WWOOFing seems to bring out the sulky teenager in any otherwise self-possessed and rather charming 20-something.  We’ve seen it in our co-WWOOFers, and we saw it in each other as well during the last couple of weeks at Ca’ del Buco.  There is legitimate reason for this metamorphosis — a WWOOFer is essentially in the position of a 15-year-old.

Living under someone else’s roof
+ eating someone else’s food

+ someone else doing your laundry (our hosts have thus far insisted on doing it themselves…)

+ the fact that a WWOOFer is usually WWOOFing to travel on the cheap (and thus probably doesn’t have the funds to leave early and live at a hostel for a few weeks)

+ limited transportation options

= regression in maturity level

So the last few weeks could find us rolling our eyes when “Mom” and “Dad” yelled for us or gave us tasks.  We cussed even more than usual.  We consumed enough extra food and wine to sufficiently consider ourselves “inconveniences,” which is sort of how we were treated anyhow (for example, they forgot to feed us on several occasions) (and locked us out of the house at the same time) (thus cutting us off from all food aside from what we could scrounge from the garden) (and the rabbit pens…YUM!).

(I am not joking.  They really neglected to feed us.  A few times.  If you know me, this puts a person on my permanent shit list.)

Anyhow.  We are officially Italian 18-year-olds: out of the house and ready to do as we please.  I am happy as all get out.  Ecstatic, overjoyed, dancing happily down that highway, all the way to Torino, even while wearing my 200-pound backpack.

Yes, for the first few days ol’ whats-his-face was a charming facsimile of an Iowa farmer type, and the food was good and plentiful, we ate as a big happy family, and Allie was around, and I went to bed each night with a delightful “good kind of hurt” ache.

That was the first few days.  I now stand corrected.

Fortunately, one can always put on some rose-colored glasses.  And so I give you:

THE GOOD THINGS ABOUT OUR ITALIAN WWOOFING EXPERIENCE

1) Buffness that is only brought on by over 12 hours a day of manual labor.  Seriously, have you ever made lavender sachets for hours?  We have, and our hands are effing SEXY.  Major wrist definition.  Aw, yeah.

2) Varied work. One minute could find me putting labels on bottles of lavender oil (please, someone, tell me a purpose for this crap), the next picking 50 pounds of plums (and operating at a 1:3 eat-to-pick ratio), the next in my sports bra and jeans in the 95-degree heat, swinging a pickax into the dense Italian clay-packed soil as I attempted to make a nice deep grave to accommodate several bunny corpses.  Surprisingly enough (or maybe not), I enjoyed the grave-digging most.  To be perfectly, morbidly honest, I lately found myself secretly hoping that more bunnies would die, so I could be put on graveyard duty instead of whatever other tasks there were.

Speaking of varied labor, I also ended up hanging out with the children at Paola’s farmy day camp thing.  And if you know me and Molly, you know that she is generally the kind, personable, good-with-kids one in this operation.  I, on the other hand, am the big, sarcastic, cynical one with a potty-mouth that only a drunken sailor could love.  So one day I am in the middle of a three-hour raking-up-weed-whacker-droppings-for-goat-feeding-purposes session, singing dirty Tenacious D and rugby drinking songs to pass the time.  And of course, because she hears me singing, Paola comes up to me and says, “Ooh!  Next week is music week at our day camp!  You should help with the activities!”

In Paola-speak, this is not a suggestion.  It means, “Help me with the children or you are going to have to gnaw on weeds and goat haunches for the rest of this trip.”

If only she knew better English.  If only she knew that half my songs were about beer and rugby and the others were full of creative sexual euphemisms.

<sigh>

So I ended up playing duck-duck-goose — which I realize has nothing to do with music, but no one seemed to care — with the kids when Paola felt tired of hanging out with them.  Fortunately, though the kids knew little English, they did somehow know “GAME OVER!”  And when they finally screamed it, I said, “OK.  Do whatever!” and happily made a dismissive gesture.  Then I snuck off and downed some limoncello.  The day got much better from there, probably for both the kids and for me.

In short, it was hard to be bored.  Exploited, yes.  Bored, no.

3) The accomodations. Our room was in the agriturismo part of the compound, so it was clean, with a lovely shower and nice toilet and multiple pillows and towels and sheets we could change whenever we saw fit.  Granted, we were never granted express permission for this, but we were also never prohibited.  So there.

4) The “Camp English 10″ Factor. (This will only make sense to NIHS alums.)  Eventually we took to calling our farm “Camp Fascist,” and then the more-fitting “Camp English 10.”  Much like the North Iowa High School incarnation of English 10 when we were there, WWOOFing at Ca’ del Buco taught us that sometimes people have unreasonable, arbitrary rules and are just unpleasant for no particular reason.  It seems that at every meal we and the fam ate together, we would have some variation on the following conversation:

“Hey!  Don’t use that ________ (sugar/milk/butter/jam/cheese)!”

“Uh…OK…?”

“We only use THAT ________ on Thursdays/cloudy days/Arbor Day/etc.!”

“Uh…”

<then we would go replace it with ANOTHER milk/butter/etc.>

“NO!  That one is even WORSE!  We spit and pee in that one!  EVERYONE knows that!” <they shake their heads, unable to BELIEVE the idiots they have hooked themselves up with>

5) Advancing my stick-driving skills. Now I can go into second gear!  Ooooooh…

6) Pietro and Marta (Roberto’s parents). These two were friendly, kind, patient, generous, helpful, etc., and the best people we met in Italy — all without speaking a word of English.  Marta helped with work and patiently gestured at us when we didn’t understand her. Pietro wandered about, smoked clove cigarettes (though, given the smell of his car, he may or may not smoke other things…), and made up nicknames for us — Molly is forever “Princess Stephanie of Monaco,” and I am “Julie Andrews.”  This pleased us both greatly.

7) It strengthened our friendship. Or, depending on how you look at it, it introduced the strange new dynamic of making me fiercely protective of Molly.  This is because Paola decided early on, seemingly at random, that Molly would just be the one to pick on in the new batch of WWOOFers.  Like I said above — arbitrary and unpleasant for no particular reason.  So whenever Paola yelled at Molly, I knew it meant 15 more minutes of holding Molly that night while she gently sobbed.  I’m a friend.  Such duties are part of the package, I suppose.

8. The animals. I thought the goats were a riot.  Molly loved the rabbits.  Feeding the animals was a simple pleasure — you give them food, they immediately love you and happily munch.  By the end of our time there, the goats would come running if they saw me approach.

(Oh, and in response to Catherine’s question, the rabbits had been for eating, but all that stopped when they caught the plague.  I have no idea if Paola and Roberto and Co. will now eat the bunnies that are left…)

9) “The Hula Game.” Yet more evidence that we have LOST IT.  The Hula Game is a sort of “who’s-on-first” back-and-forth that we do for two major reasons: (a) we hate cleaning wool. HATE IT.  And yet we had to do it all the damn time…bags of the stuff…by hand.  Its purpose remains unclear.  (b) To make fun of Paola, who pronounced “wool” “hoo-la.”  A typical Hula Game session was a riff something like this, with one of us playing Paola and one as the hilarious American WWOOFers:

PAOLA: Girls!  Please start with the hoo-la!

US: …seriously?

P: Yes!

U: You have that here?

P: Yes!  Lots of it!

U: I mean…I thought that the hula was a Hawaiian thing.

P: Dammit!  It’s time to do the hoo-la!

U: OK!  <removing clothing> You got a coconut bra or grass skirt or something?

P: What are you doing?

U: The hips gotta show!  They tell a story!

P: DO THE HOO-LA!

U: Calm down, woman!  The hula is a dance of relaxation and beauty!  You’re just introducing tension.

P: DO IT NOW!

U: I am!  Watch my hands!  Every movement has a meaning, you know.

P: I really can’t wait around for this.

U: Listen, if you want artistry to happen, it takes time.  Sometimes I wonder if this is all a ploy to see us half-naked and wiggling…

P: I really want this hoo-la done before you leave!

U: …Paola…is the hula ever really done?

Ahahahaha.  Such moments of genius make this trip even more worth it.

Anyhow, tonight we are in Torino, as we were last night, and it is one of the best cities I have ever visited — gorgeous views (cathedrals and castles!  mountains!  rivers!), delicious food (I ate an entire pizza yesterday) (and two gelatos) (among other things) (no joke), outstanding public transportation, wonderful running trails, and things are a bit cheaper here than in Milan or Bologna.  Molly and I live for these 2- or 3-day vacations after farmwork, so I’m sure we’ll pull out all the stops in Barcelona.  Tomorrow we get to go on a train ride through the south of France, and in two days we will be at our Spain farm.  Cow-milking!  Yes!  I am excited already (that wasn’t sarcastic, either).

This was long but worth it.  I hope you agree.