling. This week is Feria, an annual fair that falls at the end of April and early May. It is a weeklong celebration of Andalusian life – horses, flamenco and wine abound. The women dress in colorful, traditional dresses wear big flowers in their hair. Horse-drawn carriages carry families to the fairgrounds, where they settle in a caseta (private-party tent) to eat and drink and be merry. Feria felt almost entirely local. It was a true Andalusian family affair. Subtract Victoria and I from the equation and I swear there were only a handful of foreigners walking around. As a tourist in a sea of locals I played my role, attempting to snap photos without drawing attention, but having limited success. I told Victoria that I didn’t like looking like a tourist. “But you are a tourist!” was her response. Good point. I guess I just don’t want to be.

My last few days on the finca were spent zincing in the morning and cooking in the evening. Zincing consists of walking the terraces of avocado trees and sprinkling zinc on the roots of any tree with round leaves. The leaves appear round when the soil lacks zinc. Round leaves result in round avocadoes and apparently no one wants to buy an avocado shaped like an orange. Only the pear-shaped avocadoes sell because that is what we’re accustomed to. Pre-zincing, I had never thought much about how the shapes of various fruits and veggies are associated with quality. At the coop or the farmer’s market back in Brooklyn, I admit to gravitating towards the healthier, better-looking apple and rejecting the odd-shaped one. I know that aside from the obvious bruise or moldy patch, the lumpy apple will taste exactly the same as the perfectly smooth apple. Could it be that the round avocadoes (or the bumpy apples or the oval oranges) are the Susan Boyle’s of the fruit world – a bit frumpy and unattractive at first glance, but startlingly delicious underneath? I think so!

It turns out that thousands of pounds of perfectly good fruits and veggies are tossed out each year due to our unwillingness to consume the cosmetically challenged. I recently became aware of this fruit-tossing phenomenon while reading Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver:

“Supermarkets only accept properly packaged, coded, and labeled produce that conforms to certain standards of color, size, and shape. Melons can have no stem attached; cucumbers must be no less than six inches long, no more than eight. Crooked eggplants need not apply. Every crop yields a significant proportion of perfectly edible but small or oddly shaped vegetables that are trash by market standards. It takes as much work to grow a crooked vegetable as a straight one, and the nutritional properties are identical.”

If only we could embrace all fruits and veggies, be they wonky, lumpy or smooth. I am going to do my best to try. I might be hard-pressed to find a less than perfect pear at the grocery store, but I vow to seek out the round avocado and the lumpy apple at the farmer’s market from here on out.

Here on the farm, teatime comes around 11am and it’s called SmoCo, short for “Smoke and Coffee.” No one smokes during SmoCo and only some of us drink coffee, but an ex-WWOOFer named Maria from Australia introduced the term and it stuck. SmoCo makes me happy for a few reasons: It divides our work day into two semi-equal parts making whatever job of the day all the more enjoyable, it is always a welcome break, and it involves caffeine and bread. Olivia recently bought a bread machine, so we have fresh baked bread on hand at all times. Last week, Victoria made a delicious zucchini bread that only got better with time. This week, I followed suit and turned our old bananas into banana bread. I have included both recipes below with the hope that you bake a couple loaves and then take a few minutes out of your morning to relax and enjoy your very own SmoCo.

VICTORIA’S ZUCCHINI BREAD

Ingredients:

* 3 eggs
* 1 cup vegetable oil (Victoria used olive oil and it worked well. Perhaps it tasted a bit more of Spain?)
* 2 cups white sugar
* 2 cups grated zucchini
* 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
* 3 cups all-purpose flour
* 3 teaspoons ground cinnamon
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1/4 teaspoon baking powder
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1/2 cup chopped walnuts and raisins (if desired)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease and flour two 8×4 inch loaf pans. In a large bowl, beat eggs until light and frothy. Mix in oil and sugar. Stir in zucchini and vanilla. Combine flour, cinnamon, soda, baking powder, salt and nuts; stir into the egg mixture. Divide batter into prepared pans. Bake for 60 to 70 minutes, or until just done.

BANANA BREAD (Courtesy of The Blue Dress Cookbook)

Ingredients:

*1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
*2 cups sugar
*6 really ripe bananas, mashed
*4 eggs, well beaten
*2 1/2 cups cake flour (if you can’t get cake flour, sift your flour before measuring)
*2 t. baking soda
*1 t. salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cream the sugar and butter with an electric mixer until fluffy. Add the bananas and eggs and mix well. Sift together the dry ingredients. Gently fold into the banana mixture just until combined. Pour into two greased loaf pans. Bake for 50-60 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean and the edges begin to pull away from the pan. Cool on a rack for 10 minutes, and then remove from pan. Freezes well.

It rained more this past week than it has the entire time I’ve been in Spain. This is to say, it rained three days in a row and the sun still managed to peek through the churning clouds intermittently. April showers bring May flowers…and a healthy Easter garden, I hope. The rain seemed to have a rather loopy effect those of us at the farm. The men were off dealing with the horse trailer in England and us ladies were left to tend to all things on the finca. When it wasn’t raining, we were either amongst the avocado trees or per Olivia, “reversing the tractor into a large pile of poo.” In other words, dealing with large amounts of horse manure. When it was raining, we were scheming of ways to acquire vast amounts of fancy champagne. Por que no?

Each avocado tree is assigned a number and a letter. This comes in handy for a couple of reasons, either when there’s a tree that needs special care or you find yourself lost in the depths of the avocado orchard. We marked each trunk with cal (calcium paste) that looks just like white paint but doesn’t damage the tree. Some of the letters and numbers from last year are still visible, but the majority have been erased by the previous winter’s precipitation. Aside from the drone of bees gathering pollen from the avocado flower, it is dark and quiet underneath the canopy of avocado trees. I easily fall into a rhythm – dip brush into cal, brush on tree, crunching of leaves underfoot walking to the next tree, and repeat. It is both methodical and mellow. The trees are starting to produce small buds now and the fruit will be ready to harvest come September. 

 Trixie is one of Olivia and Chris’s sixteen dogs. She was rescued by Olivia over nine years ago and has been treated like royalty ever since. The first night I arrived at the farm, I heard Trixie whimpering at my feet and bent down to pet her. Soon after, I walked away and assumed that if she wanted more love, she would follow me. She didn’t. Trixie can’t walk. She has a severe case of arthritis and has lost mobility in her little legs. She is a lap dog in every sense of the word. She often sits with Olivia at the dinner table and gently whines. Aside from a constant hand petting her head (rather difficult while eating), the only thing that keeps her quiet is a dabble of champagne. Olivia swears it is Trixie’s true love. Ohh Trixie, a dog after my own heart! Unfortunately, unlike our avocadoes, champagne doesn’t grow on trees. So, in an effort to make Trixie as comfortable as possible in her old age, we decided to compose a letter to five different, high-quality champagne companies, informing them of Trixie’s delicious habit. And what letter is complete without a photo of Trixie with her favorite bottle of bubbly? So, we orchestrated a photo shoot complete with Trixie, the champagne bottle, and small bowl of champagne with a strawberry on the rim – all arranged ever so carefully on an armchair. Our letter to Veuve Clicquot is as follows:

April 17, 2009

Veuve Clicquot

Moet Hennessy España SA

c/ Consell de Cent, 334-336, 3e planta

08009

Barcelona, España

Dear M. Directeur,

I am Trixie, a Spanish stray. I love Veuve Clicquot. The mere pop of the champagne cork makes my ears tingle with delight. Although I come from the land of cava and am of Spanish blood, I insist on nothing less than Veuve Clicquot. If served any other brand, I turn my head in disgust.

My English parents rescued me from the streets nine years ago and nursed me back to health. I now find myself older than I ever imagined I would be, crippled with arthritis and unable to walk. My one remaining pleasure is my nightly bowl of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

I know my impecable taste comes with a price. My parents are entertaining the idea of substituting Veuve Clicquot with a lesser brand.  Could you find it in your heart to help me?

A bientot.

Sante!

Trixie Littler

_________________________________

Olivia and Victoria are working on the letter’s French translation. Once finished, we’ll send the letter’s off to Trixie’s favorite bubbly businesses in France and keep our fingers crossed for the cases to start rolling in. Trixie could live out the rest of her days in champagne-soaked splendor…and so could we.

In sixth grade, I was Mary Poppins in the school play. One of my lines during the tidying of the nursery scene was, “You find the fun and spit spot…the job’s a game!” At that same time, my very favorite movie was National Velvet, a British film about a horse named Pie starring Elisabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney. I think the collision of British influence at such an impressionable age has had a lasting effect on me. In high school, sometimes I’d go to parties, introduce myself to strangers as Sophie and speak with a British accent because I thought it was fun. I now find myself on a farm in Southern Spain owned by a very British couple. They have thick accents and use British words that make me laugh. It’s become almost impossible for me to respond to Olivia without using a British accent. I have adapted quite well to their English ways, drinking gin and tonic with a couple of slices of cucumber and enjoying midmorning tea. Yesterday we discussed the importance of learning and understanding Spanish verbs and verb tenses. Olivia said, “Not knowing Spanish verbs is quite like finding your knickers ‘round your ankles and the elastic gone and trying to run.” I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Today I used the scrimmer – that’s British speak for weed wacker. After a quick practice session near the house, I walked down to our Easter garden to chop down the weeds that surround our new patch while Olivia and Victoria were at the round pen with the horses. I got the scrimmer started, wacked a small patch of weeds precariously close to our new baby zucchini plants, got nailed in the thigh with a flying rock and then lost power. Try as I might to start the little motor again, I had no luck. I called Olivia and she came to my rescue, leaving the horses and getting the damn thing started. I’m afraid I traumatized every last plant in our garden. I tried not to pelt them with flying weeds, but it wasn’t easy. And the scrimmer is loud. Note: Next time wack before planting. Scrimming results are instantaneous because the weeds are there one second and the next they’re gone, but overall I found the process a tad violent and painful (pelting pebbles hurt). I’ll try to stick to weeding the old fashioned way and leave the scrimming up to someone else. I’m going to walk down to the garden before dinner and check in, apologize to the plants again for disrupting the peace, and stick our “Easter Garden” sign in the earth. Then the plants will be official. All they have to do is grow…

After preparing the land for our garden – pulling up weeds, spreading the horse manure around, and giving the plot a good soak – we planted the first of our veggies on Easter afternoon. Eggplants in the first row with a few bell peppers mixed in, another row of peppers and a row of tomatoes. Tomorrow we’ll add our rows of zucchini and watermelon. I sang a little tune while I watered this morning, propping up a few plants that seemed to be a bit droopy. We’re getting a late start, but we hope with ample water and sunshine and a little lovin’, our garden will thrive. I would love to stick around long enough to pick a ripe tomato from the vine, sprinkle it with salt and eat it like an apple, letting the juice drip down my chin.

Spotty, one of the sixteen dogs at the farm, is my friend. He reminds me of our old dog, Spotsie. Spotty is smart and energetic like our Spotsie was, plus they both have black and white spots. Lately Spotty has been my bedtime companion. He is not a small dog and isn’t the best snuggler, but he means well and I have a soft spot in my heart for him. I think, somehow, a little piece of Spotsie lives on in this Spanish Spotty.

I told Olivia that I wanted to cook dinner. She pulled a chicken from the fridge and suggested that I do something to it. I emailed my mom for our roast chicken recipe called “Tootsun’s Roast”, a family favorite. If you haven’t roasted a chicken before, I urge you to go to the store, buy a nice looking bird and start cooking. I swear it’s easy and impressive. Victoria and I whipped up a nice meal of roast chicken, mashed potatoes with rosemary and garlic, peas and roasted carrots. It was my very first roast chicken and it turned out really well, much to my amazement – crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. If you’re feeling inspired, here’s the recipe, courtesy of Pom Happel and The Blue Dress Cookbook circa 1984:

Rub the chicken inside and out with half a lemon.  Squeeze some juice inside the chicken and rub with the cut half.  Sprinkle the inside with some salt and pepper.  Cut up an onion or two into eighths and stuff into the chicken.  Add sprigs of fresh rosemary–tuck them inside.  Other herbs if you have them. Next, rub the outside of the bird with good olive oil and a healthy amount of coarse salt and pepper and another round of lemon juice.  Roast on a rack if you can at 350 degrees for an hour and 15 minutes (figure 20 minutes per pound) or so.  You want the outside nice and crispy brown, the inside juicy.  You can preheat the oven to 450–good and hot–and reduce the heat to 350 or so when you put in the chicken.  This helps to crisp the skin.  You can strew veggies alongside the chicken, too.  Any veggies will do.  If you do this, add some chicken broth and a little white wine after 15 minutes or so and coat the veggies with a bit–not too much–of olive oil before you put them in the pan.  With or without veggies, baste the chicken a couple of times during roasting if you think of it.  Don’t skimp on the coarse salt on the outside of the chicken–and you can strew garlic cloves with the veggies if you’ve got them.

Buen provecho!

The theme of my trip has been, “Why not?” When opportunities arise, I take them. “Por que no?” This attitude has served me splendidly thus far. I don’t see why I can’t continue to live this way for the rest of my life until I’m “stiffy”, as Olivia would say.

Olivia and Chris Littler own the farm that I opted to head to after leaving Cutar. They’re a British couple who have lived in Spain since the early 90s. They are incredibly warm people. From the very start I’ve felt at home here. They have avocado, orange, lemon and olive trees, horses, cats, fish and sixteen dogs. Yep, sixteen. I told Olivia that my next project is to take a photo of each dog and label each photo with their name and a little tidbit of information. This is mostly for my own sake, so I can remember all of their names, but we might just turn this idea into a holiday calendar complete with all the Littler animals. Including the horses and cats, there are enough animals for a complete two-year calendar. Seasons Greetings 2010 and 2011!

There are two other WWOOFers at the farm as well. Victoria arrived on Tuesday, the same day as me. She left her home in Pennsylvania in January and has been WWOOFing almost the entire time since then. Among other things, she worked on a goat farm outside of Nice, France for over a month. Goat cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner? Oui! Sounds delicious. Victoria is here because she loves horses. She rides a horse at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Fair. She plays a knight in shining armor. There are at least four performances a week. During her jousting sequence, she has to fall off the horse. That doesn’t sound remotely fun. The last time I got on a horse I fell off. I can’t fathom doing it multiple times a week as one of my job requirements. The other WWOOFer is Josh. He has been here since December, when the days were shorter and the avocadoes were ripe. He knows the ins and outs of the farm, the names of all the animals, and has kindly showed Victoria and me the ways of the land. Josh and Chris left a couple of days ago to drive their horse trailer to Northern Spain and then ferry it on over to its new owner in England. They return from their journey in a week. Until then, it’s us ladies holding down the farm.

It’s fair to say that I never thought I’d perfect my sweeping, bed making, dusting and mopping skills while in Southern Spain, but I have. I’ve made a habit out of working with my iPod on and tucked into the pocket of my sweatshirt. At first, I made the mistake of playing a mix of melancholy songs that just made me feel sorry for myself. Odetta, Belle and Sebastian, more Andrew Bird – not good cleaning music. I knew better. I needed pep. I put on Lil’ Wayne’s Tha Carter III and I swear the kitchen sink faucet that I was polishing winked at me. I got in a groove. Now I only play music that I want to dance to while cleaning. It’s helped immensely. Yesterday morning, after Jeannette informed me that we’d be cleaning the other guesthouse in Cutar (just when I thought the cleaning spree was finito), it was Kanye’s 808’s and Heartbreaks. Today I salute the iPod genius feature. I listened to songs I forgot I had, which made for a few pleasant surprises and a few skips. Celine Dion came on and almost obliterated the flow. (Yes, I have her greatest hits album. No, I’m not proud of it. But there is that one song with the violin intro that I will vouch for. Might the best sing-in-the-shower song ever.) I also downloaded three “This American Life” podcasts from Max onto my iPod. Amazing. My plan was to stagger them throughout my remaining days on the farm, but I ended up listening to all three in less than two days. I couldn’t help it. They completely transport me. I listened to #359: Life After Death, while stripping cana a couple of days ago. I was standing outside, removing all the outer leaves with a large and very sharp knife, tears rolling down my face. If Jeannette had walked out and seen me, I thought I’d tell her that the cana seemed to have a strange, onion-like effect. Fortunately, I collected myself before I had to explain.

Cleaning in Cutar has actually been interesting. Well, the cleaning hasn’t been interesting at all, but spending a little time in town has been. Jeannette has stayed back at the house with Alicia for the past couple of days, so it’s just been Poli and me cleaning all morning. Yesterday at around 11am, Poli told me to stop cleaning. “Demasiado limpiando.” He mentioned something about how his cell phone doesn’t get great service in Cutar and so he’d turn it off and we’d go get a drink. I followed him down the street to a tiny little store owned by gypsies. Poli bought me a beer and he got a small glass of anise liquor (a very traditional Spanish drink). I tried a sip and it was good. He told me that he likes to have one drink before he eats anything. I think he said it’s “good for his blood” or maybe it “goes straight to his blood”, although I don’t understand half of what Poli says due to my lacking Spanish vocabulary. Anyway, he never drinks at night. Just a little glass of Anis en la manana will do and only when Jeannette is not around. We weren’t there for long before heading back to work, but the break made my day. Turned out that Poli felt exactly the same way I felt, too much cleaning! Nothing a quick trip to the town bar can’t fix.

Today, Poli and I took the same trip to the bar, but a bit earlier than yesterday. I didn’t quite feel like having a beer at 10am, so I got a café and Poli got his Anis. We were sitting at the bar when I heard a man yelling at the top of his lungs and honking his horn. “Pesssaaaaaaoooo! Pessssaaaaaooooo!” If Jeannette hadn’t asked me if I’d heard the fish man, I would have had absolutely no idea what was going on. Cutar is by local admission “muy tranquilo”. The town is home to less than 400 people. There aren’t many cars and the cars that are there never honk. I’d never heard anyone in town yell. Ahhh, so this was the fish man! Turns out he comes to Cutar everyday, after picking up fresh fish on the coast (about 20 kilometers away), and alerts the town of his presence by honking his horn and yelling, “Fiiissshh! Fiiissshhhh!” in Spanish. Like most Southern Spaniards, he doesn’t pronounce half of the letters in the word. So “pescado” sounds like “pesao”. This particular fish man bore a strong resemblance to Will Ferrell, which made me like him even more.

I haven’t mentioned much about lunch. It’s always the biggest meal of the day and without fail, Jeannette cooks a big pot of something savory and warm – lots of lentils, sometimes a vegetable or chicken curry, or a tomato and meat sauce – with either rice or pasta on the side, and a salad. I always eat at least two big bowls and it almost tides me over until bedtime. For lunch today, Jeannette made a traditional Andalusian soup made with bacalao (salted cod). Poli said that it’s soup for poor peasants but it’s also one of his favorite dishes. I tend to love any food that “poor people” eat – beans, rice, soups of any kind, root vegetables, corn – so I was excited to give it a try. The salted cod is cooked in water along with a few potatoes, pimientos, garlic and onion. Then a few eggs are cracked into the broth. The bottom of the soup bowl is lined with stale bread and the soup is ladled on top. Then homemade mayonnaise is dolloped on top of the soup, everything is mixed together, and you end up with this warm bowl of goodness. I appreciated that I could monitor the mayo factor. It sounds odd to put mayo in soup, but the broth was so light without it, it needed something to bulk up. The soup tasted rustic and of the sea in the best way possible. It was unlike anything I’ve had and completely delicious.

Life on the farm is hard work. More than anything, I am fortunate for the time I’ve spent here. Fortunate that I landed in a place with a family who has opened their home to me, but also fortunate for my freedom. This will be my life for 10 days, and then I will pack up and move on. It is Poli and Jeannette’s life always. Their well-being depends on their mango trees and guesthouse rentals. It hasn’t been glamorous. My dream of plucking ripe fruit off the tree will not come to pass here. Both the orange and avocado seasons are over, aside from whatever we pick for personal grazing. The lemon trees bear fruit and flowers simultaneously and are always in season. The grapes and mangoes aren’t yet ready to be harvested. But, there are many tasks to accomplish every day and I’ve helped them. The long mornings spent cleaning were not a highlight, but I’m happy I could help. My afternoon work has proved more interesting. Today Poli and I planted about 30 squash between the mango trees and set up the irrigation system so the little green sprouts will grow into bulbous, colorful gourds come the fall.

Honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to moving from the guesthouse, but it’s turned out to be a good thing. I’ve gone from solo traveler to being (a very temporary) part of a farming family. Jeannette and I have had some really interesting conversations over our afternoon tea. She knows so much about the land and farming. She moved to Malaga province from Berlin when she was 21 and has been here ever since. For her first eleven years, she lived mostly off of her own land outside Benamargosa, the next town down the hillside, in a house without running water or electricity. Because Jeannette speaks English with me (and Spanish with Poli and German to Alicia), I’m able to ask her questions I couldn’t otherwise ask in Spanish. Poli’s mom brought a two-liter jug of local extra virgin olive oil over to the house the other day. It is the best olive oil I’ve ever had. It’s a cloudy light green and tastes like young olives. I think I’ve consumed a good ½ liter all by myself. I pour it on a plate, sprinkle a little salt and sop up the goodness with lots of bread. Heaven. Anyway, because I am obsessed with this oil, I started asking Jeannette about olive harvesting. Turns out, they own olive trees but never pick the olives because they’re not worth the effort. Olives are relatively labor intensive and worth almost nothing off the tree. The olive pickers in the area make about 20 euros for 100 kilos of olives, and 100 kilos of olives will produce just 14 kilos of olive oil. Candida, Poli’s mom, bought the two-liter jug for five euros. So, the olive picker got about 40 centavos from the sale. 40 centavos! Why would anyone pick olives at that price? Turns out olive pickers are a dying breed, and rightly so. Unfortunately, Jeannette tells me, farmers (in general, not only olive farmers) get swindled all the time and they’re used to it. But, things must change or else eventually no one will be willing to work the fields.

Jeannette’s mom and sister will arrive in a few days from Berlin, so it’s time for me to make my exit. I pack up tomorrow morning and head to another farm near Coin, about 65 miles west. I wasn’t planning on farm hopping, but it’s Semana Santa this week and all of Southern Spain is packed with swarms of Catholics looking for a good fiesta. I didn’t want to pay 50 euros for a dorm room in Sevilla, so off I go on another farming adventure.

I’d rather think of myself as Cinderella than a maid. I guess it’s easier to romanticize these long days of washing, mopping, wiping and dusting, deep in the hills of Southern Spain. Jeannette and Poli are expecting their first renters on Friday morning – they’re coming from Germany and paying what I expect to be pretty penny to stay in the guesthouse. This means a few things, none of which boost my spirits. First, I have to pack up and move to the spare room in the main house. Can’t we just inform the German renters that the guesthouse comes with an American girl? I was looking forward to settling in for more than a week and having my own space. Dang. More importantly, the guesthouse must be cleaned from floor to ceiling. And this is no small task, particularly with Jeannette leading the charge. She expects nothing less than immaculate. Renting out their properties (the guesthouse, a few other houses interspersed in and around Cutar) is their main source of income, so “everything must be perfect”.

I am the last WWOOFer they’re accepting until June and I’m afraid that makes me their official spring cleaner. I spent the morning sweeping, mopping and wiping down the insides of closets and windowsills. Organic farming? Not exactly. To be fair, Jeannette did email me before I came to let me know that some cleaning would be involved, but I wasn’t quite expecting this. I cleaned their house for about four hours yesterday and the next two days I will spend at the guesthouse, cleaning up after all the WWOOFers who came before me. The kitchen is the biggest task because; following Jeannette’s orders, the cupboards need to be emptied of their contents, cleaned, and then reorganized.

Music is just about all that is fueling me through these cleaningchemicalsoaked hours. I listened to Andrew Bird’s Noble Beast, Fleet Foxes and Aretha Franklin on my iPod yesterday while I swept their porch of dead leaves and shriveled lemons. Before Max left we exchanged music (lucky for me, Max has excellent taste in music), so I listened to my new “Musica de Max” playlist last night before bed. When Poli is around, he plays M80 (“EmmAaaay Ochenta!”) radio, nonstop 80s classic hits – The Police, Madonna, Fine Young Cannibals, Dire Straights. Today when I was cleaning the bathroom and Poli was mending a cracked wall, I played music off of my computer because the radio was nothing but static. Poli asked if I had Black Sabbath. “No”, I said, “pero tengo The Black Crows.” I made a quick playlist of songs I hoped he’d like and we powered through until lunch.

I told Jeannette that I enjoy being outside. I suggested that I clean before lunch and then do whatever is necessary outside in the afternoon. This idea seemed to go over okay. Yesterday she showed me how to water the vegetable garden and pick fresh lettuce for our salad. In the afternoon, I took a pick axe to the earth just above the vegetable garden and carved a flat footpath for easy access. It was my first time using a pick axe and it was damn satisfying. The path looks good and they’ll have it forever, courtesy of WWOOF Spring Cleaner 2009.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day and there might not be time for outside tasks with all the guesthouse grime looming over our heads. There’s not much worse than cleaning up a mess I didn’t make. It’s true that I can get serious satisfaction out of cleaning. I could go so far to say that I enjoy cleaning, but that joy is hinged on reaping the benefits later. Right now, I want to leave. I didn’t sign up for this. But, Friday is around the bend. I’m counting on it bringing new opportunities to learn and a fresh perspective. If it doesn’t then I’m going to hideout with the Germans and hitch the next ride to Malaga.