Grapes never tasted so good...

Last Tuesday we took the train to Mullheim and then a bus to the little town of Laufen. It's amazing the places you can go on a little transportation pass called the Regiocard. The Germans definitely had their heads in the right place when deciding to focus on public transportation (or when they decided to invent currywurst...yum!). Ten minutes on the tram gets me to gelato in the city center, a fifteen minute ride to the train station, and twenty minutes to the park.

In Lawrence, it's fifteen minutes just to get to a Dillons...by car. It's going to be so strange coming home and realizing that oh, I have to hop in my car, emit a ton of CO2, find a parking space, and do the same thing to get home just to buy a stick of butter. Oh I do love Lawrence congestion, hills, and potholes.

The area around Laufen is known for its vineyards. Hills rolled along the countryside, covered with rows and rows of vines, basking in the early afternoon sun.

Once in town we walked to Weingut Wendelin Brugger, a family-owned organic winery. I'd never seen such a picturesque house. A large garden surrounded the house, filled with flowers with such enchanting smells I actually smiled at the scent of them. We were ushered into their living room, where tables set with baskets of bread, fresh flowers, and crystal clear wine glasses awaited us.

I couldn't believe I was at my first wine tasting. Me, the girl who can't tell a Pinot Grigio from a Merlot and drinks box wine at dinner. Clueless, I just followed our hostess' lead, swirling the wine, smelling it before taking a sip, gently tasting it on my tongue before swallowing.

Alright, so I looked the part but still had no idea what I was doing. All I knew though, was that the wines were delicious and the flush on my face was proof.

Since it's such a small operation, the family does all of it's fermenting, processing, packaging, and storing in a large cellar behind the house. Our hostess, Lisa, the daughter-in-law of the owner, explained to us their family's determination to go organic and to keep their operations small. Though they had the ability to expand, to hire workers, to apply for standards and certifications and other pieces of papers with gold stars on it, they chose to remain family oriented and to, as she said, "make wine the way we want to." Money wasn't so much the issue as family and tradition were.

In our "get rich quick", "go big or go home", money-hungry society, it is rare and refreshing to see a business focus on not only what is financially viable, but beneficial for the family and environment as well. Seeing this multi-generational family live and work under one roof, the grandfather working alongside his son, their family history written into the vineyards they tend, the granddaughter picking cherries from the tree on their land, reminded me of a time not so long ago when family values, respect, and tradition were what we lived by.

After the last bottle was drank and gone, we all scampered to buy our own bottle. We went home that day, our bellies full of wine, our backpacks full of bottles, our hearts full with something indescribable but very very enriching.

Notes on an Inland Hurricane

A little over a month ago, my hometown of Carbondale, IL, was ravaged by an 'inland hurricane.' For ten to twenty minutes, heavy winds (some above 100 mph) tore trees up by their roots, ripped siding straight off of buildings, toppled electric poles, and then moved on. Most of the town was without phones or power for nearly a week, and some houses in the outskirts were powerless for two or three. Cars were crushed like soda cans under ancient trees; trails in nearby Giant City State Park were hopelessly overcome with debris; a friend's bedroom was impaled by a massive limb. "It took less than half an hour, and it destroyed Carbondale," he said. Later, we were told it's name: a derecho, or straight-moving windstorm.

I remember my lack of worry. I was wrapped up in finals week, whirling about in my own storm of sleep-deprived stress, deeply secure in my conviction that no possible harm could ever befall my friends or family. Fortunately, none did. But when I first tried to call, the day after the storm, and I didn't even get a dial-tone, I had no way of knowing that. I remember an itching nagging tug in the back of my stomach, a tiny chink in my nonchalant attitude. They were probably just crouched in a living room lit by candlelight, eating Spam cooked over Sterno, playing board games, I told myself. 'They're fine!' I said. But the next time I called, two days later, I got the same emptiness on the other end of the line, and the chink shifted and tugged and grew.

A few images had emerged on Facebook by this time. An awe-struck college kid stood in the middle of an empty street, gaping at downed trees on either side of him. Craters of muddy water yawned in places where entire root systems had  been simply yanked free. One branch had plunged into the earth like a spear and stood upright in someone's front yard. A mess of power lines lay tangled on the sidewalk, alongside the remaining half of a Jeep.

The biggest storms in my daily life are never physical, but mental. I see words spinning about me more often than I feel winds, and watch giant personalities get uprooted more often than giant trees. But this wasn't about words. It was about about physicality, force, and insensitive violence. By taking the environment I grew up with, smiling, and giving it a good shake, the derecho forced me to think of human society as though I were not a part of it. What funny creatures we are! Goofy, naked builders and breeders, whose rational minds don't always coincide with the life's irrationality. We all need a good shake every now and then!

But by the time I got home, a fleet of emergency utilities vehicles and bulldozers had restored normalcy to Carbondale. Bundled sticks at the side of the road, endless firewood and giant holes were all that remained of Nature's fit of violence. Most houses were repaired, and those that weren't, were about to be. The storm was over: it was easy for man to transform his environment back to how he imagined it should be. As much as they had loved life with Spam, Sterno and candlelight, I'm sure my family was glad to have their old life back. And I was glad, in the end, to be shaken up, even just a little bit.

-Justin Leverett

Just call me Little Red...

Oh the Black Forest. The mystical setting of Grimm brother fairy tales, rolling green hills covered with flowers and evergreen, grazing herds of cows. I imagined myself running through lush fields, beer and brat in hand, hair braided and singing German songs...

Yeah right.

The day started fairly clear, took a train and then bus to Kirchzarten, then proceeded on foot to the Schniederlihof Museum, an old school German farmhouse in the Black Forest, preserved in its original form. We got a tour of the old place, learning about how they lived and worked, while outdoors, the day turned from ok to worse.

Rain and wind pelted us as we continued to hike upwards to the peak, Schauinsland, which stands at 3281 feet. I'm sure behind all the clouds and rain there were the hills and flowers I had so fondly imagined, but at that point all I saw was the heels of the person in front of me and the steep incline we were ascending. We were essentially within a cloud by the time we reached the peak, where we huddled in groups, eating our sandwhiches.

So yeah, I wasn't in the best mood. Rain + cold + wind + steep incline = not so happy Janie.

Convinced that this was now officially the worse experience so far, we trudged down into the heart of the forest. I seriously thought I had walked into Middle Earth. Trees the size of sky scrapers towered above us creating a dense leafy ceiling while moss and slippery roots carpeted the floor. We skipped along the forest path, pretending I was Little Red Riding Hood (which was accentuated by the fact that I indeed had a red hood on), stopping every now and then to breathe in the fresh mountain air. You may think you've breathed fresh air before, but you have no idea what you're talking about until you hike the Black Forest.

I absolutly loved it. With every fiber of my rain-soaked body, I love the Black Forest. I love its beauty, its serenity, its mystery.

After the forest, we finally found ourselves in the rolling hills of my imagination, where wild flowers grew. Though I restrained myself from running through them like some Taiwanese Heidi, I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. We stopped by the Rappenecker Hutte (hiker's inn...or in my case, grandmother's house) for some cheesecake and coffee and proceeded on our way.

Let me just say: the weather here is bipolar.

We're barely in the forest again before it starts raining...again. But by this point I was so stuffed with cheesecake and soaked with rain that I didn't even care. Slippery roots and scary cliff ledges only made me laugh as we kept hiking down to the village of Oberried. The forest continued to astonish me with its wonder and I promised myself I would come back again...preferably not in the rain.

Though this wasn't necessarily the hike of my dreams, it was definitely a crazy adventure. And luckily I didn't run into any big bad wolves along the way.

Notes on an Urban Farmer

Martin’s eyes crinkle in pleasure and he smiles a gummy smile proudly over his beds of peas and sweet corn.  From his hill top position, he can survey the beds of freshly turned soil that seem to spill down the hill, unfolding like carpets down the steep slope. Beyond the path and the huge crates of manure, are his patches of strawberries, pumpkins, beans, his small greenhouse and his tea hut.

Martin is seventy-three years old, deaf and unstoppable. He started this sprawling estate—seven separate plots is in the center of the busy English city of Bristol—twenty-two years ago when a friend from his homeland of Jamaica repatriated and left the plot to him. These days, Ashley Vale Allotments are hot property.  The waiting list for a plot in this 13-acre city garden is lengthy, but Martin is a firmly established and beloved figure.

His speech, affected by his thick Jamaican accent and lack of hearing, is almost unintelligible. But his smile, kindness and dedication to his garden shine through in bursting rays. He rubs the dark, damp soil in his wizened hands and exclaims over its smell. He cares for his plants like children, nursing them into being in his small greenhouse. The care continues even when they are transplanted-- he has constructed poles for the beans, constructed net screens for the peas (to protect them from birds) and covers for the cabbages (to protect them from bad weather.) Martin spends five or six days a week caring for his grounds. Evidence of his dedication is his sturdy, yet ramshackle tea hut, right next to a little shed. Inside he keeps a chair, an English flag, a kettle and snacks. The supplies are necessary—sometimes Martin arrives at his garden at seven in the morning and doesn’t leave until five at night.

The first thing he tells any visitor is that his garden reminds him of his grandfather’s garden back in Jamaica. He plucks at sorrel and cabbage, plants that he remembers from his boy hood. When he first arrived in England, young Martin was often sick from the change in his diet-- the pesticides hurt his stomach. It was his doctor who finally suggested that he make a lifestyle change—Martin was also spending lots of time inside, watching TV from his chair. He motions to his stomach and laughs, gesturing how much weight he gained in his first few years.  Besides the benefit of healthy vegetables to eat, his garden also brought him outside—giving him both exercise and a community. 

The garden is filled with his friends—many other Jamaican immigrants have plots, there, he says. Other friends lend a hand in Martin’s garden—one is Andrew, currently digging the steep fields. “Martin gave me ex-missus vegetables when she were pregnant,” he said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. “So I offered to turn ‘is fields for ‘im.” A truck pulls up and a tubby, white man steps out. He and Martin shake hands warmly. A minute later, another friend, this one gold-smiled and dreadlocked arrives to help carry manure. As Martin strolls along, he waves at a woman working in the fields next door. “Hiya, Miss Parkah,” he calls, “it’s bein’ close to twelve o’clock. Seben to twelve!”

“Thanks,” she waves back.

He probably can’t hear the response because the only time a week he puts in his hearing aid is at church, so that he can hear the prayers. It is also the only day a week that he isn’t in his garden. Yet Martin’s religion stays with him all week. From his religion he draws the principle that he lives by—giving.

“Da more you give— da more you give, da more you’ve got,” he said. 

-- Brenna Daldorph

Is it Guten Tag or Auf Wiedersehen?

I leave tomorrow for Europe. In two days I will be strolling along cobblestone streets in the town of Freiburg, breathing in the fresh Black Forest air, eyes wide at the sight of cathedrals and more bratwursts than I can imagine. Yet on the eve of this Deutschland adventure, I can't help the unshakable and subtle anxiety that I feel.

Did Marco Polo feel these jitters before embarking on the Silk Road? Did Christopher Columbus worry about language barriers, motion sickness, and packing too little underwear? Did Neil Armstrong feel the sudden desire to call every friend and family member to tell them how much he loved them?

Though the lands have been explored and the maps drawn, every trip I take still feels like a great adventure. It is strange how the unknown can create such a mixture of fear and excitement, a mixture that is what propels me in my desire to travel and to explore. I find that there is nothing more catalytic of self growth and change than travel.

So here I am, only a couple of hours before boarding my plane bound for Germany, nearly unable to believe that I am about to make my first trip to Europe. All I can do is try to enjoy these butterflies, not much different from the bittersweet butterflies of a high school crush, and all the while try to pack enough underwear.

Janie

photo credit

Notes on a River Changed

Eventually, I turned towards home and my feet found my familiar path, northward along the river Stort’s banks. The sun slipped behind the clouds, but even if the sun had shimmered, the water would have barely sparkled—it looked greasy and stagnant. A moorehen on the banks looked startled, frightened and plunged into the water to join a floating crisp bag. Pigeon droppings marked the asphalt path. Nettles grew bushy on either side, no longer seeming wild and free, but ominous. I couldn’t smell the nettle’s tangy fragrance anymore, instead I smelled salty chips from a local kebabery and something fried and cinnamon-y wafting from the opposite direction. It has changed drastically in the past few years. I remember a time when my path through the center of town used to have that same English magic as the path I found. No longer.

Bishop's Stortford is located halfway between London and Cambridge. There is easy train access either way, making Bishop’s Stortford the ideal commuter town. Of late, commuters have moved in like a plague. Tall buildings thrown up to accommodate Bishop’s Stortford’s new residents tower over the little river. Other obscenities—new grocery stores, parking garages, chain shops and restaurants—also encroach upon the river’s banks. I used to pick loganberries and feed the ducks on the river, now I run past a tall metal fence edged in barbed wire, turquoise paint flaking off.

The river winds into a park and some of its charm returns. The water seems to flow a little faster, a few ducks scoot along belong bridges. An elderly woman walks two dogs and children gather in the green spaces. My path is again dirt. Hope is not lost. 

Photo Credit

Notes while Running Down an English Path

On my first day in England, not five minutes from my grandparent’s house, I found a hidden path. It caught the corner of my eye; I crossed the street and started down it.

It was a day of saints: overcast but with the sun making periodic and splendid entrances—shimmering rays bursting through the clouds and traveling earthward, exactly as if they should be illuminating a saint below.  It would have been fitting for the magical rays to illuminate the entrance to this riverside road, just like a glowing gateway in a fairy tale.

*

After a long flight, my body craves a run more than it craves sleep. Until I go, I feel claustrophobic and disoriented-- unable to gage where exactly I am. My head clears as I extend my legs, feel the fresh air and peer around at my new surroundings.   Running is my way of keeping tabs on the environment around me. I can travel farther than I ever could when walking: I explore, I follow hidden paths.  I follow my heart and my feet.  My runs prove that there are endless amounts of unknowns in one’s own, familiar environment. I am always finding new things within the small radius that I can cover in an hour on my feet.

The dirt path follows the Stort River, winding away from a busy street and plunging into picturesque English countryside. All was in bloom: the edges of neighboring fields were trimmed in Queen Anne’s lace, nettles and purple, trumpet-like flowers spilled onto the path. In other parts, trim blossoms in the verdant gardens of little cottages were just visible over the fence.

I entered into a dappled region; path shaded by tall trees. A sign told me I was entering Rushy Mead Nature Preserve.  I could immediately hear the underbrush rustle with abounding English wildlife. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a water vole—a creature of Wind and the Willows— plunge into waterside rushes. On the opposite shore, two haughty swans roosted in an overturned rowboat. In the calm waters, geese and green-headed mallards paddled along amicably. Fuzzy, black moorehen, the English water bird that always looks desperate, struggled to keep in line.

I passed over bridges, water rushing underneath, and passed by slower pools formed by old locks. The shiny metal levers of Southmill Lock 1 and Twyford Lock 2 stood ready for a boatman to crank. Twyford was next to a mill house, a Tudor building where English country folk have harnessed the river to make their bread for centuries. For all I knew, I could have been back in time. The shiny houseboats that bobbed in the water, shiny paint catching the sun, supported this thought. I imagined the roving occupants—still as magical and mysterious as all river people— probably descended from the first Roma to come to Britain. The Moondance, blue with white letters, looked peaceful and I guessed the river people slept inside.

I continued, coming to a gate. Going through, I passed a stable surrounded by fallow fields filled with delicate buttercups which splashed yellow across the green. The path led me under an archway of trees forming a shady portal into another world.

It was fitting: I had entered another world; the ingress only steps from my familiar ground. 

Photo Credit

Photo Credit

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