Inspired by true events
St. Christol Lez Ales, France
Elise Glaser
July 2016
Le Gare
I had purchased 100 minutes for the month and I was about to use some of them. My cell phone rang, but the sound was unfamiliar, a beeping, almost like a busy sign, until someone picked up. Vous-etes la? Are you there? “Yes, yes, I am at the Gare” Speaking French on the phone was brutal. I sat down, exhausted from the day and jet-lagged into delirium. After 30 minutes or so, a truck pulled up, covered in dirt, driven by a man who was equally filthy. He had kind eyes and the looks of an old actor, a fitting start to my cinematic journey at the farm. Le mas perdu?? He repeated a few times, until I was sure enough of what he was saying to get into a car with a strange man.
These are the moments you hope your parents never know what you are doing, willingly stepping into your potential foreign abduction. But I got in the car, and the man spoke in broken French and English about the wildlife surrounding us. My French was much worse than I expected, but I followed along carefully and watched his lips move, trying to pick up on every possible word. He over-enunciated, noticing my failure to pick up on details, but it was clear he wanted to fill the silence between a grown man and a young woman on a windy car ride in the French countryside. “The farm doesn’t believe in pesticides so we see things that no one else gets to see. Giant bugs, huge grasshoppers” I repeated the word, grasshoppers? “Those big bugs that jump” He motioned with his fingers hopping over his steering wheel so I understood. Oh, and “les cigalles, they chirp and chirp all summer. They get louder with the heat, so you may be working hard in the field, and the sounds of les cigalles will match your heartbeat. Pounding and loud. As the work becomes easier, they become quieter, your heart rate settling at night as you prepare dinner and prepare for sleep. You will never see them, because as soon as you get close to them, they are silent, unreachable. Then at the end of the summer, as it get cooler, they are gone. Only to be woken up next summer.” they only live about four weeks
What are cigalles? We pulled into the driveway. He swung my tiny bag out of the trunk and pointed to a mounted bug, giant on the wall “C’est une cigalle” It was massive, with two tucked wings, and bright colors, made of recognizable southern French pottery and colors. This did not really answer my question. He motioned to my room without a word and I wheeled in my suitcase and laid down on the bed exhausted.
September 2018
Le Gare
I wasn’t jet-lagged this time, just sleep deprived. I rang the farm, feeling a bit out of body to be in this place I had pictured so often. But it wasn’t the hot summer haze anymore, it was the fall and the air had a small but biting chill to it. No one answered, the familiar one-toned ring of French phones repeating over and over.
No cigalles, quiet and windy. The sun was not high like it once was, but low, with a dark hazy cloud covering it. The chirping bugs were gone for the Fall, cicadas, I thought, it had taken me an embarrassingly long time to put together that cicadas and cigalles were the same thing last time. Sometimes there is just a blockage in translation.
No one answered, so I walked over to the taxi station and knocked on the door until a man opened the door, smoking a cigarette. “I need a taxi”, I explained in French. He finished smoking it and eventually stamped it out and motioned for me to get in his taxi, which was parked on the street. Monique would be disgusted, I thought.
The road was bumpy and familiar, Ales was a mining town and full sides of mountains were blown up and covered in rigs. It was nothing compared to the beauty of the farm. Through the rear view window the man saw me look mournfully at the oil rigs, as there were many more than I had remembered last time. He spoke to me in French “Yes the oil companies have been drilling here more than they used to. Some of the water in the city has become contaminated and people have had to move into places further from the city so that they wouldn’t get sick. I guess that is the way of the world. People need their oil, that is what Ales has been for a while now.”
The cicada is the one of the world’s loudest insects, recording sounds of up to 120 decibels – but below 22 degrees Centigrade the resounding sections of the diaphragm lose their elasticity, which explains the quiet during periods of rain or after sunset.
2016
Ma Chambre
My minutes were quickly decreasing, but I called my mom in a panic. What was I doing here? I was alone in a foreign country and had no clue how I was going to make it through the next month. She was in Minnesota at a family reunion. The Lutherans were all gathered and after she calmed my tears, passed around the phone for everyone to say hi to me. My auntie Lynn and Uncle Phil were there, as were my grandparents. They passed around the phone in a flurry, everyone excitedly wishing me luck. I answered, politely through my tears, many “thank yous!” Frustrated that I was wasting my precious minutes, I asked them to return the phone to my mom, wiped my tears away and said goodbye to her.
Disoriented and lonely, I hung up and sat on my bed. A mosquito buzzed around me until I slapped it against the wall, leaving a streaked blood stain. Embarrassed, I ran to the bathroom and picked up a rag to wipe the blood off the wall. Scrubbing it away, I heard a scuffle and turned around to find the door open, a woman standing there speaking hurried French and holding two dishes. When I didn’t reply, she spoke English well with a strong French accent: “Go bring some dishes to the table!”
2018
Ma Chambre
I took out her shoes, they were too big for me. The funeral had been only three days before I left for France and they were going to get rid of all of her things, so I salvaged a few things with the goal of bringing her on my trip with me. Her shoes were too long, so they bent at the tip, and her pounded silver hoops tugged on my earlobes. Unpacking the red dress I had of hers, I began to sob, feeling isolated in my grief. I wrote about her often, my auntie Lynn Elise, my namesake. I had chosen to run from my grief-stricken family, and I knew why, but yet in these piercing feelings of sorrow, I couldn’t remember why I had chosen to come to this farm alone.
2016
Le Repas
The table had been set, something I was likely supposed to have assisted in. After evaluating it, I went back to the kitchen, where four people bustled around the tiny space, holding dishes. There was an old man with long white hair staring blankly, a man only a few feet tall holding two large dishes, and two older women. I recognized one of them as the woman who barked at me to help out a few minutes earlier, so I tried to make myself look busy by looking around the kitchen eagerly. “Take this” she shoved a large platter into my hands and I quickly walked out of the kitchen barefoot, embarrassed by my uselessness. When I put it down on the table, I was able to admire the display as it left my hands: fresh heirloom tomatoes of varying bright colors, sliced delicately and thinly down the middle and arranged carefully in concentric circles. They were topped with olive oil, sea salt and homemade nutritional yeast. Despite being a person who was frequently removing tomato slices from burgers and sandwiches because they disgusted me, this was one of the most delicious dishes I had ever tasted.
A loud bell clanged over and over and I turned around to see the small man ringing the bell with his hands. Quickly, people poured out of the buildings and the gardens. Lost in the mayhem, I took a seat at a table. Before eating, everyone grabbed hands and sang some kind of grace: “Un ami a droite un ami a gauche, a tous bon appetit!” Uncomfortable and confused, I held the hand lightly of the man sitting next to me and maintained a closed-mouth smile throughout the song.
Continuing to sit silently and awkwardly, I waited until the man gestured to the tomato plate from earlier, offering it to me in French. I served myself some, even though I didn’t like tomatoes and he asked where I was from, and I replied in French “Je viens d’aux Etats-Unis”. “Oh, so you’re an American” he said in an inaccurate, but funny southern accent. Judging by his English ability, I switched into English. “Where are you from?”. “We”, he gestured to his wife and children “are Germans” this, he also said in a mocking “authoritarian” German accent. “So how did you find this farm?” he asked in perfect English. “Oh, I just emailed a bunch of WWOOFing sites in Southern France and this is the only one that responded. “Ah, une woofeusse! That’s what they will call you. French people are funny, they need a title for everything. Boys are les woofeurs and girls are les woofeuses!” “That’s hilarious because WWOOF is an English acronym.” Not sure who this man even was, I asked “So how did you guys end up here?” He responded with more friendly banter, “Well do you know about this place? We are a bunch of wackos.” I laughed, but had no idea how to interpret that. “What do you mean?” He paused, and then motioned to the woman who had been terse with me during dinner preparation, “Monique’s father was a pastor, like myself, and started this farm as a sort of retreat for Seventh Day Adventists. Do you know what that is?” My stomach dropped. I had only been here for about an hour and was finally starting to feel a bit more at ease. This was some weird Christian retreat? I guess the pastor saw the look of panic flash across my face because he sort of smirked and commented “Oh, seems like you had no idea. Well I don’t think we are too crazy, except we go to church on Saturdays and people love to pride themselves on being a super healthy religion even if they themselves treat their bodies like crap.” Not sure what he meant, I asked “Super healthy how?” “Oh, well Adventists don’t believe in smoking, drinking or eating meat and try to stay away from chemicals and unnatural foods. That’s why everything here is organic and vegetarian. I’m sure you will hear about it from Monique in your morning classes.”
As he was about to say something else the woman he was referring to, Monique, the owner, came up behind him and laughed loudly. In French she explained, “Elise! You were supposed to sit down underneath the fig tree with the rest of us! I was wondering where you were, but you are up here with the guests!” Dennis joked back with her in French saying “Mais non, Monique she is my new friend! I explained to her we are all a bunch of crazy Adventists.” She swatted him with her hand playfully, “Dennis”, she pronounced it Denisse , “has been coming here since he was 13! He used to hitchhike here every summer from Hamburg!” “And now I am just boring and old,” he replied.
2018
Les Repas
I entered the kitchen, and was immediately put to work. It was the end of the season so the tomatoes and lettuce was past its prime. We ate it anyway, tearing away the bits eaten by bugs. I ripped apart the head of lettuce, like I had been taught, and bathed it in water three times until the soil came off into the bowl. After plunging it in water, I placed the leaves into the salad spinner and spun it rhythmically to remove access water. It whirred over the sounds of people chatting in the kitchen. The noise changed when I heard a man enter the room behind me singing some kind of dramatic classical piece at full volume. Monique chuckled as her entered the room and continued stirring her lentil soup.
It was chilly and windy outside so we ate in the spot where I was used to eating breakfast. The tables wound around the room so that there was room for everyone. I sat down quietly and the man who was singing earlier sat down next to me and introduced himself as Bastian. When the bread basket was passed around he rejected it, explaining he didn’t eat gluten. I was relieved to have someone else here who could not eat it, because I knew it was an inconvenience to Monique’s cooking. I replied in French: “Oh I cannot eat gluten either!” and across the table from me, a quiet girl added that she could not either. Monique laughed at all of us, but I should not have been surprised when she launched into a conspiratorial speech of how chemicals in wheat have made it more difficult to digest. Bastian, next to me, explained that Gluten made him hear voices. I didn’t eat it for months and then I tried eating it again and started to hear the voices!
2016
Les Amies
Armin
I began to settle into life at the farm. Waking up at 7 with the air sweet and warm. Covering my face in sunscreen and lemongrass bug spray I was given to ward off Mosquitos. The word for sting was “pique” and the thought of being picked by a mosquito seems to minimize the intensity of the swollen lumps I was covered in after just a few days on the farm.
I slipped on my sandals, now covered in mud, and my tiny running shorts and button up blouse and shuffled my way to the kitchen to eat breakfast. We drank tea out of bowls and I cupped it in my hands, warming my chest as I cradled it. Jars of various nut butters and jams scattered the table. Everything either handmade or displaying the words BIO (organic) in bright green. Cantaloupe, and melon sliced open with granola placed next to it. Everything was a spread. I ate quickly each morning and speed walked to the community room where we were taught the day’s permaculture lesson.
I sat down on a large couch next to a few of my new farmer chums. The local French baker man, the man from the train station, a haggard looking farm worker, and about 10 minutes into our boss speaking about cabbage, a new boy stumbled in, looking tired and confused. Armin! Exclaimed Monique and threw her arms around him and gave him a two-cheek kiss.
They spoke in rapid French, different from how she was speaking to me about natural ways to get rid of pests. “How is your mother? Is she well?” She asked in a parental tone. Yes, yes all is well. He looked about 16, but had an air of confidence and the careful stylistic choices that only a French teenager could have. Baggy but fitting camo cargo pants, and a nice black shirt. You will be working in the garden with Elise, she assigned. Elise? He asked, Are you French? Vous-etes Francais ? Non, non I replied “Ah mais c’est un prenom francais” (It’s a French first name!) I had been getting this a lot when I introduced myself, but it only took me a few words to prove that I was not French at all.
2016
Sabbath
Dennis pulled up next to me after breakfast, yelling out of his car “Are you coming to enjoy a restful Sabbath?” I replied, starting to adjust to the frenetic energy of the farm. “What are you doing?” “We just returned from church and now we are going to go swim in the river! Go grab your swimsuit and come with!” I agreed, and ran back to my room, my sandals slapping the gravel loudly. I came back to the car, and crammed in the back with the two kids, who looked around 10 and 15 sat silently on their kindles. Dennis’ wife didn’t seem to speak much English, but he engaged with me with as much energy as he had from the beginning. He drove and told stories in English (for my benefit), while the kids groaned at his jokes. I was just happy to be included, because I wasn’t sure what I was going to do on my day off besides lay on the lawn and read. “Moniques dad, the pastor, would drive us kids down this road and try to use the least amount of gas possible. He would get to the top of the hill and cut the engine, and just direct the car down the curves of the road. We would scream in the back, like we were on a roller coaster and you always knew when he was coming because you could hear his car burling down the road into the farm. He is buried just down that street, God rest his soul.”
We arrived at the spot and hiked down to the river. Dennis and his kids sang a song in French that roughly translated to “One kilometer, it hurts it hurts, two kilometers, it hurts, it hurts” they giggled and hiked along, I was proud to be an honorary member. It was a warm August day we laid on the heated rock and closed our eyes as the sun beat down. The kids jumped straight into the water. Sitting up, Dennis said, while setting up our picnic lunch, “As a Jewish sister, you know the joys of a beautiful Sabbath.”
According to Provençal myth, the cicada was sent by God to disrupt the peasants’ endless siestas and stop them from growing too lazy
The cicada has represented insouciance since classical antiquity. Jean de La Fontaine began his collection of fables Les fables de La Fontaine with the story “La Cigale et la Fourmi” (“The Cicada and the Ant”) based on one of Aesop‘s fables; in it, the cicada spends the summer singing, while the ant stores away food, and finds herself without food when the weather turns bitter.[77]
Glaser Media + Writing 