Pretirement

Well, it is our second day in Coutras at a farm nestled in the countryside near Bordeaux. To be honest, I have really no idea where we are on a map. Nor do we have any means to leave the farm without help (yesterday we went for a walk and ended up in someone’s corn field). But  here’s the view from our window:

Please note the goats. As newcomers to the farm, we have been assigned to their care. Also note that while there are two of us, there are 27 of them, plus several “chevrettes” (little goats) and a male goat named Titus (or, alternatively, Leonardo Da Vinci). Every August he’s tasked with impregnating all the females — but right now he’s just hanging out next to the barn, eating hay and bleating loudly.

Anyway, one of my favorite parts of traveling is seeing and doing new things — like swimming in warm rivers, for example, or even sampling putrefied shark. But spending time on the farm is a different sort of experience — it’s giving us the chance to learn how to actually do stuff. And there is a lot of stuff to do on this farm, seeing as how there are some 50 cows, 27 goats, 6 pigs, countless chickens and pigeons, and two enormous work horses (and that’s not counting the four cats, four dogs, and the tropical fish tank in the kitchen). It doesn’t take long for situations like this to make me feel extremely incompetent,  or at least lacking in my ability to survive in the wild. Granted, I am an excellent touch typist — if the apocalypse came and the human race depended on secretarial skills, my stock would be high. But not on a farm — within several hours of being here, we’d observed the father milk the cows, the mother make cheese and yogurt, and the two daughters sharpen the knives, care for the goats, and just to top things off, service their car. As I type, one daughter is simultaneously making tiramisu and madelines, the son (who also fire juggles) is preparing oysters, and the mom suffocated some pigeons for lunch. (Peter just yelled “Catherine, do you want to pluck a pigeon?” up the stairs, and I have confirmed that he meant it literally.)

Luckily, they’re patient. Having correctly judged that goats were a good starter animal, Laurent (the father) showed us how to set up their milking stands and then distract them with breakfast so that we could get at their udders. (I have also learned the verb for “milking” — “traire” — and quite a bit about the details of goat reproduction.) Back when they only had two goats, they milked them by hand, but these days they have a small contraption that sits on top of the milk container and pumps it for them — our job is to grab their udders (les mamelles) and position the teats so they get sucked inside. I may be a city girl, but it’s strangely satisfying to hear the “whoosh, pop” sound of a teat attaching to the pump — and even more so to see the milk flowing from the tube into the container. Also, I can now say that I know not just what it feels like to touch a warm goat udder, but to be sprayed by one — yesterday while demonstrating how far you can squirt the milk (the answer: far), Laurent water-gunned my pants. I think it might have been a hazing ritual.

Anyway, between setting up the milk contraptions, actually getting out the goats (in two batches), milking them, and then washing out the containers, the whole process takes about an hour — and is repeated twice a day, in the morning and around 6pm. I would have thought that it would start to get tedious after, say, the third round — but instead I’m finding myself looking forward to the next milking session. I may not know how to make yogurt or cheese or suffocate a pigeon, but goddamn it, I’m getting good with goat teats.

It reminds me of a conversation we had over dinner our first night here: the mother, Isabelle, was asking whether it were really true that in English, “flower” and “flour” were pronounced exactly the same. “Yes! Exactly the same!” I said, wondering why I felt so satisfied with myself — and then realized it was because while I was/am completely useless as a farm hand, I am very good at pronouncing English words.

What else . . . yesterday, one of the daughters — astonished that I had never tasted milk straight from a cow — brought a plastic cup into the milking room and squeezed out a sample for us to try. (I was surprised to find that it tasted ,well, like cow’s milk — albeit a little warmer and with more froth.) She had us both try milking a second cow so that we could taste the difference, then filled the cup with cold goat milk and gave us that as well. We also had the chance not just to milk the goats in the morning and evening, but to eat one for lunch. This morning included the disconcerting scene of watching Laurent milk the cows as Lady Gaga played on the radio. And lastly, in addition to learning how to make cheese and yogurt, I’ve also discovered a new goal: learn to play a French accordion. Last night we had an 11pm music session with Laurent playing guitar and accordion and me on a tiny synthesizer — and now I’m hooked.

More photos:

Pigeons!

Your shirt looks tasty.

Peter's new friends

I am a very large horse.

As previously noted, there is an impressive amount of volcanic merchandising going on in Iceland – from t-shirts that say “Kiss My Ash” to special “Eruption Tours” that offer to take you mere kilometers away from the glacier under which the volcano lies. I’ve been most impressed, though, by the vials of ash that are being sold in Reykjavik for about $25 a piece. (“And they’re selling well,” a shop keeper told me.) I mean, that’s the Icelandic version of selling dirt – and demonstrates an entrepreneurial spirit that I admire.

So when Peter and I decided to go to Skogar – a small town directly south of Eyajakofull (sp), which is covered in volcanic dust – who could have blamed me for suggesting that we fill up several large bags and set up an ash stand in the tourist district? (Or even better, the international airport.) We wouldn’t have the special vials, so we’d knock a few bucks off the price – say, $20 for a ziploc. Give me a day, I told Peter, and I’d pay for our entire Iceland vacation.

He laughed, perhaps thinking I was kidding, and said something along the lines of “You’re ridiculous” – but really, the only thing ridiculous was that a. I hadn’t thought of this plan before we were back in the non-ash covered countryside – and b. that he wasn’t entirely supportive of the endeavor. If only we still had that rental car. . . .

But missed business opportunities aside, we still had our fair share of ash-related adventures. After spending a night in a dust-covered hostel (the attendants left us alone for the night, so we watched European Idol and snuck a load of laundry into the staff washing machine), we decided to head even further east to the town of Vik, best known for its black sand beaches,  sea bird population, and the fact that it sits directly south of Katla, one of Iceland’s most notorious volcanoes. (It’s at least ten times more powerful than the volcano that’s currently erupting.) I thought this was a bad idea, but I also wanted breakfast, and there were no restaurants or shops open in the entire town of Skogar.

Much to our surprise, Vik was nearly ash-free – if a little quiet, and with no breakfast options other than hot dogs. But such was not the case on the drive back (in terms of ash, not food). In the time it took for us to eat our frankfurters, the wind around Skogar had picked up. Our journey to Vik had been like driving through a mild, carcinogenic fog – but on the way back, the air suddenly turned brown and thick, visibility was reduced to about ten feet in front of our car, and I kept trying to take off my sunglasses, only to reailze that I didn’t have any on. Both of us had the same immediate thought: what if the volcano had begun to erupt again? (Peter feared a flash flood; I worried about a head-on collision with a Reykjavik Excursions tour bus.) Luckily, neither scenario occurred, but dude, the next time you vacation near an active volcano, take my advice and skip the ash cloud.

We continued east toward the Blue Lagoon, a bizarre resort featuring a huge pool of effluent from a nearby power plant. (It’s a geothermal plant, so the water is clean – but it has silica mud in it and is an odd pale blue, with steam puffing off its surface – and at 23 euros per person, is nearly as clever as the ash bags.) But before we could jump in for our daily soak, we needed to deal with the fact that the car was coated in ash. Just as flying into ash is not good for jet engines, driving into it is also not good for your car. In fact, the rental agency had given us a flier specifically explaining that while driving through the volcanic area was not “forbidden,” we were recommended to “exercise caution” and understand that if ash got into all the air filters, we’d have to pay for fixing the engine. What’s more, if any ash stuck to the exterior of the car, it could catch the sunlight and burn through the paint. Oh, and whatever you do, do NOT use the windshield wipers.

I was dealing with ash problems of my own – I’d put on sunblock before leaving the hostel and had fine grains of black grit all over my face. But never mind the effects of volcanic ash on skin – the car took priority. Luckily in Iceland there are little hoses at every gas station, complete with scrub brushes. After two stops and about 15 minutes of high-powered rinsing and scrubbing, I was able to run my finger over the hood without picking up grit. And good thing, too. Whereas the guy who gave us the rental car handed over the keys without so much as explaining our insurance coverage (it didn’t cover any damage caused by nature, volcanoes included), the guy at the drop-off counter spent ten minutes inspecting the exterior, brushing his fingers against the paint as if he were testing to see if we had left behind any dust. Which I suppose he was.

But whatever, car rental guy. What happens at the volcano stays at the volcano (unless it’s packaged in small baggies and sold as souvenirs). We took our soak in the Blue Lagoon, tried our hand at Icelandic horseback riding, and are now on our way to Coutras, a small town in the middle of the French countryside, getting ready to try our hands at dairy farming. Stay tuned.

(We hella loved Iceland.)

I’m writing now from the Blue Lagoon in Iceland, wondering whether it’s worth it to wash the ash out of my hair before dinner. Given how much is currently stuck in my eyebrows, it’s probably a good idea. But first, some photos from the past few days.

First, one of the best meals I’ve had in my life — a tasting menu at the Fish Company in Reykjavik. Dear lord. We’d been trying to sample as much as possible of Icelandic cuisine (see Skyr factory below) — the semantic highlight of which was probably a seafood restaurant that described itself as being a place “where golden lobsters hook their claws together and dance a belly dance while mermaids serve tables amongst shrimp wrapped in seaweed, clapping shellfish and inquisitive haddock.”  (Of their famous lobster soup: “This is the most famous soup in the Republic of Iceland, prepared by handsome cooks who step naked out of the ocean at Stokkseyri with their catch.”) But the naked cooks and inquisitive haddock were put to shame by the meal at the Fish Company, a four-course affair prepared by a 23-year-old chef named Gustave that involved beautifully plated samples of Icelandic lamb, lobster, smoked cod and Skyr ice cream, among other delicious things. Check out my appetizer:

Next we picked up our rental car and headed to the famous Golden Circle of Iceland, the highlights of which were a geyser (pronounced “GAY-zeer”) that erupted about once every two minutes and kept me entertained for more than 45 — and the famous Gullfoss waterfall, which came complete with a rainbow.

I’d enjoyed the day’s sights, but it had been  nearly 24 hours since the last time we soaked in a thermal pool, and we both were getting a little antsy. Thank goodness, then, for the Frost and Fire guesthouse in Hverageroi, which overlooked steaming hills and had a set of “hot pots,” as they call tubs, along the river bank. I think it’s a little funny that they’re called hot pots, considering the eponymous Mongolian dish that involves dipping raw meat into boiling broth and then eating it, but I wasn’t complaining.

But oh, that wasn’t the nicest bathing experience we had in store. The next day we took a hike in the hills overlooking our guest house, where we passed rust-colored volcanic formations and another huge waterfall before coming across a geothermal area bubbling with boiling mud. Usually when Peter and I go hiking we end up at some frigid mountain stream where Peter jumps into the ice cold water and splashes around like a happy dog as I stand on the bank, beating myself up for not joining him, even though I can get chilled by opening the refrigerator, and he has occasionally been known to go swimming in the snow. But not yesterday — thanks to the geothermal/volcanic activity beneath us, we found a stream that was exactly the temperature of a hot bath. It was perfect.

And I haven’t even mentioned the Skyr — you know that thick, fat-free Icelandic yogurt stuff that has started showing up in the United States? It’s made here, at a factory with a rather obscene cow statue outside. And since I’m interested by all dairy products, I contacted the company to set up a tour.  We met a nice young food scientist named Olafur, who used a coffee filter and some fermented skim milk to demonstrate how Skyr is made before walking us through the actual factory. As opposed to other plants I have visited — namely, a fish oil processing factory, and several sewage treatment plants — this one smelled quite nice (like strawberry milk). Its equipment, however — much of which is specially designed to separate water from solids — is bizarrely similar to that at waste treatment facilities. But whatever. When I get home, I’m making my own Skyr. How can something that fat-free be so delicious? Whoever designed this statue clearly had the same question.

It had been a great day, so we decided to cap it off with a drive to Skogar, a town that happens to be directly south of the (now dormant?) volcano. I mean, the rest of Iceland had been beautiful — completely clear, blue skies, fantastic visibility. How bad could it really be?

Answer: pretty bad.

Before today, I would have said “never.” Who doesn’t love a waterslide? And why would they require an age limit?

I found out the answer today at a thermal bath in eastern Reykjavik (not to be confused with the thermal bath we went to yesterday, which was in western Reykjavik and thus totally different). This one was a large complex with a Disneyland-esque parking lot, packed with so many families and children that they had run out of lockers, and the shoe section of the changing rooms had extended into the halls.

But that didn’t stop us. I had spent the morning losing body heat on a whale watching trip in the Reykjavik harbor (Iceland has to be one of the only countries where you can watch sea creatures in the morning and then eat those same creatures at night — lots of whale on the menu, my friends). So I was eager for some warmth.

We jumped into the main thermal pool and then noticed that at this particular thermal bath, there was a waterslide — a four-story tall affair, out of which was popping a steady stream of giggling children. Notice that I said “children” — Peter and I watched it for quite some time, and did not see any adults ejected from the tube. But that’s their loss, right? Sure, there was a sign in Icelandic that said something involving the words “6” and “8” — perhaps in reference to the allowed ages. But we climbed up anyway, taking our places in a horde of dripping kids, and waited for our turn.

Peter went first, hurling himself into the blue plastic tube. I waited for my green light — yes, this water slide had metering lights — grabbed onto the bar in front of me, and pulled myself into the slide. The water rushed around me and for a brief, lovely second I had a flashback to the waterslides of my youth — exhilarating, gleeful –and I wondered why I had ever questioned whether this was a good idea.

Then my bottom got stuck.

I shifted around, got myself to slide forward a bit and then, whoops, stuck again. What’s more, I was wearing my glasses — and since this was a waterslide fueled by thermal waters, they were fogging up.

I have very bad eyesight outside in  normal light, let alone in a dark blue plastic tube when I’m desperately trying to unstick my bottom so that I am not rammed from behind by an eight-year-old. So I pushed them down my nose and began pulling myself along by my hands — slide, stick, slide, stick.

I heard him before I saw him: a small, chubby boy hurtling at me in the dim light. My paddling became more desperate, but it was no use — five seconds later, in a dark section of the tube, I felt his legs slide around my body as he straddled my back. The good thing was that the added momentum pushed me further down the tube. The bad thing was that, thanks to the size of my butt,  I had created a situation where I could be accused of inappropriately touching a child.

Worried that my new friend would soon be followed by others (those metering lights were quick), I reached out for the wall and did another pull — and as I completed the movement, accidentally smacked the boy on his arm. He yelped and said something in Icelandic (probably along the lines of “I’m not the one slowing things down, lard-ass”) and dropped back just enough for me to frantically paddle my way toward daylight.

Whereas most children burst from the tube with the power of a small explosion, I emerged as more of a dribble — a soft kerplunk, followed by several desperate strokes toward Peter, who was confused by what had taken so long.

The boy quickly blended back into the crowd, and I hoped that the number of people in the pool might give me anonymity as well. But then, as I waited for Peter near the entrance, a familiar, pudgy figure wearing socks decorated with soccer balls passed me with his father. Catching my eye, he turned toward me and said something to me in Icelandic. Not angry, but definitely forceful — perhaps something along the lines of “Hey lady, next time, I go first.”

It’s official: we have embarked on our journey. First stop, Reykjavik, where I am sitting in the hostel lobby listening to the BlackEyed Peas and glancing at a coffee table book titled Earth on Fire, which seems an ominous choice given the current volcanic situation. Peter and I are about to head off to a thermal bath for the afternoon (what better way to clear up the jetlag than a soak in a hot tub) but my first impressions of Reykjavik/Iceland are as follows:

1. It is a strange choice, Iceland Air, to name each of your planes after Icelandic volcanoes. Hekla. Katla. Really?

2. Putrefied shark meat (a local delicacy!) does not taste good.

3. $29 for a small bag of volcanic ash seems like a bit much. But kudos to Iceland for wasting no time in turning the current eruption into a tourism opportunity.

For those of you not familiar with the term, “logisticizing” is the excessive state of planning one (i.e. me) gets into before the start of a big trip. It is the exact opposite of “chillaxinating,” and is a quite unpleasant state to be in. Signs of logisticizing include:

-feeling irrepressible urges to make checklists
-realizing that each checklist contains the same items
-still not being able to stop yourself from making another one
-spending three hours on a Saturday night trying to figure out how to replace your website’s top banner with a picture of an old map
-surfing sites including adventuremedicalkits.com and wondering what options they have for rush shipping (speaking of which, I still need to do that)
-putting together lists about lists, supposedly as part of a blog post, but really just a way to see if your twitter plug-in works
-compulsively checking Iceland Air’s website to see the latest volcano updates (the airport was open today)

In other words, I am in high logisticizing gear. It’s really unpleasant. But that’s the catch: when you’re in a state like I am right now, you can convince yourself that if you just plan things well enough, chillaxination will be yours.

Now, let’s see about Twitter. . . .

Here are a few items on my usual pre-vacation checklists:

1. Pack underwear

2. Bring passport

3. Make sure I am not flying into a volcano

Being a rather conscientious person, this system usually works well. But this time, somewhere between the underwear and the documentation, I forgot to check whether or not one of the many volcanoes in Iceland was about to blow. You know, before I bought tickets on Iceland Air.

Alas, the unpronounceable Eyjafjallajokull wasted no time in exploding. Which is unfortunate timing, because now Peter and I are the proud holders of two tickets to Paris, via Reykjavik, leaving next Friday.

But that’s no big deal, right? The volcano hasn’t been in the news for like, weeks — at least not since British Petroleum began pumping crude oil into the ocean and the European Union threatened to collapse. But that doesn’t mean the volcano’s calmed down. Far from it. Check out this photo of its ash plume:

The volcano — which actually just sits beneath the glacier known as Eyjafjallajokull (perhaps its anonymity is pissing it off) — shows no signs of abating, and in fact just shut down Reykjavik’s airport for the umpteenth time in the past few weeks. At the moment, it looks like we still will be able to fly into Iceland, on an overnight flight into a second airport, four hours away from Reykjavik. But getting out? Not so easy. As of today, all flights to Europe were cancelled.

This is going to be an interesting trip.