The Pit of Babel

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 17:25:00 +0000

A day or two before we embarked on our cross-continental jaunt, my mom presented me with a Garmin Nüvi 255. Matt had been suggesting that we pick up a GPS unit for the trip, but I wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, relying on our instincts and a Triple-A atlas.

While I have no doubts that we would have reached our destination just fine without the navigator, the Garmin helped tremendously in ways I had not anticipated. Whether we needed to find a Papa John's pizzeria in Billings, Montana, a motel to stay for the night in Kadoka, South Dakota, or the route to tourist attractions off the highway (Corn Palace, Mitchell, SD), the Garmin was there. Riding on those long stretches of highway with little in sight, you often wonder when you will have another chance to stop at a rest area or gas station. Even though it wasn't always 100% accurate, the unit was able to give us some inkling of what was to come.

Seattle driving is a bit of a mess. Downtown always has heavy traffic, streets intersect in the middle of steep hills, parking is expensive ($1.75 an hour at the meter -- if you can find a spot). There are many one-way streets and thick highways criss-crossing one another. It gives us directions to the entrance of the Arboretum, to the co-op, to the movie theater and, when we can't find it ourselves, to home.

Like I said, it's not perfect. It doesn't have every single destination in its pre-programmed list. Sometimes the route is not direct (three left-hand turns?!), but all in all, it is incredibly useful. The size allows it to be stashed in a pocket in case I'm shopping downtown and want to find a specific store. I look forward to taking it on all my forthcoming trips as I get more familiar with the city -- even if it means sacrificing the better (read, more engaging) way of doing things.

(Plus, it's just one new gadget to accessorize. Last week I ordered this little, leather protective cover in brown.)

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 18:46:00 +0000

With mountains as its jagged teeth, the horizon loomed ahead like a devouring mouth stretched wide, hungry. With nothing to block the way save for a rare tumbleweed or cornstalk snake, the smooth highway lapped us deeper inside.

Like this, we drove across South Dakota, through southern Montana and on into the slick, snowy hills of Idaho. The small towns along the way hosted truck stops and the occasional IGA, selling knives and bison jerky to the pilgrimaging hunters. Schools resembled penitentiaries. The pit-stop motels of these towns are tropes for the modern-day writer, plucked by the likes of Cormac McCarthy and the beloved Nabokov, signifying the simultaneous freedom and imprisonment of anonymity. No one knows you, no one can track you down. But no one will save you, and no one cares. You become a target.

On the highway, the scenery romances its tourist. A cattle ranch in Montana doesn't sound so bad after all, especially considering the easy access to four-packs of sarsaparilla.

The Badlands, as Matt describes them, resemble some alien planet or lunar surface. For hours there is little to see except for flat grasslands, then with a slight detour off I-90, long-eroded ravines and towering rock formations in gray, yellow and sienna dominate the landscape. Signs warn of rattlesnakes and cars pull off the road to photograph mountain goats. Just outside of the park, we passed a large prairie dog colony and, nearby, a patient hawk.

Idaho possessed none of the flat potato fields I expected. Instead, we drove nervously along high ridges, overlooking the snow-covered evergreens of national forests and wondering if it was too late in the season to spot a bear. Our iPod, fueled with over 24 hours of short fiction and other storytellers, kept us going.

We arrived in Seattle midweek, reaching our short-term sublet just south of downtown. The next day I began a Netflix account (our apartment has a projector and large pull-down screen), and Matt walked down to the central library. Yesterday - Thanksgiving - we went for a run around Green Lake on the north side of town, putting up with a little drizzling rain. Our dinner was late (9:00), but neither of us minded. We made a small vegetarian feast complete with pumpkin pie. For our main course, we made a broccoli-portobello-gouda quiche with homemade crust. For our sides, we had a cranberry-walnut sauce, garnet yams with a butter and mustard vinaigrette and garlic sauteed green beans. And with plenty for leftovers!

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 20:16:00 +0000

As it currently stands, my blog is a poor representation of what I'm up to. By the time I get to writing, events pass and my news is no longer relevant. Without a web-enabled mobile device, such short entries struggle to stay current (though a personal Twitter account would be too much so). So what's the best solution? I should make a point to write more often only if I have something to say. An idea I like much better is to write longer articles, but reader interest wanes with each additional paragraph and side note. Especially when my blog has no particular focus other than to provoke communication about art, sociology, literature, language and travel. And myself, of course.

My new site will have separate divisions, based less on subject than on the type of entry. I am planning two types, one for a Twitter-like feed that still is not instantaneous, but archives short and sweet (one-paragraph) entries about what I'm up to and links to articles or sites that I find interesting or relevant. These will help my readers track my points of reference (in case you notice that I'm obsessing over environmental non-fiction, that one host on NPR, the latest SEO strategies or peanut butter-based Thai cuisine and question the validity of my sources). The other division will house longer entries -- products of my own writing, whether in the form of essays, stories or reviews.

I hope to make some long strides over the next few days in the development of my site. It's a slow process, as I taught myself CSS and am only now putting it to practical use. Once I get this site done, I can focus on other design projects (like the brochure for the animal hospital or my jewelry design portfolio). And then there is always the nitty gritty: the actual job search.

Now, back to rebranding the super-ego.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 20:16:00 +0000

It's snowing in northern Michigan!

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 18:14:00 +0000

Well, folks. Well, well. Matt and I have been finishing up our last few days here in Berlin, seeing the sights that remained on our list, trying the supposedly best cakes and Vietnamese food the city has to offer. We leave on Wednesday. In the morning, but not too early. It is predicted to be cold and rainy.

We sold our bikes earlier this week for even more money than we had anticipated (thanks Craig's List). Without wheels we have been bound to the limits of Kreuzberg. Today was absolutely beautiful. The sky beamed a bright blue and the air was warm. Matt explored photo ops around Köpenicker while I dozed on a bench near Künstlerhaus Bethanien. Then we went for ice cream and watched from the grassy meadows of Hasenheide the sun fall behind yellowed trees.

My job search has been active but so far without great success. It surprises me how many new listings pop up each day. I have quite a few bookmarked, though at this point I'm only applying for the positions that really excite me. I suppose in a couple of weeks -- if I don't find something good by then -- I'll alter my expectations. For now, I stay hopeful.

Still working on the new site. If all goes according to plan, I will have entirely transformed the set-up. Last week I finalized a site and started on the design. I will have to wait to pick up on it until I get back state-side.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 07:23:00 +0000

Fall Clean-up: I updated the visual theme of The Pit of Babel only this past spring. Still, I'm looking forward to putting my new skills to use and designing a new template. Not sure if I'll try to create something from the ground-up, or if I will merely tweak a theme someone else has already made. Stay tuned to find out!

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 16:35:00 +0000

Just came back from the camping trip, where even isolated in a national park we ate delicious, real food (except for the marshmallows -- forgive me!). Due to some confusion over the placement of the bus stop, we missed the connecting bus to the campground. We were stranded; only pastures and fields surrounded us. We tried hitching with no luck. So we started walking. Not far up the road we came upon wild apple and pear trees. The fruit was still young, but crisp and juicy enough to make for a delicious snack. We filled my purse and nibbled on them for the next couple of days.

The first thing I did coming back to the apartment was jump online and watch the second class of my six-month Photoshop course put on by CreativeTechs. The second thing I did was redirect to NYT.com.

And just what did I find? A new op-ed piece by Michael Pollan. I know there are some mixed opinions on Pollan (in case I didn't post it before, please read the article The Omnivore's Delusion), but I find it impossible to find any wrongdoing in stating the facts that America, condemned to eat itself sick and spend itself bankrupt, pays ridiculously low attention to nutrition, fitness and and preventative care in general. We are famous the world over for producing the largest and strongest athletes, but the average citizen seems to have no idea how many calories he is meant to consume in a day or how many hours of exercise he needs to log in order to make a significant fight against heart disease. For many, especially us Midwesterners, corn and potatoes count as vegetables. Seeing sugar as the enemy of good health, we turn instead to sugar substitutes so that we can still drink our daily Coke.

In Obama's recent speech on healthcare reform, he says that everybody needs to take responsibility to do his own part. This means that every citizen needs to have insurance, regardless of who is providing the policy, but it also means that we need to our part to not strain or exploit the healthcare system.

Please click "Read More" below to, you know, read more!

I always found it silly when I saw sniffling, coughing and physically-drained students in the waiting room at university health services. Despite what many people seem to think, there is no good in going to the doctor for a cold or the flu. For simple aches and pains -- wait a week or two, see if you still notice a problem. Sleep more, buy a better mattress, drink more water, take leisurely walks, try herbal remedies. Good health demands more than regular visits to the gym, and good health care is so much more than prescribing pharmaceuticals.

And when we keep poor diets, we are not doing our part. There is no shortage of scientific evidence proving that poor eating habits contribute directly to a number of health problems.

Last night Matt and I watched "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," a documentary about the production and release of Wilco's album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. For those of you who don't know they story behind the album, here's a recap. During the '90s, Wilco released three albums with Reprise Records, a subsidiary of Warner Music Group. They were a solid, mature group that were proving to be a worthwhile investment, so Reprise offered to pay for their next record. The band wanted to take it in a new direction creatively and hoped that Reprise would appreciate their work. They didn't. Reprise refused to release the album, and despite having already paid the production costs, decided it wasn't in their favor to cover the costs to market the album. Reprise dismissed the group from the label, leaving the rights to the album in Wilco's hands. In the end, the album was bought and distributed by Nonesuch Records -- whose parent company is also Warner Music. Warner paid twice for the same album. Now it appears as if the U.S. government is doing something very similar. As Pollan wrote in his piece: "...the government is putting itself in the uncomfortable position of subsidizing both the costs of treating Type 2 diabetes and the consumption of high-fructose corn syrup."

According to Robert Bryce on Slate.com, "between 1995 and 2003, federal corn subsidies totaled $37.3 billion. That's more than twice the amount spent on wheat subsidies, three times the amount spent on soybeans, and 70 times the amount spent on tobacco." The government has been adding tariffs on sugar and handing out subsidies for corn. This means that any profit-driven food manufacturer will choose high-fructose corn syrup over sugar, when given the option. So our money is going to support corn farmers. Okay. If I've learned anything this spring, it's that farming is very difficult work and most of its laborers are underpaid (and that's putting it modestly). But these subsidies also allow companies to use HFCS (and we know they do, and you would be shocked how many foods in your cupboard contain it), excessive consumption of which leads to Type 2 diabetes. Considering how many foods contain it and American eating habits in general (i.e. super-sized portions), it doesn't take much. Great, now we have a problem.

The good news is that we can choose what we eat. We as consumers hold the purchasing power. We choose what we eat, how much of it we eat and how we prepare it. Sadly, our culture has been putting less and less emphasis on the importance of quality food and healthy eating habits. Short, regulated lunch breaks. Rushed family dinners. The invention of Pop-Tarts. And just take a look at what's being served in school cafeterias.

Let's go back for a moment to Pop-Tarts, the deliciously sweet treats that cause second-degree burns on the tender thumbs of our beloved youths. Just the first couple of sentences on the Wikipedia page for Pop-Tarts suggests that perhaps they are nothing we ought to be putting into our mouths.

Pop-Tarts are a brand of flat, rectangular, pre-baked toaster pastries. Pop-Tarts have a sugary filling sealed inside two layers of rectangular, thin pastry crust. Some varieties are frosted. They can be eaten without being warmed, but are often warmed inside a toaster. They are usually sold in pairs inside foil packages, and do not require refrigeration.

What kind of pastry comes in a foil package? What kind of frosting can last several months without needing refrigeration? What are "flat, rectangular, pre-baked toaster pastries," and why is there more than one brand of them?

With the economic crisis, we learned that we had to start spending responsibly. We were enraged by the recklessness of large corporations gone unchecked and the advertising of luxury goods, which convinced us to spend outside of our limits. With the healthcare crisis (and it is a crisis), we need to learn to eat and act responsibly. We need to be equally upset with manufacturers that trick us and our children to eat products so processed that we really have to stretch the definition of food.

And although exercise is important for a number of reasons, there stands the simple fact that most people find it burdensome and unenjoyable. This has to change, too, of course, but allow me to let you in on a little secret. If you don't eat garbage, you don't have to exercise as much! That's right, become healthier and lose weight without adding that extra lap, step or squat.

Over the past year and a half, I have lost between 10 and 15 pounds. And for those of you who know me, I've never been overweight. First I cut out of my diet as many foods as I could that contained high-fructose corn syrup. (I replaced them with foods containing sugar, raw sugar, brown sugar or honey -- not any diet-orientated artificial sweetener.) I bought a new brand of bread, unflavored yogurt, natural peanut butter, etc. I didn't go crazy over it -- when I ate out at restaurants, I would pick entrees that I expected would have a lower amount of HFCS, but I never bothered to ask the waitstaff about the actual contents. I still had the occasional candy bar and sweet treat. But after making the majority of my meals HFCS-free, I easily lost 4 lbs. Then I started a primarily vegetarian diet (again, I'm not at all strict about it. It's not for ethical reasons, other than the fact that I don't want to unnecessarily offend my boyfriend. I do that enough as is). Since cutting out pork and beef and limiting my intake of chicken (I've never been a big fan of fish), I've lost another 3 or 4 lbs. For the past year I've limited my intake of alcohol (a natural result to a change in lifestyle, not a choice I've been particularly conscious or even fond of), which also made a significant difference. When I was living on the farms, working lots of manual labor and eating small, leafy meals, I was under 115 lbs (admittedly underweight, even though I had built new muscle). I don't have a scale at my disposal here in Berlin, but I know that since then I have reached a healthy and stable median weight.

A sidenote must be added here: a lower body weight does not necessarily mean better health. The point is, I consciously altered my eating habits and as a result, I feel lighter and healthier. I sleep better. I don't have as many headaches. My skin looks great. It was a relatively easy change, and it allowed an interest in cooking and nutrition to develop naturally. Because these decisions weren't forced or part of a fad diet, I will be inclined to keep these habits for years to come.

I discovered recently that, when I prepare our meals, I more or less follow Dr. Weil's recommended food pyramid. Instead of as much pasta, we eat a lot of legumes. I like lentils, but we also cook quite a bit with chickpeas, kidney beans and dried peas. We use dried beans as often as can, but chickpeas take forever to soak. Those we buy canned. We ditched basmati rice for bulgar -- not the tastiest substitution, but it's much healthier and tastes earthier, for what it's worth. Nuts, seeds and flaxseed oil work great in oatmeal. Avocados are a nice snack and work well in salads, and as far as the "healthy spices" are concerned -- bring 'em on. I never realized turmeric was especially good, but according to Dr. Weil, it is. And I want to believe him. So Matt sometimes throws ginger in the oatmeal, too. Ginger, turmeric and garlic make it into almost every dinner recipe. Again, I'd love to get a list of some of our recipes up on here, along with a "shopping list." If there's enough interest, I could be convinced if pressured!

A query I posed to Matt the other week still stands unanswered. It breaks down to what is easier to achieve, all-organic or all-local? Which would be better? Organic has been around for awhile now, but I have only felt the push for buying local food products within the past couple of years. Are there any stores and restaurants that serve food that is both organic and local? The argument for local food is that it supports the local economy and cuts down on the carbon imprint. The downside is that bringing industry closer to home potentially means side effects to the local population, particularly from chemical run-off. Organic produce, on the other hand, gives us the peace of mind knowing that we aren't consuming chemicals, but it doesn't necessarily pack more nutrients than its non-organic counterparts. Organic is arguably more sustainable agriculturally than non-organic.

For the sake of our wallets we have been buying most, if not all, of our produce from the neighboring Turkish markets. Most of it isn't local. Bananas from Ecuador, apples from Spain, bell peppers from Turkey. It's not organic, either, I presume. They pick the fruit before it's ripe, and it usually turns en route to the markets. Sometimes the produce looks right -- but tastes completely off. The avocados often feel ripe, but once we peel them find that they are bruised on the outside and completely firm inside. The apples seem okay, but biting into them reveals that they are mealy and inedible. The green beans look like green beans, but taste inexplicably strange. We look forward to returning home, where it's reliable. But at home, it's also more expensive. And most of it is still shipped halfway across the country. Here we can track the prices fall systematically throughout the week, tomatoes starting at 99 cents a kilo when delivered and dropping to 50 cents when they are soft like water balloons. At home, often the price stays stable unless there's a tropical storm or other natural disaster that affects the area where the particular crop is grown. Michigan boasts plenty of corn, soybeans, apples and sugarbeets. It produces less, though still a substantial amount, of wheat, potatoes and berries. I wonder what my diet would be like if I committed to an all-local diet. Clearly the avocados, peanut butter, and turmeric would be out. Ginger? Tea? I'm not sure.

I learned this spring that I am not a daughter-of-the-earth hippie. I do care about the earth's well-being and my own, but there is only so much work that I am willing to put in. Partly because I don't know how much of a difference it will make, whether or not we can still "save the world." Matt says it's worth it to make the effort. I want to believe him. As far as everyone else is concerned, I know that most people can't be much lazier than I am. I suspect that if they really gave a minute to look at the information we have, they would make the right decisions. Better decisions, at least. But they're busy worrying about other things and don't have time to ask questions at their local health food store or read Pollan's books. That is why as mainstream types (read, non-"crunchies") -- particularly the influential Alpha-Hubs responsible for the success of word-of-mouth and other types of viral marketing, whether they be authors, talk-show hosts, or politicans -- need to start taking a look, step up on the soapbox and, above all, lead by example.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 15:31:00 +0000

I just finished reading the speech on healthcare reform that Obama gave earlier this week. Good work, Team Obama, at calling out the talking heads, the politicians, all those responsible for spreading the seeds of misinformation. Congratulations on figuring out a promising solution that can appease the majority, and most of all, thank you for not giving up. For the past couple of years, I have been one of those risk-taking youngsters who didn't have the money (or didn't want to shell it out) for health insurance. When given the option to register for vision and dental coverage, I took it. I know the value of preventative medicine. For general health coverage, I paid out-of-pocket for routine examinations and tests, finding the health services at my alma mater to be the cheapest option. There was no way I was going to pay $32 a week for the health insurance offered by my employer. I'm young, athletic, a non-smoker, a relatively good driver. I take vitamins. But at the same time, there was always the fear that something big could happen. A car accident, a skiing accident, a bookshelf or a mannequin that takes a tumble onto my foot. (Why else do you think I wear thick, leather cowboy boots?) I learned from someone -- a friend, a fellow blogger, I don't remember -- that it was possible to lie at the emergency room, that they were required to treat me even without insurance, and that I could give a false name and address to avoid ever receiving the bill. I prayed this wouldn't happen for my physical well-being as well as my ethical and emotional well-being. That's reckless, but what else can be done when one is earning $8 an hour and faces an $8,000 medical bill?

Last night, just before falling asleep, I started a post on yet another side of the healthcare debate, that of Michael Pollan. Stay tuned for more to come.

And while you're waiting, you should also read this short column, "Summer's End," by Judith Warner. Really, I do things besides reading the Times online!

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 09:34:00 +0000

I'm a little worried about my computer. I know that it's young (just a baby, really) and could fall from a tree branch 10 feet high only to spring up onto its feet and take off for the neighbor's slip 'n slide. But I haven't shut it down in days, maybe even weeks. I've been so intrigued by what I'm finding on the internet that I keep each new blog, interview and Etsy shop in its own tab, sometimes even a private window. It's really getting out of control.

Last night around 8:00 Matt took off to attend some sort of ambient, experimental concert in Friedrichshain. It was chilly and wet outside so I chose to stay in. I remembered that earlier that day, on our daily walk around the kiez, I stopped in front of a newspaper shop to read some of the magazine covers. Remembering how much I liked reading Monopol in the past, I made a mental note to go to their website. So there I was reading the homepage article on Monopol covering this weekend's Miss Read, an art book exhibition with related discussions going on at Kunst-Werke. I took a short trip to KW, where I found a list of other art-book and independent publishing events going on this weekend, one of which was a 12-hour self-publishing event at Motto near Schlesisches Tor. To Motto I went. There I learned about a presentation and conversation with critical graphic designer and theorist Zak Kyes at the art bookshop Pro qm in Mitte, starting in just five minutes. Yowza. So I threw on about four layers of clothing, jumped on my bike and started pedaling.

One of the most basic points discussed, but that I found the most relevant, concerned the politicization of graphic design. Apparently Daniel Birnbaum, the director of this year's Venice Biennale, described national flags as capable of “being broken down to basic visual shapes that display unexpected painterly qualities." National flags -- purely graphic interpretations of a country's culture, history, politics and identity -- as painterly? So the question that was posed to Kyes was approximately whether or not graphic design was losing its political power in the face of (excessive) formalism.

Kyes answered No, of course not. Certainly I agree with him. The meaning behind any given design is malleable, constantly evolving to fit its context and (previous and present) associations, of which new ones can also develop. For an example we can choose any iconic image. Consider how it was viewed when it was designed, first presented, when a generation changes favor, when a government changes favor, after being reworked by other artists. After being maneuvered through post-modernist dialogue like pulled taffy, an image only gains meaning. That most laden with allusion wins friends and influences people. Isn't that how any art essentially works?

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 13:36:00 +0000

If the government knew how happy we are eating chocolate fudge, they would make it illegal.

But seriously, what's the deal with Murdick's fudge? Why can't they keep one name and franchise it to all their nieces and nephews?

Murdick's Fudge has two locations: one on Mackinac Island and the other on Martha's Vineyard.
Doug Murdick's Fudge is located only in Traverse City and Acme.
Doug Murdick's son, Dale, owns Murdick's Fudge Shoppe in Leland and Suttons Bay.
Fran Murdick's Fudge is in Mackinac City.

Then there's Murdick's Fudge of Petoskey.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 14:09:00 +0000

The difference between Ponys, Bangs and Fringe (and other things I've learned over the past 12 months)

I don't want to live in New York City. According to Facebook, approximately 85% of my social circle has made a break for it. It's a fascinating city. It's huge, a mammoth metropolis pulsating with creativity and cheap ethnic food. And it has Central Park and the Met. But it is an expensive city to inhabit, and I have no intention of overexerting myself so that I can afford a small apartment an hour's commute away from my workplace and then struggle to make time for my personal projects. I love cities, but what is about them that I love? I expect a good city to have a large selection of restaurants. Dining out is perhaps my favorite pastime. I want cheap food, fresh food, foreign food and the option of elaborate 5-course dinners. I want bakeries, specialty coffee shops and at least one hip bar with a dance floor. I need nature, whether it be found in a nearby ocean, mountain range or hidden arboretum. I like public transport, and I like being able to ride my bicycle wherever I go. Fair weather and flat landscapes don't hurt. I can't live in a city that clogs my skin and soils my shoes with pollution. I need personal space; studio apartments don't cut it, and I should be able to sunbathe in public parks without being harassed. Sure, I could find both an apartment and a job in one neighborhood, Brooklyn, for example. But if I don't leave my neighborhood, then why don't I just live in a smaller city? Having made more professional contacts over the internet than at bars, gallery openings or conferences, I don't buy into the argument that NYC is where it all happens.

When my back was turned, Technology excused itself and slipped out the bathroom window. For someone who went straight from dabbling in fingerpaint to pulling all-nighters tapping the keys on her family's PC, it's painfully embarrassing to admit. But that just goes to prove it could happen to anyone (and will happen to everyone, at some point). While I was plucking vegetables from the ground, my peers were becoming new media specialists and information designers. I'm sorry, what? Gone are the days when a firm understanding of Microsoft Office, Adobe Photoshop and Pagemaker, and a basic knowledge of HTML make the cut. In an effort to catch up, I have enrolled in a couple of online courses that start later this month. (Sign up for the free online courses put on by CreativeTechs in Seattle!) And over the next month or two, I will be working to develop a website and online portfolio for some of my creative work.

More of a reminder than a new revelation, but the world is constructed to crush hope. I hate to sound cynical, but the truth is that many people enjoy preventing others from achieving their aspirations. Insecurity coaxes them out of pursuing their own dreams and selfishness persuades them to interfere with yours. To put it less negatively, most people are naturally risk-aversive. And what sounds fun to you sounds to them like a terrible risk that they (and you, likewise) cannot afford to take. Compromising your desires for the sake of others is an open invitation for regret.

Setting aside all the information I absorbed during those two unforgettable months farming in France (like how to milk a goat), I have learned much in the realm of practical skills necessary for everyday living. I have learned to patch and replace the tubes on a bicycle. I have learned to successfully operate an old-fashioned, all-metal can opener (it's much more difficult for lefties). Out of fear of early arthritis and osteoporosis, I have overcome the terrible habit of cracking my neck excessively. It probably helps that I have a desk to work at, compared with my old routine of curling up on my bed against the wall with my computer set on my thighs.

I am through with working in retail.

If left to my own devices, I am susceptible to shopping addictions. Fortunately, my anti-capitalist boyfriend, tiny bank account and love of Berlin's aesthetic anarchy keep me in check. That said, when I shop for clothes, I dress to impress. But the sole target of my efforts, the object of my affection, couldn't care less how I dress (so long as it doesn't bring him unwanted attention). I should be falling to my knees in gratitude. He doesn't want me in heels! He doesn't like make-up! I can use the money on things that matter, on things I really care about -- on food! But it doesn't work that way. Instead I try twice as hard, committed to changing his perception of fashion and to show him all a woman can be.

Though I care only for his opinion, it's a grand shame that no one else was there to witness the farmer version of myself. Bearing a golden farmer's tan and a body overworked by manual labor suits me well. I discovered a new muscle in my arms (perhaps an appendage of the triceps), which unfortunately develops only after hours of lifting hoes and swinging sieves. I suspect it to be that muscle that forces bodybuilders to walk with their arms lifted from their sides. The sensation is akin to putting a little pillow underneath your armpit.

For myself, I have always been fond of one-length, blunt haircuts, short or long. Layers are associated with Jennifer Aniston and teenagers at the mall. But after being pestered for having just so much hair, I decided to give them a try. As it turns out, layers create movement, add volume and free my curls. Who knew. I went to a salon in Prenzlauerberg (Schlumilu), negotiated with the stylist and in the end lost more hair than I originally wanted. But when I walked out of the salon, I felt fantastic, young and sexy. I didn't take a picture and most likely won't be able to style it that well on my own. But I felt more chic then than I have in a long, long time, and that feeling will stick with me for awhile.

My second beauty discovery was another surprise. The secret to shiny, healthy hair is to not shampoo it. I tried the "no 'poo" method before with mixed results. Now I realize that I have to sweat. On the farms, I would sweat through most of the afternoon and couldn't shower every day (one must conserve the resources most precious to us, fudge excepted). I wash my hair with both shampoo and conditioner approximately once a week. I can't brush my hair much in the morning, otherwise it will fall flat. But if I brush it after I'm done sweating (either from yardwork or exercise) and before I go to bed, it keeps its body and most of the waves. In the past my hair was too fine and oily for this method to work. Now that I have more texture (and more hair), there seems to be no problem. The only downside is that it sometimes starts to smell like bedhead.

Moving in with a boyfriend is not as difficult as they make it out to be. When Matt and I first began thinking about WWOOFing and moving abroad, we discussed what it meant in terms of sharing a living space. It was proposed that we could either stay in the States and try living together, or to move abroad -- but that we shouldn't try living together while taking our first international trip together, that the strain it would put on our relationship would likely be much too great. But as it turns out, we are good friends and compatible living partners. We have not been separated (defined by a distance of 30 feet or more) for more than a total of 15 hours since the end of April. That is a lot of together-time. There are times we both get moody, but the experience has absolutely brought us closer together. Within our experience as a couple is an entire treasure trove gleaming with gems of self-discovery.

Once again, this is not a lesson recently learned, but of which I have been gently reminded. And that is just how much my family means to me.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 12:54:00 +0000

Yestuhday was muh birthday. Like those of recent years past, it went more or less as expected and not at all wild and unruly. As my friend Susi wrote to me in a birthday-SMS, I got my present: Beautiful weather. It was perhaps the last hot day of summer, with blue skies straight out of a first-grader's painting.

I started my morning with a walk up to the Turkish market to grab a melon and some vegetables. Matt and I had our usual breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, then went off to Matilda on Graefestrasse for tea and coffee. Cake wasn't necessary; my mom mailed me three slices of Doug Murdick's fudge, straight off the slab in northern Michigan. In the early afternoon I rode my bike up to Mitte, where I helped to hang the upcoming exhibition at Komet. Denise surprised me with an impromptu gift of sparkling wine and several tubes of Crystal Balls -- a toy that creates colored, saran-wrap balls that are light and sticky, kind of like soap bubbles that don't pop when you touch them. After we were satisfied with the show we went to Arkonaplatz for cola and schnitzel. Matt met me there and we left the group to wine and dine at Belluno, an Italian restaurant with candlelit outdoor seating in Prenzlauerberg. By 11:30 we were back in the apartment, and I had finished the day without any angsty, tear-filled breakdowns about turning 25.

I was happy.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 21:07:00 +0000

There's a noticeable change in the length of each day. The paths are bestrewn with yellowed leaves, dried and curled like hundreds of miniature canoes. My puffs and pants turn to asthmatic wheezes in the last mile of my run. It's early autumn, our favorite time of year. It seems to hit Berlin sooner than Michigan, not too surprising considering how much farther north we are. The season makes us anxious to return to the Midwest, where we will devour cider doughnuts, pumpkin pie and, most of all, apples. But until then, we will make the best of our European summer.

A special event currently in the works involves a two-night camping trip on Germany's largest and perhaps most scenic island, Rügen. It is located in the far northeast of the country on the Baltic Sea. In anticipation, we bought a large tent at the flea market last Sunday. The trip will be a birthday present to myself.

And what else do I blog about this time of year? My semi-annual fitness kick. This year hasn't afforded me any more Bikram yoga. Instead, I've been participating in urban bike rides and evening jogs in Hasenheide. After a couple of weeks timing myself, I was disappointed that I wasn't able to get my time down to what it was in high school. But then I realized that what I have now, but previously lacked, is endurance. In 2002 I could run a 5k in 22:30. That gave me an average pace of 7:26 a mile. Now I am running 4.5-6 miles with an average per-mile pace of 7:46 (8:00 on slower days). I might not be finishing a marathon any time soon (though I might!), but I am very pleased with the results of these recent efforts. And with this upcoming camping trip, I'll even get in some hiking.

The Champions Run was on Saturday afternoon. The day started off sunny and relatively cool, picking up warmth as start time approached. The IAAF world championship men's marathon race began in the morning, so we came in time to cheer for the final lap. It is so utterly amazing what these men are capable of! The loop started at Brandenburg Gate, cut south through Potsdamer Platz, then northwest through Tiergarten, down Oranienburger Strasse and finished with a straight shot down Unter den Linden, ending at Brandenburg. 10,000 runners reserved spots three, four, even five months ahead of race day. The starting line was so packed with people I couldn't see Matt despite his hot pink racing t-shirt (thanks T-Mobile!). In the end, he didn't make the time we were hoping for, but he still did very well and finished in the top 11%.

After we reunited at the end of the runner's corral, we shared some of his complimentary bananas and granola bars. Then we went down to Potsdamer Platz to see the first half of an avant-garde dance performance, Bodies in Urban Space. There were about a dozen "dancers" in whole, wearing sweatsuits and sneakers of bold, primary colors. They moved through the city streets, the audience following excitedly behind, creating formations and manipulating their bodies to showcase the urban environment. They crouched under telephone booths, wedged their bodies upside down behind traffic signs and built a tower in the middle of a tall spiral staircase, among other things. It was really quite cool. Even though the dancers weren't moving by the time we "found" them, to hold these positions for five minutes at a time requires great physical strength and agility.

Expect soon a blog with some of our favorite recipes. As I've mentioned before, we have been cooking nearly every single meal. A few weeks ago my mom emailed and asked if I was "getting sick of lentils yet." The truth is, of course not! I love lentils. Besides, we don't eat them too often. There are a lot more cheap, healthy vegetarian options than I imagined. Each week we purchase more or less the same ingredients, which never cost us more than $40. Then we combine them, often repeating favorite recipes though sometimes experimenting. I would like to give you a compiled list so they are easier for you to find when you want to give them a try yourself.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 11:01:00 +0000

Here is the result of a creative writing exercise. The assignment was to write a scene with a one-sided telephone conversation. It resulted in a study on perfection.
(Not for those easily offended by verbal profanity.)

***

He is the kind of man who, these days, would be described as handsome, but he is not. What he possesses is not an ineffable, philosophical beauty, but a prudent, almost calculating attractiveness. All the same, when I sit across from him I feel my spine grow straighter. My wavy hair falls naturally into place, into the style I have been working to achieve since my senior year in college. Talking with him I find myself speaking smoother, the vowels drawn from deep in my throat, slung from one corner of my cheek to the other and then exhaled fluidly, like a flawless stream of smoke.

Like him, his home invokes an unguarded contentment. The apartment was recently refurbished, but the walls were left unpainted and the wooden floors given a pale, natural finish, its owner preferring casual, uncomplicated furniture and having an all-around blasé approach to interior decoration. His armchairs are more comfortable than mine, allowing my legs to cross effortlessly without any need for continual readjustment. Despite his being somewhat shorter, when sitting we are of equal height, as if by some phenomenon his lightness allowed him to float or for him gravity did not exist.

Every time I have visited him in this apartment, a pair of black cowboy boots waited by the door, though I have never known him to wear anything other than canvas-top sneakers. An allergy keeps him from owning any dogs or cats, and the required upkeep has meant a forgoing of tropical fish. The apartment’s only other cohabitant is a philodendron placed thoughtlessly to the left of the bathroom, so in closing the door a fair amount of foliage is gobbled up with it.

Stacked on the counter surrounding his kitchen sink were never any less than a week’s worth of coffee mugs. Stacks of papers – presumably manuscripts, deemed complete by someone else’s standards – laid scattered about the living room and dining table, leaving little room for neither living nor dining. In spite of a clear indifference to the condition of his flat, he was always a good host, punctual and quick to offer coffee and hand-rolled cigarettes.

For him I was a ready listener, patient while he kicked around ideas for a new project he was set to embark on, which in the case of its failure would be quite costly. Sitting opposite of him, I watched his hands explain and convince, surrendering the tilt of my head to the flip and pitch of each gesture. His smooth face and hairless wrists suggest an age much younger than his curriculum vitae would present him as. He chuckles, exposing a buoyant Adam’s apple, and I laugh with him. He rarely gives a full smile. As he talks he separates his lips but widens his mouth only slightly, often teasing it to the side to suggest a semi-permanent smirk. This quirk seems playful, as if he is letting me in on the joke. His bottom teeth show only when he is irritated or when the sun catches him in the eye. I became distracted by the way his nose ducks when he talks of his work, as if nodding in agreement to his schemes and propositions.

He had just begun to tell me a story about a recent encounter with the new concierge, who was Guatemalan and unaccustomed to the strange, nocturnal habits of the neighborhood and its creative types. He spoke Spanish almost fluently, as far as I could tell, picking it up after numerous trips to the Caribbean despite claiming to have a crippling fear of the ocean. He could flirt with this woman while asking after her children, with all the social ease of someone who has been introducing himself to industry heavyweights and debutantes since he was able to say his name.

The telephone rang. On the way to answer it, he stopped for two seconds in front of an antique buffet, where a small selection of unopened envelopes was stacked on the glass top.

“Hey-ya,” he answered. “How did the rehearsal go? Did Simon behave himself this time?” One of his sneakers was coming untied, and he pinned the loose lace with the other foot.

“You what? Again?” His voice began to pick up speed. “No, I will not come pick you up. I am busy. Take the train – or a taxi, if you have to.”

Taking the phone with him, he turned his back to me and stepped into the hall, the cord loyally trailing behind. He headed toward his bedroom, though I could still hear him, the agitation in his voice bouncing off the bare walls down the hallway.

“I simply cannot believe this has happened again. Jesus – I mean, we just had a second set made so this would not happen again. You can be such a fucking flake.” His accent began to show.

“I knew you were utterly clueless, but this is unheard of. No, I can’t. I can’t talk now.”

He stepped out of the hallway and back into view a minute later wearing sunglasses. What could be seen of his fair cheeks was flushed red. He walked over to the stack of envelopes and opened one. Without reading it, he set it back on the tabletop. He stood staring down, arching his shoulders forward and leaning with all his weight on his back foot. He stood like that for some time, his thumb in his mouth, its nail clicking against the back of his teeth. After some moments passed, he released his shoulders and returned to his armchair.

He looked at me, or so I presume, and opened his mouth just enough to display the small chip on the left of his front tooth. The phone rang again. He took a sip from his mug and followed it with a swig from a small water glass, then stood up and went to the phone.

“Has Simon already left? And Gabriela? Could you ask her for a ride? Good, okay.” I could hear him speak with a restored calm.

“Yes, of course I am sorry. Don’t be so silly. No, I did not mean that. You know how – no, not like that. Yes, exactly. Good. You are okay? Good. Yes, I will be here. Do not forget to ask Lucia for the mail. Can you remember that? I am expecting a package from my sister. Oh, and maybe you could pick up some jajangmyeon from Bonjoo? I feel like noodles. Yes, the one by Jackie and David’s. Extra chunjang, okay? That sounds wonderful. Perfect, even. I can’t wait. See you later, yes. Ciao.”

When he returned he emptied his mug and raised it toward me, asking if I needed a refill. He lifted his chin slightly and then turned to face the window, offering me his profile and a view of his lower bicuspids. The evening’s remaining sunlight bleached out his hair so that it matched the beech picture frame hanging on the wall, holding what appeared to be some movie still from a film I did not recognize. He raised his elbow and ran his hand over his head. For a moment he appeared to me as Endymion, impervious to the sun’s beam.

“Ever since that project in Seoul, I have been hunting all over the Village for the best Korean.” He turned away from the window and the city and looked straight at me. “I simply cannot get the taste out of my mouth. The street vendors, everything I tried. It was unbelievable. You have to go, if for nothing else but the food.” He sighed although I had not argued against him and removed his sunglasses. Before the trip, he had been vegetarian for almost seven years. Now he eats fish.

On the way to showing me out of his apartment, he picked up another envelope. This one was manila and much larger, thick enough to hold a technical manual or some papers of comparable size. He volleyed the envelope between his hands undecidedly. He set the package back on the table, underneath a ceramic dish that slipped a little on the lopsided surface.

He stepped past, opened the front door and came toward me. He took my shoulder in one of his soft, hairless hands and then embraced me, although a bit stiffly.

“Thank you for finding the time to stop by. I think it is a shame we have not been able to see each other more often.” I felt his embrace slacken.

“Have you heard from her at all?”

He took a step back and in a moment of fraternal comfort and support, we watched one another. He nodded, shook my hand and opened the door for me to leave.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 10:01:00 +0000

Last fall I wrote a creative essay for my German class. The assignment was to create a description of the contemporary social and political climate paralleling that of George Grosz and Klaus Mann's Weimar Republic. I am rather proud of it but have not gotten around to posting it until now. An English-only creative writing project will be posted next for those of you who happen to not read German.

***

Wie Fliegen auf einen Kuhfladen kamen sie

In jenem Jahre 2008 gingen wir, sowohl die Alten wie auch die Jungen von Kneipe zu billiger Kneipe, um uns vor den Anderen in Dunkelheit und vor uns selbst in Alkohol zu verstecken. Die Fassade dieses Verstecks wurde von fluoreszierenden Ladenschildern in den Neonfarben blau, rot, und weiss beleuchtet. Die Meisten rauchten, obwohl sie wussten, daß es für die Gesundheit gefährlich sei. Alle verschwendeten viel Geld, obwohl es sich die meisten nicht leisten konnten.

Überall konnte man von der finanziellen Krise über Lautsprecher hören. Draußen feierte eine Gruppe, die stampfte und jubelte auf, als ob sie beim Rodeo wären, jedoch hasste die Gruppe den einzigen Mann, den sie kannten, der aus Texas kam. Alle feierten, weil sie dachten, daß ihre Kredit nicht zurückbezahlt würde. Sie trugen die Kleidung – Stiefel, einen Hut, Levis – wie Cowboys, aber es war weder Pferd noch Kuh in Sicht. Dahinter kam eine zweite Gruppe, die grunzte rhymthisch im Chor die Schlachtrufe der Affen. Und so waren sie die Affen in dem Urwald der Meinungsverschiedenheiten. Sie bekleideten sich als ob sie ziemlich übele Strolche wären, aber sie kamen wahrscheinlich aus der fünftsichersten Stadt in Amerika. Sie hatten die Nachricht noch nicht gehört.

Die Stadt war steril, durcheinander und voller Glashäuser. In einem unterirdischen Klub wurde Musik von dem jungen Schwarz, Otis Redding, und dem seligen Bob Dylan über afrikanischen Stammestakte und die Gurren der brasilianischen Rebellen gespielt. So tanzten die Gebildeten, erschütterte ihre Körper wie Fliegen in einem Insektenzapper. Im Nu fiel einer, bald fielen auch eine andere hin. Aber warum trugen sie Sonnenbrillen, wenn sie nur im Rampenlicht stehen wollten? Ein paar junge Amerikaner, die gestern noch der König und die Königin von Soul gewesen waren, sagten zu einander, “Ich habe genug von Soul. Gehen wir auf die Funkparty!” Im Nu fiel noch einer hin.

Man war fröhlich, kolossal fröhlich. In dieser Stadt war jeder Moment die sogennannte “Happy Hour.” Die einzelne Tatsache aber blieb, daß in dieser Stadt “Ängstliche Stunde” sich nicht verkaufte.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 21:08:00 +0000

As I am not too keen on watching American TV news anchors relay mass amounts of misinformation to our often gullible public, I have only a limited idea of how much publicity the IAAF World Championships are getting stateside. In case you didn't know, this year they are being held in Berlin. We found out about them a month or so ago and debated buying tickets, but decided they were too expensive (they are). It is a bit of a shame, really, because a slew of amazing events have taken place and we have to watch the races broadcasted on big televisions in the bars on Potsdamer Platz.

A holy-cow congratulations to Usain Bolt for breaking the 100 (9.58) and 200m (19.19) world records. He runs like a crazy man with limbs grown too large for his body.

This evening was the 4x100 relay (everyone's favorite to watch). The Americans had another tricky hand-off. Saw it when it happened, but it is very difficult to tell. Even more difficult to see on a grainy television screen through the rain. They won a spot in the finals along with Trinidad & Tobago but have now been disqualified.

Suspicions have been raised over the sex of South Africa's top middle-distance runner (and female world champion) Caster Semenya. Seems she may have an unexpected Y chromosome, or produce extra testosterone. Officials are still waiting for the results of very thorough genetic tests. Even if there are proper grounds to strip her of the medal, this is surely an emotional, if not traumatic, experience for an 18-year-old woman.

What's more, you ask? Tomorrow is the men's marathon, in addition to the Champion's Run -- a 10k road race following part of the marathon's course. Registration closed in May or June, but I found an online contest through Tip Berlin magazine giving away 20 spots. I knew Matt has been running six miles regularly and had the desire to try out a race. So without telling him, I entered his name in the contest. And guess what -- he won! This past week we have been training (although I'm only the trainer, cheerleader and masseuse). Tonight we ate the pasta dinner. Tomorrow afternoon we will head up to Brandenburger Tor, stop by the Deutsche Telekom sponsorship booth to pick up his shirt, number and chip and at 3:45, he will be off. (Good luck, Matt!)

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 18:39:00 +0000

Looking for a little extra English-based socialization, the other week I began a hunt for good audiobooks and podcasts. That's when I discovered The Moth, a New York City-based live storytelling event. Their podcast features some of their best stories, and I've been enjoying it tremendously. Maybe you will, too.

http://www.themoth.org/podcast

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 10:14:00 +0000

Yesterday, after a long day at the market, we rewarded ourselves with an Eiskaffee (think root beer float with coffee instead of soda) at Kauf Dich Glücklich in Prenzlauerberg. We are making conscious efforts to cut down on the sweets. Less sesame ice cream from the café on Grimmstrasse. Fewer slices of cheesecake from Avril. No more sweet and sour gummies, even if I'm at the movies (Wednesday night, Jarmusch's Night on Earth, Lichtblick Kino in Prenzlauerberg). Of course, I don't know if it's wholly necessary. The effort to cut down, that is. Matt's running quite regularly and I join him at least once a week. The other day went particularly well and we ran 7.5 miles. I felt totally fine until I tried to make a 300-meter gut check.

Of course, not all of our days are spent snacking at decrepit public pools and lying in the sun. Much of our time is taken up by the domestic demands of adulthood. Especially because we have been cooking so much at home, a significant amount of time has to go into the shopping, preparation, enjoyment and clean-up of each meal. Either the peanut butter container needs to be rinsed or the kidney beans need their water changed. Excuses, right? But add that with the fact that each week presents us with a new challenge. Last week it was the internet. If you think compromising with Comcast's tele-personnel is a challenge, give it a try in German. Kabel Deutschland was, surprisingly, more sympathetic than Comcast. But only once we had the technician out to our house to replace our modem were we told that our router was also kaputt. In the end, after a long call to D-Link's service line and an unusual reset procedure, we were able to get it up and running without purchasing any replacement parts. Soon we will have to deal with more bicycle maintenance -- Matt's bike won't shift gears, mine has only one functional brake. And yesterday my headphones stopped working.

All of this costs money. But we have our venture selling Einkaufstaschen. If by chance any of you want one of these 100% cotton, long-handled shopping bags (save the environment and look great doing it!), let me know and I'll reserve one for you! I would be very honored, of course, to have some of you fine folks carry our bags. Only $9! All bags are printed on natural-colored cotton. The Berlin bag and the Bicycle bag are printed in black ink, the one we nicknamed Waves is royal blue. Check them out below, additional photos are on Flickr.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 08:53:00 +0000

So much to get to. This week awarded us with the first summer-appropriate weather since arriving in Berlin. The last thing I have been wanting to do is sit in front of the computer. But today -- a chilly, gray Monday with rain falling slowly and steadily -- seems to be a good day to catch up and recover a bit from market day.

Like every Sunday, yesterday we hauled our table and totes up to Mauerpark. I thought that the hot, sunny weather would make for a productive day. But it also makes for a very sweaty and thirsty 8-hour market day, especially without the shelter of an awning or beach umbrella. We consumed enough sun the day before, when we took the train to the beach at Wannsee. (A one-hour ride from Kreuzberg. S-Bahn lines 1 and 7 stop at Nikolassee, from there it's just a half-mile walk to the beach. Entry costs 4€ for adults, 2,50€ for students.) Wannsee is one of the bigger lakes in the Berlin area even though it stays quite shallow. Dozens of sailboats tacked and jibbed their way across the greater part of the lake. The beach boasts volleyball courts, beach trampolines, giant chessboards and (our favorite) a waterslide. For those wanting a proper European beach experience, there is also a nudist section. The food is cheap, the beach, hot and the water, cool.

Friday was the closing day of the Urban Affairs: Extended, a large exhibition of some of the world's best urban artists, most notably El Bocho, Alias and Banksy. Although Philadelphia is attributed as being the birthplace of modern graffiti, Berlin has the right to claim itself the center of contemporary street art (think graffiti, stenciling, postering). I found the exhibition fascinating for the very fact that it was a professionally-executed art exhibition. The work was great, it was carefully curated, there were videos and interactive displays, and a gift shop sold streetwear, stencils and prints. It was put up in the Stadtbad Wedding, a public swimming hall that was closed down in 2002 and has since been hosting art exhibitions, concerts and parties, each event leaving behind an increasing number of broken tiles and pipes and fewer of the pool's original signs. This past winter the Grand Palais in Paris also hosted an urban art exhibition, thus legitimizing graffiti as fine art. I am curious to know how these artists feel about this fact. I'm sure they love the recognition (even if they only receive it under their pseudonym) and the money probably doesn't hurt. But I imagine that what brought these artists out late at night, sneaking around city streets and scaling walls in black hoodies, had more to do with the thrill of doing something illegal, engaging in an energetic and artistic rebellion. When the governments they were protesting begin to pay them to exhibit their work, or when art critics respond approvingly, does this thrill wear off? These artists are undeniably real artists -- they understand composition and color and can handle paint better than any art student I've ever met. Their subject matter is usually intelligent, critical, even witty. When it's not, it still passes as above-average graphic design. I hold an enormous amount of respect for these artists. It doesn't matter if anyone ever sees their work. They understand that their medium is very short-lived -- weather, city clean-up crews or even other artists can destroy hours' worth of work in a matter of minutes. And many of the murals just blow the sponsored contemporary art I've recently seen out of their art houses and galleries.

The best gallery show we've seen this summer was at the Lucas Carrieri gallery, a post-graffiti art collective in Mitte. Eron, an Italian street artist, creates realist portraits and landscapes using spray paint. Ebon Heath is a graphic (and more) artist based out of Brooklyn. He works with three-dimensional script.

My interest in contemporary art for the past couple of years has been directed at the rather vague "new media" and its computerized, interactive installations, but I made it a point earlier this year to start paying attention to and learning about contemporary painting. So soon after redirecting my attention, I'm faced with a new term to contemplate: post-graffiti.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 15:16:00 +0000

Late Friday afternoon a heavy storm swept into Kreuzberg. We were walking home from the Maybachufer Turkish market when the rain started, so we stepped into someone's front hallway (fortunately the front door was unlocked). We waited there for about fifteen minutes with a Turkish woman and her three young children. Meanwhile a power surge ravaged our apartment, destroying the power supply to the modem. So we are without internet at the moment. The girl we are subletting from is contacting the internet provider to see what we can do. Apparently it isn't possible to go to an electronics store and buy a replacement adaptor. Okay.

So now we're in the lovely Graefekiez at a (someway pricey) outdoor café. Chocolate cake (at only two euros per slice, probably the cheapest option on the menu) is on its way.

Speaking of prices -- there was another leg of our travels I forgot to mention in the previous post. On our way out of France and into Berlin, we spent a long afternoon in Geneva, Switzerland. I was very much looking forward to Geneva. We left our luggage in a locker in the train station (one very large locker for 8 Swiss francs). The scenery is beautiful -- it is situated right alongside the Alps, after all. And the lake has a very nice-looking harbor. As expected, it was a little windy along the waterfront. Eating lunch on a bench viewing the lake reminded me of summer afternoons in Charlevoix. We walked around the whole of downtown, plowing through the banking district and stopping for churches, statues and parks. Great shopping, of course -- not that I went into more than one shop. It was probably a good thing because Geneva is an incredibly expensive city. Having some euros and only a few francs left, we had to find dinner. We finally came across a pizza place that would give us a simple basil pizza for 16 francs, dividing it between our euros, francs and our American credit card. That was the cheapest entree we were able to find. Most cafés and restaurants were selling pasta dishes for 25 francs -- keep in mind that the franc is pretty close in value to the American dollar. All the same, I recommend it to a traveller who is looking for the most cosmopolitan city in Europe.

So, now I return to Berlin. Matt and I spent the first week tracking down bikes and then riding all over the city to view apartments. We finally found one -- a sublet that will last for our entire stay here in one of my favorite neighborhoods. It's a studio with a separate bathroom and kitchen for 350€ a month. That's just under $500. I was a little nervous about a studio being large enough for the two of us, but it hasn't been a problem at all. The only problem is the small and narrow kitchen. The cupboards have glass doors and there is hardly any room to open them without smacking one another in the head. We have broken a few glasses only because there just isn't enough room to stand AND cook AND open the refrigerator. Our subletter moved in with her boyfriend and took most of her furniture, leaving behind a mattress, a table, two chairs, a clothes-drying rack, and some dishes. Our first night we made an Ikea run and found dishes, pillows and more for only 20€. We found a large wooden pallet at the Turkish grocery store next door and have used it to lift our mattress off the ground. Three weeks later, I still need to find a pillowcase that fits my extra-large square pillow. More than one coffee mug would be nice, as well.

And for those who want to know where to find a bike in Berlin -- we had luck at a shop near Treptower Park. Two warehouse-style rooms of used bikes. We bargained the price, as we were buying two bikes. It seems a little suspect, but if you give him your passport then you can ride all the bikes down the street. He also gives a receipt -- so the transaction is not schwarz. At first we actually bought a bike off of Craig's List -- as is usually recommended -- but it turned out to be a scrap bike. Fortunately, we were able to sell it off (again, Craig's List) to someone interested in bicycle maintenance.

I gave Matt the grand city tour that first week. We have been to a couple of gallery openings, free museum nights. Anything and everything free and/or very inexpensive. Not many nights out. Not many cafe or restaurant visits, today being an exception. We cook all our meals at home (still going vegetarian, having eaten meat only seven or eight times within the past three months). I have taken over as the primary cook and expanded our recipe repertoire to include Thai, Japanese and Middle Eastern in addition to the usual Indian fare. Matt still prepares the best burrito-style wraps. After dinner every night, we take a walk around the neighborhood, sometimes stopping for ice cream near the Admiralbrücke to watch the papadum salesman harass the young people sipping beers along the canal. One of the most memorable days for both of us was the day of the Mediaspree demonstration.

The Spree is the river that divides Berlin in two. In the SE of central Berlin, there are two neighborhoods (technically one, joined by the Oberbaumbrücke): Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg. Both are known for housing leftists and artists -- you know, lesbians and vegans. As a result, squatter villages, cultural co-ops, bars and arthouses have been built up along the river. And so there is a very creative and liberal atmosphere that makes Berlin so darn lovable to someone like myself.

The Man -- the local administration, the corporate world, etc -- has decided to sell off this land to developers. They call the project MediaSpree. The idea is to build large office buildings to house marketing and media companies (that would, somewhat ironically, employ creative, young people. Or that would recruit them to the dark side, depending on precisely which side you're on). The problem is that this would destroy the DIY-scene that has been there for the past decade (or even longer).

So the alternative force did what they do best and created a counter-movement. The climax of their protests was the MegaSpree demonstration. Three separate parades started in different parts of Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg. Each parade had floats, performers and people from every possible subculture out in the streets. Many in costumes. The roads were blocked and the three parades met in front of the city council. It was a peaceful demonstration. Fun, in fact. One float had an icy slide for vodka shots coming off the back. Lots of loud music, dancing, people-watching, the whole lot. What we expected to take 45 minutes (the parade didn't have far to go) took at least five hours. We left before it was over.

One of the places that would likely be abolished if the Media Spree contract continues is Kiki Blofeld, a beach club on the Kreuzberg-side of the river. We went there last night to watch an open-air viewing of Coffee and Cigarettes. About thirty of us piled on top of wooden pallets and blankets and the weather was kind enough to cooperate. The vocal track of the movie was often interrupted by the roar of the nearby S-bahn, a tourist boat on its final loop or electronica coming from another riverside club. Despite the movie's premise (in my opinion) falling flat, the evening made for a very romantic and memorable experience.

Perhaps what made the experience even sweeter was that one of the 30 attendees was carrying a very cool-looking totebag -- a very cool-looking totebag that, as it so happens, I designed. Yes, that's right. Matt and I got sick of being poor and took matters into our own hands by becoming graphic designers. Last week we stayed in the apartment almost all day everyday working on our designs. We found a local screen-printing shop to work with and ordered a whole bunch of cotton-canvas totebags. This past weekend we had a go at selling them in the fleamarket -- and it was a success. We won't become millionaires anytime soon, but we should be able to cover our living expenses while we are here. This self-sufficiency gives both of us -- me, especially -- great satisfaction. And I've been wanting to start a screen-printing venture for years but never had the financial backing (or the guts) to go through with it. Finally, one of my creative efforts reached completion and actually transformed into a finished (consumable) product. To see people on the street wearing my designs -- oh wow. Or to have them buy the bags for friends and then distribute them all over Europe. It feels wonderful, and most importantly, revives my latent creativity by giving me a great confidence booster. Whoever thought that such a simple idea and a bit of effort could give so much back.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 09:00:00 +0000

Well folks, I've waited long enough. Let me get to retelling that next adventure of ours.

After Ben and Diny dropped us off at the train station, we traveled across southern France, cutting through the larger cities of Toulouse, Montpellier and Nîmes. The best part of the journey was seeing the Pyrenees -- beautiful, snow-topped and peaked mountains -- off in the distance. (If you plan on taking this journey, sitting on the right side will mean a slightly better view and significantly less interaction with the people sitting on the other side of the car.) Our trip ended in Valence, where we had to stay the night. There are only a couple of buses that run out to our third host, and we arrived after the last one had already left. A night in a beautiful Mediterranean city -- boohoo. A visit to Valence (one to three days is enough) is absolutely recommended. I found it almost perfect. The downtown area is full of narrow streets with charming bakeries, restaurants and boutiques. There is an intriguing view from the city plaza and pavilion of a large, mountaintop ruin. The park Jouvet is lovely, full of cultivated flowerbeds and students on their lunch breaks. We ate dinner at Le Rabelais on the Place des Clercs; we both had the regional specialty, ravioli. Matt's with mushrooms, mine with cheese. Chocolate mousse for dessert. We met the two French girls at the table next to ours on the terrace. They bought us manzanas -- a green apple liqueur.

The next day was the Critérium du Dauphiné Libéré -- a regional bicycle race, a smaller race than the Tour de France but is also very important to cyclists from all over the world. Many of those who win the Dauphiné go on to win the Tour de France. Parts of downtown were blocked off for the race, so we watched the introductions of all the participants and cheered at the starting line.

We stayed at the Hotel de Lyon, a very small and basic hotel, but that was also clean, inexpensive and offered free Wi-Fi in the rooms. Also very close to the train and bus station. (Note to travelers: Valence has two train stations -- Valence Ville and Valence TGV. TGV is outside of the city and requires taking a cheap bus from Valence Ville. The ride is only 10-15 minutes and costs 1.80€. Purchase tickets in advance at Valence Ville bus station.)

The ride out to the village took approximately two hours, cost just under 9€, and had me gripping Matt's arm, fearful of a fall from one of the mountain bridges or over the cliffside.
Arriving safely in the village, our new host was already waiting with her truck to take us up to the farm.

This farm was the one we were the most looking forward to (goat cheese!), but also expected it to work us the most physically. We were quite right about this second part. We originally planned to stay just short of a month; we left early. I feel a bit torn about what to say of our experience. Considering everything, I was not pleased with our experience there. I'm happy we went, of course, and I learned much about myself, about Matt, and about at what point it's okay to give up and throw in the towel. I don't want to give a bad impression of the farm as a whole, as I suspect many of our frustrations to be purely situational. Our host was having some difficulties in her personal life -- her girlfriend was just laid off from her factory job and one of her coworkers had committed suicide. So at 45 years old and with seemingly limited skills, she was unemployed. Our host's husband -- they have been separated for two years -- was also coming to visit for a long weekend. We were once again the only WWOOFers on the farm, and I think we felt a bit neglected.

Rather than to reflect back, I will post something I wrote in my journal during our stay. (We had limited internet access on the farm, so I took to journaling in my Moleskine.)

***

It's our third full day on the farm and it's our day off. We slept in until 8:00. (Note: Normally we woke up at 7:00, ate breakfast at 7:30, were in the stable to milk the goats by 8:00.) We ate our muesli and goat milk breakfast and took off for a day in the valley - that is to say, in the village. (Note: Everyone on the farm ate more or less the same food. Especially the muesli, from the WWOOFers to the goats to the dog.) The village has two sports bars, a couple of churches, a boulangerie and butcher shop, a library that's open 3.5 hours a week, an auberge. Everything closes at noon, so we bought fixings for lunch and ate on a park bench. Matt explored for a bit and found a local's cherry tree, and I watched men lean out of their windows to get a signal good enough to talk on their cell phones. We went to the beach, where we bathed in the river Doux. The water was cold and refreshing, and we prepared by bringing bathing suits, a razor and a bar of soap. After sunning ourselves dry we visited the snack bar near the beach -- a Heineken, in the can, and a Coke, in the bottle. Fountain, caged birds, Nestlé umbrellas and a breeze. A man in a blue Ringling Bros. Circus t-shirt, carrying a green backpack, wearing a ponytail and beard and thick glasses like I've seen Cortázar wear in pictures. Now, I feel like I'm in Florida. Beautiful nature, casual conversation, wet swimsuits draped over plastic chairs, cheap artificial decoration. A caravan.

Our present farm leaves much to be desired. There are at least three large vegetable gardens, too much to care for in addition to the goats, cheesemaking, and the three-month-old puppy, Tuey. (Et tu, Brute?)

We live in a quickly-restored room that has a ruin on one side and a cellar on the other. Next to the place where they slaughter the goats. On the wall hangs an old scyth and a pitchfork. Goat skin carpets. A dry toilet that we have to empty regularly, no drinking water, spiders the size of our fists that our host forbids us to kill.

The hamlet is high on the mountain with little around to offer shelter from the sun. The soil is very dry. Great view of the valley, especially at night, and the moon has been swung strikingly low in the sky and is big. When a car drives up one of the hill's winding roads, the headlights glow and curve like a fluorescent snake.

We work from seven to eight hours a day. Outside it's 30 degrees (86 for us Americans). We haven't been taught how to make the cheese, but at 8 am every day we do our best to milk the goats. Our host is Belgian, has lived in Germany and Africa, is not very talkative to us. We receive privacy but no place to spend it. This farm feels more like France than the others, maybe because we hear the language so much more.

***

As time went on, the puppy went from adorable to annoying. No shoe or leather glove was safe. We continued to work 7-8 hours a day, always milking the goats twice a day (8 am and 7 pm). We ate an unsound amount of goat cheese and milk. The milking was all done by hand, so we joked that should one of us ever be stranded in the mountains, we could always milk a goat for food (presuming, of course, we could catch one, and one that was giving milk). When we first arrived, our host gave us some of the fresh milk in champagne flutes. It's her version of champagne, she says. Still very warm from being inside the goats. Politely, we finished the glasses.

We never did get to make any of the cheese -- which is what we really wanted to learn. In the gardens, we picked berries (I realize this sounds like a task for farm girls in whimsical fairytales, but is really quite laborious), strung wires for tomatoes, cleaned the goat stable, spread manure and of course, pulled weeds. One of the hardest tasks was using hoes to break-up and build the soil around the potato plants. But the highlight of our stay for me was harvesting (accidentally or otherwise) potatoes. I could dig for potatoes all day! Very rewarding, even when they are the size of marbles. Real cute little things I liked to stick in my pocket.

Here's a story I'm sure at least one of you will enjoy. As previously mentioned, our living quarter was outfitted with a dry toilet. Not the fancy kind of dry toilet you see in green-living magazines, but a bucket with a wooden seat built over it. After using the bucket, we would take a trowel full of sawdust and dump it in the bucket. This covers the smell. It works quite well, I admit. I came to the decision that it would be one of Matt's duties to empty (as we so endearingly called it) the shit bucket. So every other day or so, Matt would take out the bucket, clean up any spots that resulted from poor aim (oops), and walk down the driveway to the dumping hill. One day, Matt concluded that it was my turn to empty the shit bucket. Okay. If I can sleep within ten feet of spiders that probably could and happily would feed on a small bird, I can empty a bucket of feces. So I walked with the bucket and the dog down to the hill, grabbed the rim with one hand and used the other hand to hold the bottom, and tossed. But instead of tossing the contents of the bucket, I threw the whole bucket. The little slick flew out of my hands. So I had to climb down into the pile and retrieve it. Eugh.

Our last working day coincided with Fête de la Musique. We spent the later part of the afternoon at the outdoor concert and around midnight, after a hot dog and some wine, we made our way back up the mountain in the dark. Another WWOOFer arrived our last night, so she was given our living quarters. We were transplanted to an unfinished room with no door or windows. The room is where they slaughter the male goats; blood stained the concrete and a large meat hook hung from the ceiling. There was electricity, so we plugged in an industrial floodlight so that we could see our way up the ladder into the loft area where our mattress was stored.

By the time we were finished, we were very tan and very thin -- but also strong. Unsurprisingly, meals heavily composited of muesli, salad and goat cheese don't offer the same heartiness as, say, meatloaf and baked potatoes. But after working farm tools and climbing up hills long enough, even skinny people such as us will bulk up.

So where did we go, after having had enough of the isolated farming life? The big, bad city (MY big, bad city) -- Berlin. And after spending a week hiking and looking for the right view, what did I get to see from the plane? The peak of Mont Blanc.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 10:34:00 +0000

Here is a poem I started at Le Bourmier and finished at La Bouyssette.

It's high noon and you wouldn't know it
if not for the paternal sun, benevolent though
by and large mischievous, and the more certain papal bell,
its cast iron clapper signaling to a vacant
and outdated village square.

The neighbor herds her plucking hens
before their operose bird-blood overheats,
but the laggard chick Phaeton, dressed in dust,
totters eastward, his tiny feet stamping ground
feeling for the spring.

Just as the peaked summer teases the aged farmstead
for its tenacity despite another sparse harvest,
each methodical toll of the steady bell mocks the seasons
for their affected, medieval rituals and for their
idle revolutions.

Meadowside the lonely wether Quasimodo bleats
for his mother, who deafly feeds his she-twin.
Suckling greedily, her inbred knees buckle and
her hind legs falter, a result of some infantile,
milk-borne disease.

The resonant and lusty knell finishes, its closing note
carried away by the western zephyr. The stale soil
cracks under the sun, whose ray, thick
and august, surveys the hamlet -- a tragedy
flanked by superstition.

Excused from terrestrial constraints, the spider,
ensconced in the dun shade of the belfry's eave,
defends her citadel, a neurosis detected in the perfection
of her lacework. A horde of her kin abscond from
their webbed asylum, relieved.

The stoic bell pitches soundlessly over
the calloused fields, an idol among rogues.
The predatory sun keeps even the ruffed buzzards
from savaging the deserted estate. It's high noon and
wouldn't you know.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 18:38:00 +0000

How we perceive ourselves, as Americans: Big. Much too large for European homes. We were always knocking shoulders, hips and knees on the doorways of the gîte. Stubbing toes. Dwarfing teaspoons. Eating the most out of everyone.

Annie -- another of Diny's neighbors, an elderly German woman married to a Russian -- feels similarly about us. She told us stories of WWII and the Occupation. To her (being a child) the war and air raids on Munich were amusing. She was young, an only child. Her family built a bunker. She remembers being sent by her school into the windows of bombed buildings in order to pull valuable items out. Her and her classmates were instructed to help clean and set-up a veterinary hospital that had been bombed -- only to have it bombed again once they were finished picking up broken test tubes and needles. When they liberated the work camps, all the real criminals were also released. It was a dangerous time and all they had was stolen. She recalls the Marshall Plan and the planes dropping candy and shoes. Later, her family owned a villa and the American officers staying in the area demanded to stay with them. The first thing she noticed about them was their gigantic size. They opened the door to find giants before them -- all of them wanting, above anything else, a long, hot bath.

Corinne also told us her impressions of Americans. She says, most everything she knows of America and its citizens comes from movies. Of course she knows better, but she has the impression that we are all movie stars. Tall, confident and good-looking movie stars. Who speak the "nose language." She traveled to the States when she was younger, taking a grand tour of the country with her family. But the most memorable part for her was staying at a holiday ranch in the Southwest -- riding horses in the morning to eat breakfast prepared over an open fire and watching real cowboys.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 18:34:00 +0000

Matt and I found the privacy we were hoping for at our next farm. Again, we were staying in the gîte, but this time it was a separate house from our host's. We had our own bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and even a TV. (We satisfied our nostalgia for American culture with tapes of old Simpsons episodes and a viewing of Jaws.) The property was big, but enclosed by trees. We could hear the neighbor's dog bark from farther away, but not much else. On hot, sunny days (of which there were many), we could swim (European style -- topless) in the bio-pool. A bio-pool does not contain any chlorine, but is heated by the sun and salted to keep down the growth of algae.

Diny and Ben are Dutch and retired to France after careers in pedagogy and engineering, respectively. They treated us with respect, generosity and curiosity -- we were their first WWOOFers. They kept two llamas (Louis and Victor), two donkeys (Eeyore and Maya), five sheep and a few chickens. Diny had a large vegetable garden and some fruit trees, though still not anything we would call a traditional farm. She sells her produce to guests renting the gîte and to a couple of neighbors, but generally keeps it to feed Ben, herself and company they have. Once again, we ate very well! We ate mainly vegetarian meals, but there were a few treats for us omnivores. I especially loved Diny's chicken curry (and took the recipe) and another dish with red currants and duck, along with some sort of savory sauce. One evening, Ben and Diny were going to a dinner for a cultural group they belonged to and invited us along. We ate a proper, multiple course French dinner at the Hostellerie de Goujounac. The restaurant is owned by a Dutch couple, but they prepare French food -- and do it very well.

Many of the neighbors in the area make foie gras and paté, so I had some of that, too. Plenty of Gouda, and strawberries! Diny's garden produced so many strawberries we couldn't pick and eat them all. Much of our garden work involved harvesting, which in an obvious way is more rewarding than planting. We plucked and shucked broad beans (known in the States as fava beans. We love these!), and spent several hot hours picking currants, strawberries and raspberries so Diny could make jam. Jam-making is something everyone seems to do here, and it is a surprisingly easy process. I certainly plan to bring my knowledge back home. Fig jam and chutney, oh, oh.

Diny taught us how to care of growing tomato plants, like how we are supposed to remove the thieves growing between the branches every few days. Diny had the benefit of using organic manure to fertilize her garden and her soil was practically ideal. It didn't have as much clay as in the Dordogne and very few slugs.

For the animals, we built an electric fence around one of the meadows on the property and moved the llamas and donkeys. Our last day it rained, so we cleaned the sheep stables. The job was exactly as one might imagine: pitchforks, a tractor, a stall of straw and manure. Not so bad, really -- if you don't mind getting a little dirty.

One of our other tasks was to split the firewood. Preparing the firewood is a two-year process. First it is collected from a tree that has fallen in the surrounding wood. Then it is stored to dry out. Then split. Then stored again. Then cut to the proper length. Then placed near the house to be used when necessary. Of course, we were only on the farm for a couple of weeks, so we only had to worry about taking the trunks and quartering them. Ben keeps a hydraulic-powered machine in the garage that wedges into the wood and forces it to split, but sometimes Matt had to hatchet the thick or flexible pieces that resisted the machine. His persistence is something to admire -- except when it involves fatigue and axes. Then I had to step in and tell him to give it up. After all, we aren't exactly insured.

In our free time we took walks and rode bikes to the neighboring city of Puy l'Eveque (dating back to the middle ages). One day we went with Diny to the market in Prayssac -- a pretty market full of vegetables, fruit, honey, meat and cheese in a busy town. Highly recommended. Another day we took a walk with the llamas to one of their neighbors, Madeline, a 94-year-old French woman. The house she is living in is 400 years old and was owned for several generations by the family of her husband, who had died at least a couple of decades ago. Now she never leaves the house, but is more than happy to accept visitors. Even for ones who show up unexpectedly, she will pull out a box of cookies (madelines) and pour peach-flavored syrup and water cocktails. She spoke no English, but I could understand her French almost perfectly -- even though most of the conversation revolved around village gossip. It was inspiring to see a woman so full of life at that age. She has the most amazing memory, reciting dates and antecdotes with no trouble at all. She even remembers where she was and what she was doing the day of the Normandy invasion.

On Sundays we all took the car for touring the Lot valley. I never realized until this trip that south of Paris, France is very rural and very hilly. Actually, the Lot valley seemed to be a hybrid of upstate New York (the mountainous terrain), northern Michigan (the sounds of birds, crickets and lawnmowers, lots of evergreens), and Malta (the villages with ridiculously steep, narrow roads that are only accessible on foot). There are several famous grottos, some with paintings and others with spectacular rock formations. It seems that any worthy town has a grotto or medieval ruin to offer its tourists. My favorite trip was to the grotto in Padirac (le Gouffre de Padirac -- l'incroyable aventure souterraine).

First we took an elevator (and then climbed down stairs) down over 100 meters. Once underground, a boat that could only hold eight people at a time took us on a trip 500 meters long, floating on a subterranean river and twisting through the vaulted passageway of the grotto. It was cold underground -- the air stays at a temperature of 13 degrees Celsius, the river only 12. In some parts, the river is as deep as six meters. After the boat ride, we disembarked and continued with a guide walking us through the grotto. In one "room," a giant stalactite drops down 60 meters into the middle of the lake. In another, a stalactite 75-meters-long hangs from the wall. The vault is 94 meters high, which means that only 9 meters of earth separates the grotto from the earth's crust. As for the stalagmites, this huge vault means a long fall for water droplets. Instead of slowing forming upward, these strike the floor and spread to create formations that look like shells, or piles of plates -- or as I observed, brain coral, cauliflower and mushrooms. The lack of lighting made it difficult to take pictures. It is impossible to think of E.A. Martel, the man who discovered the grotto in 1889, exploring its depths without adequate light, steps or ladders.

We headed ground-level for a roadside picnic. We also drove by the medieval town of Rocamadour, which is built into the cliff and is known for its church. I didn't get to see it, but Rocamadour's plaza houses a fragment of a sword rumored to be that by Roland. Of the Song of Roland. You know.

On our second Sunday, we headed to a small church with relatively well-preserved 15th-century frescoes. The left wall illustrated the seven sins, the right wall depicted angels passing on souls to St. Peter at the gates of heaven. Check them out in my photos on Flickr! We also visited the bastide of Monpazier (a perfectly quadrilateral village founded in the 13th century), and the Château de Biron (a beautiful hilltop castle, seized by the Cathars in 1211 -- according to Wikipedia).

Sometime in there (June 6) was Matt's birthday. It rained intermittently. The cabin fever raged. Where are we going to stay in Berlin? After Berlin? Diny prepared a special almond and raspberry cake for Matt and we closed the evening with a round of Yahtzee.

Halfway through our stay, I began to feel that we were at summer camp. We would work outdoors and call it fun, beat off the sun and bugs with bandanas, made sure to eat two big Brownie bites of everything and we would look forward to the occasional swim and venture into town.

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 26 May 2009 12:05:00 +0000

We filled our final week with Leni at Le Bourmier with various projects -- cleaning the barn, installing tomato stakes, planting beet root and various greens. Our final project was to wrap planks from a large, antique wooden barrel around the bathtub using some sort of awfully sticky and gray roofing caulk and Matt's hiking socks as a wedge. It tested our ability to work as a team, but we're still both here and the tub looks great. By the time we left the farm, our corn grew taller and even some spinach had begun to sprout out of the dirt.

We had a bit of fun, too, like a trip to the château in Hautefort, a live concert with Ronnie Caryl (Phil Collin's former guitarist) in the nearby village of Genis, and swimming in the park with Corinne and Michael, an Irish WWOOFer.

Leni drove us down to our next host's farm. We stopped several times, turning the two-hour drive into an expedition of Southwestern France. One in Domme, a very pretty medieval town with an excellent view, albeit too touristy to stay for long. We also stopped at the Ossip Zadkine Museum in Les Arques (in the department of Lot). Les Arques is also home to the well-known restaurant, Le Recréation, but we had to save our money. Zadkine was a Cubist-Expressionist sculptor born in Russia in 1890, but lived most of his life in France. He kept a house in Les Arques, hence the museum.

Our stay at Le Bourmier provided an excellent introduction to life in rural France and to gardening. We were able to put the principles of Slow Food into action and really enjoyed the results. I felt healthier, lighter. It was no surprise to me to learn how much I enjoy the act of eating, but making meal preparation (and consumption!) the central part of the day required a real shift of attention, and one I would like to maintain, if possible. However, maybe not 2-hour long lunches and 3-hour dinners. It's difficult to get much else done, but what else in life matters except for good conversation and good food?