Farming in Italy: The Life of a Volunteer

Two English-speaking twenty-somethings set out to experience Italy on a meager budget. They found a network of organic farms willing to give food and lodging in exchange for labor. This was bound to be a rich interaction with Italian culture and custom.

Surely, Rachel and Chris thought, it would beat hanging around together in a hotel room. Little did these young adults know the range of experiences would allow them a taste of homemade zucca (squash) ravioli, teach them to say wheelbarrow carriola and challenge them to sell cheese at a farmer’s market.

Their first farm was nestled in the foothills of the Alps near Lake Como. On approach, the roads got successively smaller and finally turned to dirt. For the first week, rain fell and created a mist over the terraced land. With machetes and weed whackers, the Americans worked to thin thorny blackberry bushes. They were unsupervised but motivated by the need to feel healthy through exercise and fresh air. After work, they prepared dinner and read by the fireplace with kittens on their laps. The running water was unheated so they avoided the shower.

For their second week, the farm supervisor explained a new work project: removing sprouts from potatoes. Chris and Rachel were shown a dark storage shed with 40 overflowing milk crates. Crouching over the bins, they worked and sang show tunes (often just repeating the chorus.) A few hours into the first day of Potato Duty, three dusty farm workers picked up Chris in a tractor and set off to prune trees. Chris worked with them for the duration of the week.

When the boss asked Chris for a progress report on the potatoes, Chris suggested he ask Rachel. Though she was standing right there, the boss immediately changed the subject. There had been signs of sexism earlier in the week, but this was the most overt. And so, Rachel started taking better care of herself by doing two hours of yoga each morning before cleaning potatoes. During lunch, she would read or take a leisurely walk in the hills. Since she was considered invisible and her work unappreciated, she allowed herself these luxuries to make the most of her time.

The guest bedroom on their next farm (located in world-famous Tuscany) was offset from the farm owner’s house and, therefore, had a separate entrance. One window spanned an entire wall, granting a view of endless farms stretched over hills. The owner warned about a particular stray dog that had been hanging around for a few days. After dinner that night, Chris and Rachel encountered a shivering puppy, wet from rain. While they wanted to respect the owner’s wishes to ignore the dog, she became the focal point of their conversation. Rachel reasoned, “We can’t let her get used to the comfort of being inside. Then she’ll be even worse off when we leave and she again becomes a stray.” Their discussion ended when Chris asked theoretically, “What’s better — one night of comfort or never having known comfort at all?”

They smuggled the puppy into their bedroom and dried her with terrycloth towels. Within minutes, the puppy, who they aptly called Smuggles, nestled into the blankets and fell asleep. Since the work projects were mundane (cleaning a shed, feeding the pig, making dinner for a large family and scrubbing the dishes), the highlight of each day was time with Smuggles. By the end of the week, Smuggles would launch herself excitedly onto the bed before Rachel and Chris even had their shoes off by the door. Upon saying goodbye to the farm owner, the Americans confessed about the stray sleeping with them in the guest bedroom. He laughed and said, “OK. I give in. My kids have been hassling me all week. They want to keep her.”

Cheese production was the specialty of the final farm these Americans were scheduled to visit. They were surprised to pull up to a castle standing majestically over a large grass lawn. The perimeter of the lawn was lined with two-story red brick houses, behind which they could see the barn. Fabio and Paola, owners of the farm and entire property, explained it was once a flourishing village. They run it as an Inn during the summer months when the coolness of stone is refreshing. Chris and Rachel were shown to a bedroom complete with decorations, flowers and faucets providing hot water.

Dinner on the first night set a precedent for the weeks to come. Starting at 8:30 p.m., neighbors and friends arrived to the large dining room. Many bottles of wine were opened and finished. Pasta and meat was served in generous proportions. A bowl of raw fennel salad dressed in oil and vinegar was passed around last. Because some of the dinner guests spoke English or translated, Rachel and Chris felt included and welcomed (as well as ignorant for knowing only English).

At 7 a.m. each morning, the Americans volunteered to help Fabio hook each of the 30 cows to the milking machines (5 cows at a time). The milk byproduct called whey is unusable in cheese production and is, therefore, breakfast for the pigs. By 8 a.m., the Italian hosts were having their breakfast of espresso while Chris and Rachel ate to fill the stereotype of Americans as Big Eaters. They couldn’t resist the fresh dairy products so they consumed creamy yogurt mixed with just about anything.

Depending on inventory and upcoming demand, Fabio would teach how to make a certain type of cheese. For ricotta, he showed the technique of filling rectangular molds with hand-fulls of loosely formed cheese. As the water drained, free-standing rectangles of ricotta would emerge. Fabio and Paola teamed up to demonstrate the craft of making Mozzarella. First the milk was heated to a specific degree while enzymes were added. Then Fabio handled a bundle of the hot cheese in his arms. He squeezed to create sections about the size of a fist. Paola’s job was to sever the fist-sized ball of cheese from the larger mass and let it drop into a bucket of cold water. She used only her fingers to “mozza” (cut) the section of cheese. She made it look easy but after only 5 minutes, Chris’ fingers ached.

It was fun for Chris and Rachel to learn the business side of cheese production. They helped to slice cheese, place it on the scale, and wrap it neatly in pretty paper for sale. Every three days they would do this to fill orders for delivery to local businesses and residences. At the farmer’s market, Paola acted as the liaison to the customer and she would translate their order into English. One cold afternoon working at the farmer’s market, Paola and Fabio wanted to warm up in a coffee shop. They trusted the cheese stand with Chris and Rachel. Customers quickly caught on that these two light-haired people could only understand gestures. As the customers pointed to a type of cheese, they used the thumb and index finger of the other hand to indicate the desired quantity.

One night at 2 a.m. there was a knock on the guest bedroom door. Fritz, the only full-time employee of the farm hurriedly exclaimed, “You don’t want to miss this! Come on!” The Americans jogged in their pajamas behind the fast-walking Italian in knee-high rubber boots. The three arrived at the barn just as a mother cow was tenderly licking her new born baby. The barn was decibels quieter than ever before, as if all the animals knew something sacred just happened. In the morning, Fritz would determine if the baby was a boy (to be sold for meat) or a girl (to be raised on site for future milk production). Rachel and Chris were relieved when Fritz declared the baby a girl. A step was added to the morning and evening chores: fill a 1-liter plastic bottle with fresh warm milk to feed the calf. While the baby focused on sucking the bottle’s nipple, Rachel pet her neck and kissed her forehead.

Food was often a topic of conversation. Fabio found it hilarious that Chris buys pasta in a supermarket when “it’s so easy to make fresh!” To demonstrate, Fabio mixed flour and eggs in a bowl, rolled it loosely on the table, and cut the dough into squares. He filled each square with ricotta cheese, pressed the edges, and dropped each into boiling water for a minute or two. Each tortellini emerged as perfection.

On the day of American Thanksgiving, Chris and Rachel agreed to cook dinner. They explained that without turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce, the meal would not be “traditional.” Even if they had access to all the standard food, they would not have known how to prepare the feast. Instead, they presented a meal they did know how to cook: butternut squash soup, grilled cheese sandwiches and stir-fry. The Italians chuckled and appreciated the effort.

When Rachel and Chris returned to the U.S., the two mailed a box of Macaroni and Cheese to Paola and Fabio. You know the box: 8 ounces of macaroni noodles with a packet of bright orange powdered cheese food. Upon receipt, we know the Italians laughed and nodded in understanding of the differences in culture.

Rachel and Chris were glad they had chosen to volunteer throughout their vacation. Though not every moment was fun and easy, they had expanded their comfort zones by experiencing something new. And, most importantly, they made friends and family along the way.

Leaving Paris by Bicycle

Chris and I had been dating for one year when we decided to do it — bicycle tour through Europe. We decided four months would be a good enough chunk of time for us to learn the ropes of bicycle touring.

Our first act toward this bicycle feat was to decide which countries to visit. We also wanted to go where we had friends to host us. So, this mapped out a rough plan of starting in Paris, heading north to Amsterdam, east to Berlin and traveling south to Italy (where we happened to know no one). Our plan for Italy was to volunteer on organic farms and (the true motivator) to eat fresh ravioli and gelato.

There appeared to be no choice about quitting our jobs (otherwise our four months of travel would be stretched out over 8 years!) All details of how to get from Point A to Point B would be formed en route, assuming we’d have the proper atlas and occasional email contact with our friends.

In the month before departure, we took a few “training rides” around Manhattan Island. Once we even biked to my mom’s house in upstate New York on a scorching Saturday afternoon. (This particular ride ended with a phone call. “Ma? It’s starting to get dark. Can you put the bike rack on the car and meet us in Middletown?”)

Nonetheless, a few antsy weeks later, we arrived in Paris to take advantage of free accommodation with Chris’ mother Janet. I spent most days exploring Paris on my own while Chris immersed himself in the latest Harry Potter book. We frequently rotated between a loving friendship and hating each other (as intensely as only travel companions can hate).

But since we felt committed to one another and to the trip ahead, the bottom line was always, “I love you anyway.”

Chris and I were grateful for opportunities to hang out with Janet’s Parisian friends. From them, we hustled phone numbers of their cousins, parents and ex-husbands who were living in rural areas along our proposed bike route. This would be a priceless cultural exchange with real French families. Only when Chris and I were alone did we admit, “Alright! A few nights without the tent!”

After two weeks of tourist activities and lounging under the guise of “preparation,” we had no more excuses to remain in Paris. We were as organized as we’d ever be.

But, even with all our preparation, we still made mistakes. A few learned on our first day of biking:

1. Thinking we should wake up naturally, without an alarm. (We should have known better.)
2. Attempting, at noon, to re-locate a specific store we had once passed by while wandering in the city. (We wanted to purchase a certain dish-drainer to thank Janet for her hospitality.)
3. Agreeing to a farewell lunch with Janet at her apartment near Notre Dame. (Lunch in France takes a minimum of 2 hours, even if it is just a bunch of Americans eating Brie and Baguette.)
4. Packing the compass deep inside a pannier. (“We already know how to bike to the northern city boundary. We did it those times we met Janet at her English-speaking Church. From there, the highway north should be obvious.” Aaah, false confidence.)
5. Biking in random trajectories. (Streets were unfortunately not neat diagonals that conveniently met back up with the main boulevards. Had we been tracked on a GPS, our pattern would show a zigzag through Paris.)
6. Biking in circles. (After an hour of riding, we figured we were almost out of the city. Then I heard myself say, “That’s a pretty cathedral. It looks a lot like Notre Dame… Oh No! We’re right near Janet’s house!”)
7. Agreeing it was still best to leave at the late hour of 4 p.m., rather than wait until the next morning. (“If we go back to mom’s house now, we’ll just end up sleeping late and having another lunch tomorrow. Even if we sleep on a park bench in the city, at least it will mean we’ve started this trip.”)

Well, Chris and I did finally make it out of Paris that evening — by keeping the setting sun on our left. When the odometer read 44.27 kilometers in the town of Chantilly (pronounced Shon-tee-yee), it was getting dark. We rang the doorbell of a small square house on a large plot of land.

When a squat older woman opened the door, we tightly held our 8 x 11 sheet of necessary French phrases. This page was custom made to our needs, translated by Janet’s friends. In French I said, “We are looking for a place to plant our tent. Can you help us?” The woman was kind enough to play Charades and use a few English words to communicate.

What we understood was that since the yard had no fence, it would not be safe from the wild boars.

She motioned for us to follow her down the road and soon we arrived at a fenced-in playground. There were posters to warn citizens about the boars. The drawings bared little resemblance to the mythical boar that I imagined from The Princess Bride. They were, however, descriptive enough for Chris to believe she had indeed said “wild boars” and not “wild boys.”

We ate handfuls of Trail Mix for dinner because we were too lazy to tinker with our new European camp stove. Chris let me eat the last hard-boiled egg (“So he must really love me,” I thought). We huddled in our sleeping bags, giggling about the freezing September temperature. We assumed during the next few months the air would get colder. But this night, perhaps because we were not yet accustomed to sleeping outdoors, was by far the coldest night of the whole four-month trip. It became the barometer for all other cold nights (“At least this town’s not as cold as Chantilly”).

Chris and I continued to bring out the best and worst in each other during this adventure. We had been delusional to think this trip would be luxurious and easy. This delusion was not our fault, really. The guidebook photos were so beautiful and did not show enough detail to make out the sweat, sunburn and muscle spasms of the participants.

Luxury was replaced with our adventures in exotic locales and so much exercise I could eat anything in any quantity; feeling lucky to share it all with my best friend. During the next decades, Chris and I can remind each other of the enchantment and hardship involved in biking Europe, and all we learned along the way.