British Invasion

Q: What has a Marco, a Moxy, the world's largest rubber band ball, and approximately 623,183,834 thumbs?

A: The United States of America

That's right, we've finally returned to country of our birth. We knew we were home when the guy manning the insanely long customs line at Boston Logan Airport yelled “Hello?!” to someone who wasn't moving fast enough. Ah, America. We missed you too.

It seems sort of silly to write another entry when one half of our target mom audience has already heard the information first hand, but oh well. This one goes out to posterity.

When Mark left off, we were winging our way to Edinburgh after a 7 week Grand Tour of the Continent. Watch as I try and fail to condense our 3 week British journey into something readable. Here I go!

Part I: Edinburgh

Oh my, but Edinburgh is lovely. Picture a stone castle perched on a cliff, looming over the winding alleyways and covered stairs of the old town and the broad Georgian avenues of the new town.

Now picture us trying to navigate those alleys and avenues through the huge crowds that descend on the city during the month-long Fringe Festival - giant blue suitcase, trombone and accordion in tow. Disaster recipe 101.

The Fringe Festival is a gigantic endeavor. Theater groups, comedians, musicians from around the world turn every bar and cafe and theater into a venue. You can't walk down High Street (the main street, also called the Royal Mile) without being accosted by scores of performers and hired promoters handing out fliers advertising their shows. Add in thousands of tourists and around 50 tenacious street acts, and you've got yourself a stew - the deliciously creative and chaotic stew that is the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Mark and I arrived for the festival's final week. Every morning at 10am we braved the inevitable rain with the other street performers (some old friends, some new friends, plus the inevitable crazies and egomaniacs), waiting for our name to be pulled out of the official sack so we could sign up for our pitch that day. We played some lovely shows in front of the National Gallery of Scotland, and a gigantic one on High Street. I really preferred the atmosphere of the museum crowds, though, even if they weren't quite as big. You can't beat culture.

These were our first shows ever in English, and I think we did well. It was extremely bizarre to realize that everyone probably understood everything I was saying. Mark couldn't break the habit of saying “Supa!” (super) in a German accent, and my syntax sometimes slipped back into Deutsch (“If you're wearing a hat, come now please into the circle!”), but I think overall we did well. And I think our show really stood out as one that didn't fall back again and again onto the same overused stock street performing lines and tricks. To illustrate: I think we watched four separate shows with someone breaking out of a straightjacket wrapped in chains. Now try that while playing the accordion, and THAT I'll care about.

Our friend Fleur who lives in London was also at the last week of the Fringe. We know her from the year she spent at the Clown Conservatory in SF, so it was exciting to reunite (and she even had an extra room for us to stay in for the last few days!). More on her later. Speaking of reunions, one night Mark ran into his cousin (also named Mark) at a bar near Fleur's place. He was just in the city for one night following a car trip though the Scottish highlands. Remarkable! (Get it?)

Also we watched five Fringe shows (theater, not street). They varied from okay to excellent. Call me for more information. This entry is already too long. 

Looking down on the city from cliffs just outside the city center.

Nice city park, eh?

Our big show on High Street.

Part II: Scottish Isles

Mark and I planned to spend some time with Fleur back in London, but we wanted to do some Scottish exploring first. So, storing our excess (and how) luggage at the Left Luggage counter in the Edinburgh station, we jumped on a train and went West, young man. At Glasgow, we went north with only a vague destination in mind – Loch Lomond, a large lake known for having some nice hikes. Our plan was to spend four or five days camping before heading back to London. Interesting fact: Scotland's Outdoor Access Code, commonly known as the “right to roam,” means you can camp anywhere you want, as long as it's not in someone's backyard or on a baseball field while a game's in progress. That first night, we set up camp in the pouring rain somewhere between a subdivision and a tiny highway. Ah, nature.

In the morning, after consulting the Lonely Planet Scotland book that Mark the Cousin left for us, we changed our plan. We decided to push north and west, using the infrequent bus and more frequent ferry service to explore some of the many Western Islands. Because so much of the mainland in that region is peninsular (real word?), cut up by dramatic fjord-like lochs, you can ride the bus all day and only end up a few miles away from where you started. Makes sense that for much of its history this area was ruled by Vikings and other sea lords. Our total number of ferry rides this trip: 6.

The first island we experienced was Iona. It's is a tiny tiny place, but huge in the history of Christianity. St. Columba landed there from Ireland in the 500s, founded a monastery, and proceeded to convert all of pagan Scotland. People believe that the Book of Kells was started there, but because of so many Viking raids in later centuries, was moved to Ireland. Tiny Iona boasts the ruins of a nunnery, an ancient abbey, a cemetery where over 50 kings of ancient Scotland are buried (including Macbeth), sandy beaches, and wind-swept grassy hills.

We set up our tent on one of those wind-swept hills, congratulating ourselves on outsmarting the midges (terrible biting flies that terrorize Scotland every summer). After a sleepless night spent in a violently shaking tent thinking the ghosts of ancient Scottish kings were trying to throw us off the mountain, we weren't so smug. We were, however, witnesses to a magnificent sunrise that lit up the ocean and faraway cliffs. Then, quick, pack up the tent and run for the ferry back to the island of Mull, en route to the mainland.

And that was how my 27^th birthday began.

Hebridean beach

The abbey and ancient cemetary

Our terrible and beautiful camp site on the hill. This is the last picture we took before Mark's camera ran out of batteries. The charger? Back at Left Luggage in Edinburgh.

Another island we spent a few days on was Islay, home to no fewer than eight whiskey distilleries. On the day after my birthday (which still counts as my birthday because I was born on the West Coast of the USA – time difference!), we trekked several miles in the misting rain, past blackberry bushes and skittish sheep, to visit 3 different distilleries: Laphroaig, Lagavulin, and Ardbeg. We took the 10am tour of Laphroaig and learned a whole lot about the process of making Scotch whiskey. Then we sat in their visiting lounge and drank complimentary drams of their wonderfully peaty quarter cask. Educational and delicious. We didn't tour the other two, but did (of course) take full advantage of their visiting lounges and complimentary drams, fortification against the gray rainy moors.

Add in another day spent biking along the Atlantic coast and through the Highland interior, startling sheep and communing with Highland cattle, and you've got yourself one excellent Western Isle excursion.

We bought 2 disposable cameras to use for the rest of our Scottish adventure. This is one of our six ferries.

Out in the Hebrides, signs show Gaelic first, then English.

Enjoying Lagavulin's visiting lounge.

Our campsite in the front lawn of the White Hart Hotel. Outdoor Access Code!

A meeting.

Our bike trip lunch spot. If it were less misty, you could see Ireland. A joke our Laphroaig tour guide told us: "If you can see Ireland, it's about to rain. If you can't see Ireland, it's raining already."

Sunset over Islay from the ferry.

Part III: London

London is BIG. Or at least that's how it felt to us after spending a week where a town was huge if it had more than one grocery mini-mart.

We stayed with our friend Fleur (there she is again) and she really treated us to a complete English experience. My favorite day was when we toured the National Gallery of Art in the morning, had traditional afternoon tea complete with crustless cucumber sandwiches, then finished the afternoon in awe at the British Museum. So much awe that Mark and I returned the next day. Egyptian mummies and statues, Roman ruins, Assyrian reliefs, Medieval art, the Rosetta Stone, just centuries and centuries of evocative artifacts, and for Mark, an entire room full of clocks and watches. We could have spent a month there without getting bored. Especially since almost all the museums in London are free.

Speaking of museums, we also toured the British Library (Magna Carta + the oldest bound book in Europe), the Natural History Museum (giant sloth skeleton), the Hunterian Museum (a room full of jars with dissected body parts + Charles Babbage's brain), the Tate (lotsa art), and the Tower of London. I'm willing to plan your next London trip, just mail me a check. FYI, I only accept pounds now.

A red double decker AND Big Ben. Mark and Fleur to the right.

Part IV: Staverton and Totnes, Devon (a county in the western part of England, full of beaches and moors, where all the Brits go on vacation, right next to Torquay where Faulty Towers is set)

Mark's dad's best friend since he was little is conveniently named Marco. He makes wonderful paintings, wears a green beret and purple sweater, and lives with his wife and two daughters in Staverton. Their older son lives in Santa Barbara (the family originally lived in California). We spent two and a half idyllic days with them wandering the moors and hiking through the fields and gardens of an ancient estate (Henry the VIII temporarily owned it!). We were treated to “a real English cream tea” (in contrast to our apparently insufficient London attempt) and Lhasa (18 years old and headed off for a year of theater school in Stratford...that's right, the one upon Avon) gave us a tour of Totnes's hottest sights (including but not limited to the vintage store and local organic market).

Excuse my parenthesesing. 

Mark, a wild moor child, and the moors.

We rode with Lhasa on the steam train from Staverton to Totnes. An entire car was full of school kids dressed up like WWII evacuees. We got our own cabin.

Part V: The End

You made it, even if you just read the beginning, looked at the pictures, and rejoined us for the end! Congratulations.

Mark and I are busy adjusting to our more stationary lives...sort of. On Thursday we head up to Maine to visit his brother, and on October 2 we fly to San Francisco, and sometime before October 20 we fly to Austin for his cousin's wedding. In any case, we're adjusting to the sound of American accents and the sad dearth of digestive biscuits.

Some statistics as we look back on our whole trip:

Hostels stayed in: 1

Friends' houses stayed at: 6

Nights spent camping: 13

Bread and cheese meals: approximately 924

Times Mark changed his pants: 2 (Me: “Can I tell people you only changed your pants twice this whole trip?” Mark: “If that.”)

Total shows performed: 30

Total hearts touched: one million rainbow smiles

Average mileage: 49 miles per gallon

Total fuel used: 67.4 gallons

Total distance driven: 3,344 miles

Number of stall-outs: none...absolutely none at all...

And with that, we bid adieu. Maybe we'll see you soon, or maybe we just saw you. Anyway, thanks for reading and ciao for now!

Until next trip,

Marya and Mark

Treat Yourself to a Rustico

So I will let you in on a little secret. Marya and I are actually on the Isle of Islay in Scotland, where we've toured three whiskey distilleries and one brewery. We just checked into a swell hostel after 3 rainy days of camping, took our first showers of the week, and washed our clothes. We have not eaten dinner yet, so forgive me if I wander a bit in this blog. It's the single malt talking.

So! After leaving Austria, Marya and I made a brief but exceedingly lovely stop in Milan, Italy for an art museum and a two course Italian meal, and then swooped into Verscio, Switzerland. Verscio is a tiny mountain town in the Italian speaking part of Switzerland. It is the home of the Dimitri School of physical theater (NOT a clown school!) and, for the last two years, of our friend David Melendy. (NOT a clown! Though I did meet him in clown school in SF. And he was a clown on Circus Bella for a year. And he is going to be the “character” on Circus Monte next year... ok, he might be a clown.) Anyway, we are swooping into Verscio to visit our old buddy David. To continue the tradition of transcribing text messages, I present you with the full transcript of our texted directions:

So, there's only one main road in Verscio and you'll be on it for sure when coming from Locarno. The Verscio piazza will be on the right, it's small. Post office, fountain, closed pizzeria, scuola dimitri all located here. Find Perri's Panetteria on the corner next to the street. Walk up the tiny alleyway Caraa di Leoi. First left into “courtyard” with solid stone/grape awning picnic table. Find door beneath balcony with many bikes in front. My house! Good luck

We got about as far as the picnic table before we were greeted by friendly voices calling out, “American friends of David!” Yeah, Verscio is not huge... We had a tearful reunion with David and for the next four days, we lived the high life of a recent graduate of clown schoo.. Ah, no, I mean theater school.

David and his lovely housemates really showed us a good time. They hooked us up with some free tickets to see a couple of shows at the Teatro Dimitri, including a really nice performance by this year's graduating class. David led us on an expedition into the “magic valley” where we took a long hike, following directions from a map that encouraged us to “Give yourself a rustico!” We jumped from a 30 foot high cliff into the crystal clear water (OK David wasn't there for that, but he was there in spirit.) And before we knew it, it was time to leave the beautiful sleepy mountain town of Verscio and head up to Lenzburg in the German speaking part of Switzerland, where we were engaged for a weekend festival.

We hiked up to a church above Verscio.

Handstands in David's front yard.

On our walk in the magic valley

A town we reached on our walk.

Marya reads Bridget Jones's Diary to prepare for England.

Lenzburg is a smallish town with a cute little pedestrian Old Town (big surprise there!) We were put up in a rather nice little hotel very close to the center and the festival organizers turned out to be very friendly and rather, well, organized. We were happy to be reunited with our performing buddies from Hamberg, the Fire Fairies (which sounds cooler in German) and with Tina Green (aka Emma, from Australia) and The Sideshow Charlatans (now accompanied by their Direwolf of a dog.)

Another highlight was encountering some people from my early performing days in Boston. (I used to do a juggling and tall unicycle style street show in Boston when I was about 16.) We ran into Alkazam, who still lives and works in Boston, and met Laura Dilletante, a stunning accordionista and vocalist from Germany who happens to be dating Brendan The Pretty Good, who was a friend of mine in Boston 10 years ago. Street theater is a pretty small world.

We had some really nice shows in Lenzburg, though the crowds were generally on the small side for the whole festival (Maybe because it was about 100 fricken degrees.) Marya and I also had the honor of receiving our first award. The critics judged us to be the 4^th best show at the festival. It was nice to be recognized, but we both felt a little bit bad about the way the judging was conducted. If you happened to have a bad spot or a bad time when the judges were there to watch your show, you were out of luck. Also, what do these judges know about what makes a good street show? I felt they favored the big, formulaic shows over interesting or unique shows. In general, I don't think I am a fan of competition in street festivals. We took the money anyways.

After Lenzburg, we made a quick side trip up to a weird little town in Germany where we ate Subway sandwiches and convinced a bank to convert all our Euro coins into bills (because you can't change coins at a currency exchange, only bills, and we had 50 pounds of Euro coins threatening to come with us to Scotland...). Success!

Then we zipped down to Zurich for a nice day of site seeing, camping, car cleaning and drinking wine in the park. We unceremoniously dumped our faithful friend Little Pepper Pilkington in the hands of some random guy at the Zurich International Airport who claimed to be from Renault, and boarded our British airways flight to Edinburgh. English speaking world, we go there! I mean, uh, here we come!

Zurich. We saw some beautiful stained glass windows made by Chagall and tried to hide from the heat.

Austrian Odyssey

I just heard on the radio that 2012 so far has been the hottest year EVER on record for the United States. From over here in Europe, though, it was hard to believe stories about no rain and weeks of 90+ temperatures. Paris, Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands, Austria – everywhere we went rain seemed to follow us.

This past week has made me a believer. Ever since we entered Switzerland one week ago, clouds have cleared and temperatures have soared and teenyboppers have strutted around in their tiniest sundresses while Mark and I have hidden desperately in the shade. Global warming summer is here.

And so we're outta here. Right now, we're lounging in the air-temperature controlled Zurich International Airport. Little Pepper is gone, our belongings reluctantly shoved back into plane-friendly bags, and all that's left to do now is wait for our 3:30 flight to Edinburgh, Scotland. Aufwiedersehen sunny skies; 'ello rainy highlands. 

When Mark last wrote, we had just left Germany's rolling fields for the more dramatic slopes of Austria's Cider Quarter. This did not, however, stop Mark from saying we were in Germany for the next several weeks. “Hey Mark, what country are we in right now?” Panicked gaze into the distance, several seconds pause, and finally: “Switzerland... Nailed it.” *

Austria, once again, was amazing. To borrow a favorite word of Philip/Witiwati, it was probably one of the most amazingest parts of our trip. We hadn't even been there for 24 hours before we climbed a mountain, went swimming in their backyard pool, and helped Philip, Petra and their 16 year old friend put on a fire show for the local Tiki Bar. Kari Jones, I hope you are reading this, because Mark Wessels totally did Nyah Cat's fire poi routine as one of his acts. What did I do, you ask? Why, I held up one fire club to help illuminate Philip and Petra's partner acrobatic act. Nailed it. 

Petra, Philip, Me

Mark and me, really tiny in the distance

Mark's excellent poi routine and even better Tiki shirt

Our four days there were so packed with activities that I'm exhausted just remembering them. Philip and Petra aren't the type of people to spend their vacation days leisurely lounging around the house. Instead, we went on rock climbing trips, baked pies, worked on installing an elaborate porch awning, rafted in the freezing Ybbs, did handstands in the hills, and watched their backyard zucchini grow.

One rock climbing route had us at least 60 meters (180ft) above the ground, which was already part of a mountain. Looking out from the top, you got an amazing post-card view of Austrian countryside (assuming you could tune out your sweaty terror long enough to enjoy it). Another rock wall we attempted was much harder. I hung in my harness, defeated near the top, while Philip (holding the other end of my rope) yelled “Fight! Fight! Come on, fight!” and refused to belay me down until I had attempted the difficult spot at least 3 more times. It may seem supportive and motivational now, but at the time, all I wanted to do was drop a rock on his head. Mark, of course, attempting an even harder course to my right, aced it like a little monkey goat.

View from the top of the rock cliff as Mark and Philip wave goodbye.

On Friday night, a local party organizer (the same person behind the pool side Tiki Bar) hosted a fancy soiree in a club located in the town castle. The theme? The White Experience. In small town Austria, no one found this title the least bit offensive or ironic. Mark and I, however, cringed a little every time we heard about it. On the big night, P and P and Mark and I sat eating pizza, watching all the ladies in tiny white dresses and all the men in sort of white t-shirts parade past. We then went home and hosted the Mustache Experience, wherein we all put on fake mustaches and Mark and I taught everyone a classic American card game: King's Cup. Everyone was a winner!

Come Monday morning, we packed up our things once more and said our heartfelt goodbyes. Five minutes later, after Philip and Petra brought down the toothbrushes we had forgotten and found Mark and me eating chocolate on the bench by our car, we said them again.

It was wonderful to reconnect with them, even for that short time. Today, they're flying to San Francisco for a five week trip through Utah and Colorado, so if you live in one of those 3 places and want to dangle from a rope or be beaten ruthlessly in Dominion, let us know. We'll get you the hook up.

After leaving the now familiar Waidhofen hills, we performed for 2 days in Velden, a lake resort town in southern Austria. The shows were mediocre, but we went waterskiing, so there's that.

We had another 2 days to spare before needing to be at another festival, so we used them to drive south to Slovenia's Julian Alps. Swimming in Lake Bled, hiking through a gorge, and jumping into Europe's cleanest river were lovely. Driving up and down 1,600 meters in a tiny manual diesel car on a twisting mountain road with at least 60 switchbacks was not. “Mark, I don't know about this route – it looks like it goes straight up and down the mountain and might be a little crazy.” “No way, it's going to be fun.” Famous last words. Or at least famous last words before the equally famous words: “I told you so.” 

Slovenia, yo.

Thursday evening found us in Klagenfurt, a smallish town on the Austrian/ Slovenian border that was hosting a street performing/music festival. As a street performer, I generally HATE being at festivals with bands. They perform on large stages with huge sound systems, while we turn up our tiny Crate Street Cube to full volume and try to compete. Also, people tend to get drunk pretty early, which makes our final trick a little hard. So, once again, mediocre shows, but we got to ride the bumper cars with our friends from Scooby Circus, so there's that.

On Sunday we took to the road again, this time headed to Verscio in southern Switzerland to visit our friend David who does NOT go to clown school.

It's almost time to board now, though, so Mark will have to pick up the Swiss side of our story later. I'm going to start thinking about which complementary beverage to choose. Coffee is the classic choice, ginger ale is my go to, but we are headed to Scotland, so maybe...whiskey? Choices, choices...

*Also, for some reason, Mark has been calling our Swiss Francs “Marks” this entire trip. Like Deutschmark. Which are from Germany, not Switzerland, and haven't even existed for 10 years because of the Euro. He's unstoppable, though. “Where are we going to change all our Marks?” I don't know, Mark. Good luck to you.

Rock and Roll ob der Tauber

Where are we? A weird sports complex/motel on the German side of the Swiss German border.

And where were we? Right, Belgium.

Little Pepper Pilkington once again did us right and deposited us safe and sound in Koblenz, DE (with a lovely albeit rainy lunch stop in the beautiful medieval Dutch town of Maastricht).

Maastricht lunch spot, with old city walls.  We are just outside of the 11th century Hellport (Hell's Gate.)

Marya in front of the Red Keep at Kings Landing.  Wait, I mean in front of some church in Maastricht.

Lots of good artists at the Koblenz festival, but not a lot of opportunity to perform because of nearly constant rain. We did run into Joe Dieffenbacher, the new head honcho of the SF Clown Conservatory. His street show was scheduled immediately after ours!

Marya and I were sitting in the doorway of a closed business with our show, staying out of the endless rain, when our buddy Ronaldo (a clown from Argentina, now living in Spain) reminded us “This is a unique opportunity. For all of us to have a beer.” We immediately went to the beer tent (complementary for performers) and stayed to close the place. I mean literally, we helped them close the place. We got a lot of practice speaking Spanish, German, Spanglish, Alemañol, and other languages of the globe-trotting elite. Our shows in Koblenz were only mediocre, but the company was fine (that's international English for good.)

After a touching Skype reunion with our old street performing pals and adopted Austrian family, Witiwati und Rosa, we decided to visit them again in Waidhofen an der Ybbs, their small hometown. First, though, we planned to explore some sights along the Romantic Road, a winding country lane through some of southern Germany's most beautiful medieval towns. It was created after WWII to boost Germany's economy, and originally frequented by American tourists visiting their US Army husbands.

In true romantic fashion, Marya fell ill with a fever so we spent a day recouping in Wurzberg, the first stop on the Road. We checked into a nice little hotel where she immediately fell asleep, and I wandered the city seeking vegetarian soup (the recommended treatment). Despite having only the most abstract idea of how to say “soup” or “vegetarian” and absolutely no idea how to attempt “take-out,” my mission was a success. We holed up with some delicious Thai soup and our remaining Belgian beers, and found some time the next day to scope out the local castle before we continued down the Romantic Road.

Old fortress/castle above Wurzburg.

The 32ft tall wooden Altar of Mary, carved by famous German artist Tilman Riemenschneider in the late 1400s. 

Close-up.

Marya walks the ramparts at Winterfell. Roman's house pictured at left. Oh all right, she's walking the old city walls of Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Its old town is still completely encircled by them.

By the way, if you ever want to visit the Romantic Road, I highly recommend this super bizarre mid-90s era website. We mostly stuck to the Red Frogs but if you get lost, you can always click on the animated wizard GIF. Also Every Word On The Site Is Capitalized, Which Just Rules. Check it out. http://www.romanticroad.com

When Marya and I reached the end of the Romantic Road (only the literal one, don't worry) we found ourselves within spitting distance of Waidhofen. Earlier that day, Witiwati und Rosa had invited us to meet them at a Rock Climbing Garden (at least we think that's what Klettern Garten means) in some tiny neighboring town. They gave us an address and wished us luck. “It might be a bit hard to find,” they warned us.

Several hours later, lost and without a phone, we followed our questionable google maps directions up winding, unlabeled mountain roads through Austrian farmland. We finally dead ended at a farm house. Deciding that this couldn’t possibly be our destination, we turned around and drove back to the nearest little town. But wait! At that moment of despair we received the following text message * from Petra (aka Rosa, aka Mom) :

Its quite hard to find. Continue on hintsteingraben. At the end of the street there is a farmer house you see our car. Afterwards its 15 min walk first on a path on the back of the house with stones then follow the way with the red stripes through high grass. Then you find our stuff at a hole. Good luck.

On the road to the farmer's house. We're only halfway up there at this point.

So we drove back up to the farmer house, ready to attempt a rendezvous. When we arrived this time though, we encountered an older woman who lived in the house. She spoke no English, and I speak no German. But she grabbed the nearby 10 year old boy who studied Anglish in schule, and Marya took full advantage of her Pimsleur German education. With a healthy dose of internationally understood hand signs, we reached a tentative understanding. We had arrived too late at night for the rock climbing garden, if we wanted to sleep (hands folded under head) we could put up our (hand sign for tent.) But if we went to the rocks, then (hand sign of a shotgun) So we should instead come back (10 year old translational triumph) “next day.” With that warning, we decided it might be better just to meet our friends in Waidhofen.

(In case you're worrying about Austrian farm women running us down with shotguns, don't. After successfully reuniting with Philip and Petra much later at their house, they told us that hunters sometimes use the land around the rock walls. It can be dangerous after dark.)

We survived the Klettern Garten ordeal and arrived without further event in Waidhofen an der Ybbs. Our adventures in Waidhofen were many and varied, but that is a tale for another day, in another hotel room with another dodgy wireless connection.

Till then.

Ciao,

Marco

* - Yeah, OK, so we have a phone, it just doesn't work for anything except receiving text messages.

Where my hoes at?

Mark:

Between Bamberg and Koblenz street performing festivals, Marya and I had a two week window of free time. We decided that it would be nice to work on an organic farm somewhere in Europe. Before our trip, we searched around on Workaway.com, a site where you can volunteer to help with someone's project in exchange for room and board. There are a lot of small family farms on the site, but also house construction projects, hostels, daycares and all kinds of jobs. We found a couple promising organic farms and finally settled on a farm in Belgium, run by a 26 year old guy named Wouter. His farm supplies produce for his own CSA which has 120 members, they make Belgian fries and pizza once a week, and he reminded me of my brother, David. Boom.

So, post Bamberg, still aglow with our success, we made the 6 hour drive to Sint Katelijne Waver and started our new life as farmhands.

The typical day of a volunteer worker on this small organic farm in the Belgian suburbs starts at 5:30. You roll out of your bed, make coffee, eat a bowl of muesli, pull on your rain boots and rain coat and head out to the field. For the next 6 hours, you harvest produce (butter beans, potatoes, tiny carrots) or you hoe. It may or may not be raining. At noon, or sometimes at one, depending on the day, you put your hoes down and troop into the farm house. On your way in, you choose some fresh vegetables from the garage to eat for lunch. You then prepare lunch for 10 or 12 people, serve it, eat it and clean up. By 2 pm, your work is done, but by then you are generally too exhausted to do anything but lie on the floor until it's time to make dinner. After dinner with the whole gang, you drink a delicious Belgian beer, play a game of whist, and crawl into bed.

Harvesting carrots, I think.

Marking dinner. The guy on the right is NOT Mark's brother, just his Belgian twin.

Mark loves taking pictures of food.

Marya:

Needless to say, the glow of our success faded pretty quickly. But it wasn't all dirt and toil (well, not entirely). There were 2 other people around our age also doing workaways on the farm. Jenny, a 19 year old from England making her first solo journey and Xander, a 21 year old from Scotland who was biking around Europe. You can get pretty close to someone pretty quickly when the only thing you have to do for 6 hours is hoe, and the only thing that makes hoeing bearable is talking.

Jenny kept us entertained for hours with stories from her recently completed first year of university – stories that I cannot repeat here, but you definitely wish you knew. The one about zombie Snow White was one of my favorites. She was also the slowest hoer in the entire history of human agriculture, so Mark and I used to secretly hoe some of her row too, just so she could keep up with us. How else could we find out what happened after David (who she's secretly in love with even though he seemed like kind of a jerk to us) confessed his love to her for a girl in his lazertag club, and she fell tearfully into the consoling arms of Jeremy (David's best friend, and just a good friend to her too she said, even though he seemed like the perfect guy and once even took off her shoes and brushed her hair before putting her to bed when she was sick)? See, thrilling!

Xander was a unique spirit. He's the kind of person who sets off for an international bike trip with one backpack, one pair of pants, one shirt, one sweater, and absolutely no money. When we harvested, he saved all the rejected tiny vegetables in his pocket, and once he tried to convince everyone that the wax part of cheese was completely edible. When we discarded it anyway during our dinner prep, he rescued it, chopped it into tiny pieces, mixed it with raw chopped garlic, and served it as a side. He was the only one who ate it. 

There were other characters at the farm, too: an older surly Scottish man (is there any other kind?) who would sneak off into the shade for hours when Wouter wasn't around, and another older Belgian man who was a friend of Wouter's and lived in a van out back. He had long curly hair and many lady loves and meandering stories and I think he was also totally insane. Ask Mark – they talked for hours sitting on the front porch. Kindred spirits, perhaps? And of course there were others – workers, visitors, friends – who dropped by, baked some bread, picked potatoes, ate dinner, and left, generally before it was time to do the dishes.

Mark and I also found some time for travel. One weekend, we drove up to Amsterdam, pitched our tent, and explored the city. We rode bicycles with hordes of clueless tourists and angry locals, toured Rembrandt's house (beautiful) and Anne Frank's secret annex (sad and strange), and did not learn how to speak Dutch. We also spent an afternoon in Ghent, a town in Belgium. It was one of the largest and most powerful European cities during the Middle Ages because of it's cloth industry. Now, it has beautiful architecture, a cool student population, and more vegetarian restaurants per person than any city in Europe. We gazed at the Van Eycks' famous Adoration of the Lamb altar, toured a castle, and ate a mountain of Belgian fries with vegetarian gravy. Perfect. (Mark: "Boom.")

Our lunch spot in Amsterdam.

Biking along the canals.

One sunny afternoon, Mark, Xander, Jenny and I picked up some Belgian beer and chocolate and biked to a moat around an old fort to go swimming. There weren't enough bikes, so Mark took a cargo tricycle and chauffeured me around in it.

Lounging by the moat.

Mark surrounded by Gent architecture.

Before

After

 At the end of our two week stint as farmhands, we put away our tent (that's right, the mosquitoes were so bad at night that we slept in our tent on a mattress in our room), packed up our car, attempted to clean two weeks of dirt out from under our fingernails, and said our goodbyes. I was sad to leave the people and place we had become so comfortable with, but I was looking forward to days of 9am wake-ups and never picking up a hoe again (insert juvenile joke here).

I pick my last weed.

Once again, the sun sets behind our car (this time an old wooden jalopy, with a mattress for Gran strapped to the back). A ragtime soundtrack soars as the wheels kick up dust onto our faded overalls, and we wonder: how will Marco and Moxy Mae fare in that big German city, Koblenz?

Tune in next week, folks, ya hear?