What does it mean to run away?
Something I have been thinking, feeling and living for a year, exactly one year today thankyouverymuch. I remember as a really young kid wanting to run away from home, and making it as far as the tree-house in the back yard, and having the conviction to stay gone until I got hungry or distracted by toys inside I should have brought with me. Secretly (or not so) when things got tough for me in the past, when I was a younger man, married, following, I used to fantasize about gathering a few things and fleeing to someplace more of my choosing. Sometimes it was as simple as someplace warmer or more sunny during a long, wet, cold Oregon winter, or back to San Diego where I once had a perfectly good routine, and friends of my own. Classic American Beat writers (had I known any then) whose words were echoed in some of my favorite bands, would have hearkened my developing male psyche to a bygone era, a time of hitting the road, thumbin' and bummin' across the states to see friends, drink cheap wine, pop pills, and philosophize their way through the bigger question of fitting in. But I had not read those dudes, not yet.
When I worked at Anchor Brewing in SF, there was a dude there, a real self righteous prick named Kevin who was often the object of my loathing. Shortly after the death of his grandfather, he started preparing an old BMW motorcycle for a cross country road trip. He could also be found rolling his own cigarettes, or in the break room reading beat poets, and was working on a pretty impressive beard. What a dick. Something about the obviously inheritance-fueled journey into manhood this 25 year old straight white kid from an affluent east coast suburb was going to embark on made me an outspoken opponent of rich kids having all the privilege to "find themselves" out on the open road, the cares and worry of the next meal left behind as the tail lights slowly fade away. Of course, most of this was borne out of plain old fashioned jealousy, wondering when I might get the privilege to find MYself, a jealousy-turned-criticism in the wake of my own developing sense of self, largely informed by the working class ethos I was being handsomely rewarded for at the brewery. This combination of working class roots sinking further into the ground in a city I never thought I would be able to afford, and the stories I was all of a sudden aware of (graduate exchange programs I could not afford, putting in for transfers at big corporate jobs I would never sell out to, and the occasional art freak who never sold a piece of art but somehow was able to run off to France and join a traveling gypsy street performance troupe...) only fueled my distaste, disgust and misunderstandings of a life incongruent with mine. Classic xenophobia I'm almost proud to say. Kerouac, and those who read him in public took the brunt of my prideful mouth.
Truth be told, I only read Kerouac for the first time about a year ago. (I know, I'm a hypocritical, mouthy, opinionated, usually wrong, self righteous Douche!) I was given a copy of "On the Road" from someone who knew me well and whose library I respected. I read it and I dug it. I read all his stuff in the course of the last year, found some random collections of poetry and thought it great, even got into an album last year of two of my favorite song writers who put Kerouac lyrics to their twangy road-trip sounds. Not that I'm Old Jack's number one fan or anything, but there was something in there ringing true for me, and his overarching theme of running hit home.
Running.
Its definitely true that at first I felt like I was running from. I needed to run away from the angry and painful (usually in the opposite order) detachment I knew I would not be able to make from the life I lived in northern Colorado. I had but a handful of people worth sticking around for, a little bit of money, and a loaded motorcycle. I was running from hurt, but into a pain and loneliness I could not have imagined. Alone on the road, and in the woods for 13 weeks, into towns just for groceries every couple of days, staying in my head and helmets, alternating between moto- and bi-cycle rides, keeping to myself at campsites, and having very little in the way of human interaction I was forcing myself to deal with the serving on my plate. From Bogan's house in western Colorado to the northern California coast was a lonely stretch of American road, but somewhere in there, hitting me square in the face with the emotions I felt as I crossed into California from Oregon on the 101, I stopped running from, and started running to, better yet, into. Into my own thoughts, into my feelings, and head first into the big bag of dicks I had been ignoring for some time, my own special blend of check-able and seemingly un-losable baggage. This bag would definitely NOT fit in the overhead compartment. As I dug and rationalized my way through the detritus of a broken life, I began to see the common thread of friends, the friends who had always been there for me with consistency and honesty, and usually a tall cold one.
With a smile on my face, and clean fresh air in my lungs I started checking off the mountain bike rides I have always wanted to do, Bend to Sun River and back, McKenzie River Trail, some cool spots in Humboldt county I had heard about along the way, and a good couple days at Boggs Mountain before running into the arms of friends. I worked my way down to San Diego to see Cousin, who came through for me in a big way when I really needed it, with advice, hugs, pictures of us as kids, a celebration of my Mom, and some carpeted floorspace. I was stoked to be in SD for the first time since I left and was thinking about making it home again when the opportunity to come to Italy breezed in through the open door. I felt a little like I was running again, this time a little prematurely. As I sit here writing this on a warm day in the Italian countryside I realize now that this is actually the continuation of the running, the journey, and with language barriers, quiet natural time on bikes, in the fields, and a zen like job working on bikes, I realize that this is just the next leg of a really long run.
Its more than half way through the season and I'm looking forward to coming home, to see friends and families, to eat a damn burrito, drink an overly chilled Budweiser, and shoot the shit in Engrish again! Being away from the things I love, and the people who have supported me so much in the past year has made me think about what it is I really value.
The last few weeks I have been thinking a lot about how lucky I am. I'm not blowing through an inheritance, racking up more student loan debts, cashing out my savings, or here on some sort of grant. I'm here on my merit as a cyclist and as a mechanic. I'm here because of my work ethic. I'm here to WORK. And its good honest work, its thorough, and it allows me to zen out with the cyclical patterns I have developed in the 400 some odd bikes I have probably prepped by now. Its my favorite thing to do - working on bikes, and I'm getting by with the money they pay me. But its not the money I think about. For the first time in my life I'm not worried about money, and its the LEAST I've been paid since making sandwiches at subway back in high school, way back in the V-cut days before plastic gloves!! What fuels me here is the privilege, the privilege to be here, to drive a big van, to see the country on the clock, that crazy ferry boat ride from Barcelona, driving through France. Not what I expected to be the spoils of a dirty fingernailed mechanic in a cut off jumpsuit and mohawk. Wasn't I supposed to work real hard at an expensive grad school, and get a job that sucks my soul out of my eyeballs, and scans my brain with alien technology, then put in for a transfer and keep my soft supple fingers crossed? I remembered a feeling the other night. The feeling I got when the friends of my attorney wife would remark that I had it easy 'cause I got to dick around in a bike shop all day while she "made all the money." (I wanted to run then - who wouldn't?!) It's all the love, trust and commitment I have put into "dicking around" with bikes that has given me the privilege to be where I am right now, and don't think its going to stop me from running. I have finally found a way to be in a stable committed relationship AND run away whenever I want. I HEART BIKES. Or more importantly, I value bikes.
All this running from and to and into has led me by the hand right into a big steamy pile of everything I have ever valued, distilled and condensed right down to its very essence, like distilling a flower to make perfume, and the smell is fantastic.
A friend once challenged me to make a list of everything I valued, an exercise I had never really thought about before, but one I worked through with an open mind. Who would have thought that running away from all the things and people and places and habits I once found comforting would lead me to a better understanding of my own personal values, the same values that have helped me weather a pretty big storm and navigate some of the roughest seas I have ever encountered. Digging deeper into my values has left me missing home a bit, Ill admit that, but it leaves me feeling that when I do return I will be much better equipped to focus on the things and the people who are most important to me, and not get so distracted by the "good times" that have played a prominent role in distracting me from feeling or acting my age!
Now don't you worry - I'm still gonna have a good time, this trip has not lobotomized me, and I got some good old fashioned bourbon to drink with my boys (and one AnchorGirl). And I can't wait to go to the gayest dance club SF has to offer, karaoke myself an honorary pan-Asian superstar, heckle (and by heckle I mean fall in love with) some Roller Derby Girls, and ride bikes/talk shit with my homies. These are some of the things I value.
This trip continues to teach.
S.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Per Esempio...
So for those of you wondering what it really takes to put a fancy schmantsy Titanium Touring bike together I have made this little time lapse to illustrate the basic concept. Don't blink...it happens pretty fast (é quello che ha detto!)
Downloading Videos on Blogger Sucks. Click Here.
What we do the rest of the time, with older bikes already assembled is give them a good thorough cleaning and safety check, make sure they shift, the wheels are straight, tires safe, brakes work, and are looking soooooo gooood. Her's a time lapse of that process with a Big Blue the Tandem.
Click here for tandem love... watch the clipboard in the upper left corner, that's how breezy its been lately!
And when I am not kicking ass in the bike shop, I have to do all the stuff a regular man has to do, which today included going to the grocery store. But I go by BIKE! Tammy, this one is for you and that big ole van of yours. It can be done, and its more fun than looking for parking - EVERY TIME!
Even Frecha was amazed...
I'm off for the rest of the week to help with a tour and to finish getting bikes ready for the next big push of the summer season...talk soon.
S
Downloading Videos on Blogger Sucks. Click Here.
What we do the rest of the time, with older bikes already assembled is give them a good thorough cleaning and safety check, make sure they shift, the wheels are straight, tires safe, brakes work, and are looking soooooo gooood. Her's a time lapse of that process with a Big Blue the Tandem.
Click here for tandem love... watch the clipboard in the upper left corner, that's how breezy its been lately!
And when I am not kicking ass in the bike shop, I have to do all the stuff a regular man has to do, which today included going to the grocery store. But I go by BIKE! Tammy, this one is for you and that big ole van of yours. It can be done, and its more fun than looking for parking - EVERY TIME!
Even Frecha was amazed...
I'm off for the rest of the week to help with a tour and to finish getting bikes ready for the next big push of the summer season...talk soon.
S
Monday, August 16, 2010
oh its such a perfect day...
Yes, that's a hats off salute to Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground...
Well Ok, I did not see a movie, or feed animals in the zoo as Louis did in the song, and Sangria in the park sounds great right about now...but those things are not part of what I'm talking about here folks...
I mean BIKES!!! And SUN!!! and a light breeze and unseasonably awesome temperatures in the 20's (mid 70's for you yanks.) I mean a sunday with little traffic and a swimming hole all to myself! And I desperately needed to ride off the MEAT pile that Igor grilled up at his house the night before.
Igor's house is a perfect blend of Italian chotchsky and professional skater...this should be painted..."Still life with carrot and skateboard" maybe...
...that's the indoor/outdoor patio with wood fired pizza grill built in, the Italians don't take grilling lightly!
It had been raining like a son-of-a-bitch and Igor knew we were probably not up to much. Not true for Olde Hank of course, I rode to market and met up with a homie who owns the skate shop...
and met a dude with a cool bike who organizes polo matches, bought some groceries and some bring orange paint and rode home in the pouring rain, happy as a clam! We went to his house and grilled a TON of gut busting meat, a perfect base for the next days spur of the moment ride.
And by spur of the moment I mean spur of the DAY! All in all, with trips to town and a stop for some wicked awesome pizza pie, it was a 108.88 KM day (again for you yanks...67 miles...for my Colorado audience that roughly FoCo to Lyons to Estes Park!) I decided to ride from home to the swimming hole in Premicuore, which has been featured in this blog before, but not by bike, and a bike that weighs 16.45 kilograms EMPTY no less (36.19 pounds). here's a wrap...
That's KIWI!
that's the canyon I crept through all day...off in the distance...
Spring green in the middle of summer!
with time to stop at every cute old village...
Had the roads to myself...
Till I ran into Tom Seleck!
Cut through the tiny hamlet of Predapio...Birthplace of (in)famous facists like Mussolini...
Climbed some passes...
crossed some rivers...
and stayed looking sooooo good...
roadside goats always make me laugh...
Past this mountain beach...
up more passes...
Picnic time...
Then the last few KM push into Premicuore...
The trail to the waters edge is hidden and nasty with mud and steep...
And SOOOO worth it!
Its hidden under this old roman bridge and there is an amazing waterfall and deep pools to dive into. A real icy treat for my tired legs...
Leaving was tough but I was hungry and wanted to get home in time to cook...
What took me 4 hours to climb I was able to shoot down in about 2!!
This house will be a painting sooner or later I took like 15 different angled shots of it, dig that patina in the old paint! (Did I really just write that?)
Its the Strada dei Sangiovese out there...tons of wineries and tons of vines...
And as much as I wanted to spit on his grave, I was less interested in Mussolini's tomb than I was in these bricks that make up the facade of the church...sea shells in the mortar, 500 meters above sea level!
Back into Forli...
And to the safety of the huge bike paths...
With sunset on the radar...
I set out for one more stop...
Before riding home on the farm roads...
With 2, count em, 2 pizzas strapped to the bike!
THAT'S how you end a day on a bike in It-ly!!!
S.
Well Ok, I did not see a movie, or feed animals in the zoo as Louis did in the song, and Sangria in the park sounds great right about now...but those things are not part of what I'm talking about here folks...
I mean BIKES!!! And SUN!!! and a light breeze and unseasonably awesome temperatures in the 20's (mid 70's for you yanks.) I mean a sunday with little traffic and a swimming hole all to myself! And I desperately needed to ride off the MEAT pile that Igor grilled up at his house the night before.
Igor's house is a perfect blend of Italian chotchsky and professional skater...this should be painted..."Still life with carrot and skateboard" maybe...
...that's the indoor/outdoor patio with wood fired pizza grill built in, the Italians don't take grilling lightly!
It had been raining like a son-of-a-bitch and Igor knew we were probably not up to much. Not true for Olde Hank of course, I rode to market and met up with a homie who owns the skate shop...
and met a dude with a cool bike who organizes polo matches, bought some groceries and some bring orange paint and rode home in the pouring rain, happy as a clam! We went to his house and grilled a TON of gut busting meat, a perfect base for the next days spur of the moment ride.
And by spur of the moment I mean spur of the DAY! All in all, with trips to town and a stop for some wicked awesome pizza pie, it was a 108.88 KM day (again for you yanks...67 miles...for my Colorado audience that roughly FoCo to Lyons to Estes Park!) I decided to ride from home to the swimming hole in Premicuore, which has been featured in this blog before, but not by bike, and a bike that weighs 16.45 kilograms EMPTY no less (36.19 pounds). here's a wrap...
That's KIWI!
that's the canyon I crept through all day...off in the distance...
Spring green in the middle of summer!
with time to stop at every cute old village...
Had the roads to myself...
Till I ran into Tom Seleck!
Cut through the tiny hamlet of Predapio...Birthplace of (in)famous facists like Mussolini...
Climbed some passes...
crossed some rivers...
and stayed looking sooooo good...
roadside goats always make me laugh...
Past this mountain beach...
up more passes...
Picnic time...
Then the last few KM push into Premicuore...
The trail to the waters edge is hidden and nasty with mud and steep...
And SOOOO worth it!
Its hidden under this old roman bridge and there is an amazing waterfall and deep pools to dive into. A real icy treat for my tired legs...
Leaving was tough but I was hungry and wanted to get home in time to cook...
What took me 4 hours to climb I was able to shoot down in about 2!!
This house will be a painting sooner or later I took like 15 different angled shots of it, dig that patina in the old paint! (Did I really just write that?)
Its the Strada dei Sangiovese out there...tons of wineries and tons of vines...
And as much as I wanted to spit on his grave, I was less interested in Mussolini's tomb than I was in these bricks that make up the facade of the church...sea shells in the mortar, 500 meters above sea level!
Back into Forli...
And to the safety of the huge bike paths...
With sunset on the radar...
I set out for one more stop...
Before riding home on the farm roads...
With 2, count em, 2 pizzas strapped to the bike!
THAT'S how you end a day on a bike in It-ly!!!
S.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Judean retribution and a quiet week...
So it turns out that adult content web sites will in fact incur the wrath of the christian god. Proff can be found in the following fact, that has not only conspired to keep me from the dirty world of intraweb surfing, but also kept me from the blog, and emails, and checking my bank account, and skype, and the myriad of other features we have all grown so accustomed to for communication. Doesn't anyone write letters anymore?! Bogan and Lemly wrote postcards...that's good enough for me! But I digress...
A thunderous bolt of lightning, said to be sent direct from the heavens above as a warning, hath struck a residence not more than a kilometer from here. This is the very same residence that is within the city limits (barely) and thus receives the free internet. This is the same residence that beams said free internet signal via satellite to us here at the Farm, where we, as a multi-national company use it "strictly for business purposes."
Seriously. Lightning hit the house we pirate internet off of. It entered through the phone satellite and burned up the entire wiring system. My boss Igor went over to check it out and he said he picked up some in-line converter, like the black box in the cord of you lap top, and he shook it and it sounded like it was full of sand. If the lightning is anything like the robbers that have been supposedly creeping about at night, we might be next. Sorry for the webXXXsites Little Baby Jesus.
Here's a little video of the storm when it was still just a bunch of amazing little fluffy clouds.
In the week that has followed things here have been pretty chill. I finished a heavy book on a metaphysics of quality I have been reading for the last year. woah. I prepped a whole bunch of hybrids for a tour we are throwing together for the Slovakian Government so they can see how awesome riding a bike is for a city, in hopes they will promote the bike as Italy has done. I cleaned up and organised stuff at the farm, caught a show at HannaBi, kicked it on the beach one afternoon, rode into town for a cafe, and oh yeah, last weekend hopped a train south on the advice of a couple kids from a cool clothing store in Forli. They told me there was a week long festival wrapping up on sundan, with music, and food, and vendors of all things vintage. They said their boss had a booth all set up and if I wanted to sell them some clothes I could talk to her there, but it was worth a little looksy.
I grabbed an early train south along the coast to a place called Senigallia, where I was greeted with the sights and sounds of something akin to the Adams Avenue Street Fair in SD - it was a rock-a-billy greaser showdown!! I couldnt believe it. The beach was packed with kids who looked like my friends in SD did 10-12 years ago! Greasers, tattoos, vintage american clothing, chain wallets, hot rods and old scooters and motorcycles! It was crazy and I felt so much at ease. There were folks on the beach in vintage swimsuits, wicker picnic baskets, and parasols. There was only DJ music left but it was still great, and the people there were all dressed in the apropriate costumes. (Zoom in on the pics to get a good look.)
The last day of the week-long party they have an "open car boot sale." A car Boot for those who dont know is the term for the trunk and the idea is you open it up and sell out of it, sort of an impromptu swap meet of one. Its free on sunday at this party and you can bet your sweet asses I will be dragging the lot of my vintage shit here next year and make a killing off of it. They were selling shirts THAT I OWN for 95 euros! And the cowboy shirts were fetching a handsome reward, not many of them either.
I also got to spend some time with Igor this week, with the Sunkels on vacation in Sardinia scuba diving (expect a guest-blogging from them soon) and it sounds like they definately want me to come back next year. This has been a good job, a fun job, and in the heat of the summer with all kinds of required adaptation last minute - its been a tough job. But I know its not the way it usually is, and the folks here have been awesome about soliciting from us what we think might make it work better in the future. They are receptive to our ideas and can tell us what has worked and what has not in the past. Igor and I are working out some things that should help the flow of the job be manageable and easy, especially in a second year sense when you already have been to many of the deliveries, and you know how it works, and when things get real busy. Im pretty excited and the thought of settling into a more professional role here, and showing a different side of my employable personality will be fun. These kind folks have earned a little stepping up on the professional game from Olde Hank. There is a lot of trust here, and I'm still a little suspicious, but I think I can take a summer gig and make something more long term out of it. Which means you all better start putting a 20oz latte a week on hold, and saving that dough to come visit!! With the Sunkels out, Jonathan and Eliza moving into their own place to have a baby, and me building a loft bed, the Farm will have tons of extra space next year. 13 beds!
Which means I will have more people to play a little game we call "SPRITZ!" with.
Spritz is a drinking game, so let the weak of constitution be forewarned. Spritz is a tasty evening aperativo beverage that is way to effeminate for the US markets, but is consumed regularly here in It-ly. Here is a little history... The Sunkels and I have discovered a cheap, sugary version of the bev in bottles at the store for the paltry price of ONE EURO! Thus the game was afoot. The game is loosely based on a lame frat-house game involving 22oz bottles of Smirnoff Ice, called "getting Iced" but those are dumb, and expensive, and have no class. Spritz on the other hand is a drink of royalty. Especially first thing in the morning...
The game involves hiding a bottle of spritz where you friends and co-workers might discover it at some point in the day. When they do they usually exclaim "DAMNIT!" and the proceed to bring it to the Spritz-er and chug. Easy. Except for the aforementioned "stepping the professional game up" thing. So we have since made amendments to the rules...not in personal space (I didn't want the Sunkels rummaging through my room for a good hiding place and stumble upon all those embarrassing stick figure drawings)... not in the shop between the hours of 9-6 (or whenever people are here working)... and not in places where James will accidentally chuck the bottle across his room and shatter the sugary goodness all over the place (as he did in the first round with the one I put between his two pillows noticing his bed needed to be made) So far the Sunkels are TERRIBLE at this game, making trips to the store alone (group grocery shopping is too tough to hide the evidence of whats to come) and returning without one single spritz! Having the weekend-long opportunity to stash them all over while I was away and not making good use of the time. They have also been known to walk into the shop, warm Spritz in hand, having just been Spritzed by the soap caddy in the shower (good one!) and complained that it was too warm or they were not in the mood to chug a Spritz. THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS!!! No one got to the Olympics cause they trained when the weather was right or they felt in the mooooood! You have to be willing to play and you have to be willing to suffer!. Above all you have to have some sense of creative sportsmanship! (Shelly and I went so far as to move the one I had hid in the toilet when we were drinking beer with James cause he kept going outside to pee in the orchard (an Italian thing). We quickly suspended the Spritz with rope and bungee, wrapped in an ice pack near where he was pissing outside. That's playing right!
Why just yesterday morning, I dreamy eyed from excellent sleep and feeling peaceful from watching a sun rise with my coffee,
...remembered laundry soaking from the night before and sauntered (cause you know how much I LOVE to saunter) into the laundry room to finish the job. There in the laundry tub, wedged between my wet undies and running shorts was a warm, soapy bottle of orange-ish golden torture! No one awake yet, no one to encourage such behaviour, and nothing but bragging rights and a mild headache waiting at the bottom of the bottle, I chugged like a team captain!
Let the Game BEGIN!!!
A thunderous bolt of lightning, said to be sent direct from the heavens above as a warning, hath struck a residence not more than a kilometer from here. This is the very same residence that is within the city limits (barely) and thus receives the free internet. This is the same residence that beams said free internet signal via satellite to us here at the Farm, where we, as a multi-national company use it "strictly for business purposes."
Seriously. Lightning hit the house we pirate internet off of. It entered through the phone satellite and burned up the entire wiring system. My boss Igor went over to check it out and he said he picked up some in-line converter, like the black box in the cord of you lap top, and he shook it and it sounded like it was full of sand. If the lightning is anything like the robbers that have been supposedly creeping about at night, we might be next. Sorry for the webXXXsites Little Baby Jesus.
Here's a little video of the storm when it was still just a bunch of amazing little fluffy clouds.
In the week that has followed things here have been pretty chill. I finished a heavy book on a metaphysics of quality I have been reading for the last year. woah. I prepped a whole bunch of hybrids for a tour we are throwing together for the Slovakian Government so they can see how awesome riding a bike is for a city, in hopes they will promote the bike as Italy has done. I cleaned up and organised stuff at the farm, caught a show at HannaBi, kicked it on the beach one afternoon, rode into town for a cafe, and oh yeah, last weekend hopped a train south on the advice of a couple kids from a cool clothing store in Forli. They told me there was a week long festival wrapping up on sundan, with music, and food, and vendors of all things vintage. They said their boss had a booth all set up and if I wanted to sell them some clothes I could talk to her there, but it was worth a little looksy.
I grabbed an early train south along the coast to a place called Senigallia, where I was greeted with the sights and sounds of something akin to the Adams Avenue Street Fair in SD - it was a rock-a-billy greaser showdown!! I couldnt believe it. The beach was packed with kids who looked like my friends in SD did 10-12 years ago! Greasers, tattoos, vintage american clothing, chain wallets, hot rods and old scooters and motorcycles! It was crazy and I felt so much at ease. There were folks on the beach in vintage swimsuits, wicker picnic baskets, and parasols. There was only DJ music left but it was still great, and the people there were all dressed in the apropriate costumes. (Zoom in on the pics to get a good look.)
The last day of the week-long party they have an "open car boot sale." A car Boot for those who dont know is the term for the trunk and the idea is you open it up and sell out of it, sort of an impromptu swap meet of one. Its free on sunday at this party and you can bet your sweet asses I will be dragging the lot of my vintage shit here next year and make a killing off of it. They were selling shirts THAT I OWN for 95 euros! And the cowboy shirts were fetching a handsome reward, not many of them either.
I also got to spend some time with Igor this week, with the Sunkels on vacation in Sardinia scuba diving (expect a guest-blogging from them soon) and it sounds like they definately want me to come back next year. This has been a good job, a fun job, and in the heat of the summer with all kinds of required adaptation last minute - its been a tough job. But I know its not the way it usually is, and the folks here have been awesome about soliciting from us what we think might make it work better in the future. They are receptive to our ideas and can tell us what has worked and what has not in the past. Igor and I are working out some things that should help the flow of the job be manageable and easy, especially in a second year sense when you already have been to many of the deliveries, and you know how it works, and when things get real busy. Im pretty excited and the thought of settling into a more professional role here, and showing a different side of my employable personality will be fun. These kind folks have earned a little stepping up on the professional game from Olde Hank. There is a lot of trust here, and I'm still a little suspicious, but I think I can take a summer gig and make something more long term out of it. Which means you all better start putting a 20oz latte a week on hold, and saving that dough to come visit!! With the Sunkels out, Jonathan and Eliza moving into their own place to have a baby, and me building a loft bed, the Farm will have tons of extra space next year. 13 beds!
Which means I will have more people to play a little game we call "SPRITZ!" with.
Spritz is a drinking game, so let the weak of constitution be forewarned. Spritz is a tasty evening aperativo beverage that is way to effeminate for the US markets, but is consumed regularly here in It-ly. Here is a little history... The Sunkels and I have discovered a cheap, sugary version of the bev in bottles at the store for the paltry price of ONE EURO! Thus the game was afoot. The game is loosely based on a lame frat-house game involving 22oz bottles of Smirnoff Ice, called "getting Iced" but those are dumb, and expensive, and have no class. Spritz on the other hand is a drink of royalty. Especially first thing in the morning...
The game involves hiding a bottle of spritz where you friends and co-workers might discover it at some point in the day. When they do they usually exclaim "DAMNIT!" and the proceed to bring it to the Spritz-er and chug. Easy. Except for the aforementioned "stepping the professional game up" thing. So we have since made amendments to the rules...not in personal space (I didn't want the Sunkels rummaging through my room for a good hiding place and stumble upon all those embarrassing stick figure drawings)... not in the shop between the hours of 9-6 (or whenever people are here working)... and not in places where James will accidentally chuck the bottle across his room and shatter the sugary goodness all over the place (as he did in the first round with the one I put between his two pillows noticing his bed needed to be made) So far the Sunkels are TERRIBLE at this game, making trips to the store alone (group grocery shopping is too tough to hide the evidence of whats to come) and returning without one single spritz! Having the weekend-long opportunity to stash them all over while I was away and not making good use of the time. They have also been known to walk into the shop, warm Spritz in hand, having just been Spritzed by the soap caddy in the shower (good one!) and complained that it was too warm or they were not in the mood to chug a Spritz. THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS!!! No one got to the Olympics cause they trained when the weather was right or they felt in the mooooood! You have to be willing to play and you have to be willing to suffer!. Above all you have to have some sense of creative sportsmanship! (Shelly and I went so far as to move the one I had hid in the toilet when we were drinking beer with James cause he kept going outside to pee in the orchard (an Italian thing). We quickly suspended the Spritz with rope and bungee, wrapped in an ice pack near where he was pissing outside. That's playing right!
Why just yesterday morning, I dreamy eyed from excellent sleep and feeling peaceful from watching a sun rise with my coffee,
...remembered laundry soaking from the night before and sauntered (cause you know how much I LOVE to saunter) into the laundry room to finish the job. There in the laundry tub, wedged between my wet undies and running shorts was a warm, soapy bottle of orange-ish golden torture! No one awake yet, no one to encourage such behaviour, and nothing but bragging rights and a mild headache waiting at the bottom of the bottle, I chugged like a team captain!
Let the Game BEGIN!!!