THe Journey Continued and Reflections from a Man at Rest

If a man seeks the something that has penetrated his dreams for a decade or more but loses grip on the self that he was when he first had those dreams, what then, do his dreams offer him? I asked myself this question too often, with each new experience, I came closer to a realization, a chance to see myself for what I really was, but in the beginning of this journey I held my character with white-knuckled grip as I hurlded towards each new destination. The clarity of my experiences had been blurred by the creation of a arrogant persona. The confidence I exuded only made me weak and reluctant to experience the world for what it truly was and what I felt after this realization was regret for the first time in my life. Regret not for the moments that had passed, but for my inability to absorb the moments with honesty instead of a false sense of confidence.

When a person takes this sort of journey, away from everything they know to be a reality, the greatest challenge is to experience the experience for what it is and neither make it to be something it's not nor refuse to open yourself up to the cultural exchange. It can daunting, and I've seen young kids, spend their European vacation drinking and partying just as they would back home. I have also witnessed men and women both in their 20's and 40's leave everything at home, to spend 6 months immersed in a new culture to learn the language. I found myself somewhere in the middle on average. During my stay in Paris, I was still a New Yorker. Brash and sarcastic with no sense of awe or humility..."Oh Really? that's Notre Dame? Yeah, too many tourists, you've seen one church you've seen 'em all!" That was my reaction. Why bother? But if a picture is worth a thousand words, then the real thing should leave you with none. I cannot express completely the feeling of mounting the Eiffle Tower, climbing every step to the summit and looking out over a sun kissed Paris with Edith Piaf ringing in my ears. I just do not have the vocabulary, and can't spell wind or smell or the taste of sweat on my lips after 700 steps. But you can imagine, and you can see photos, but though you might find 1000 or even 1,000,000 words to describe the sensations you imagine to be true, when you are there, you mind opens, and your mouth shuts. There is no point to say or write anything in that moment. That is why planes were invented. To go and see these things. (probably not the reason planes were invented, but I speculate to make a point.)


So you travel and you see these things, these many and great things. They change you, in ways that you can't expect. Looking at the Coliseum, I did not see the wonder of construction and the daunting question of "how did they do it?" but rather I saw myself. I saw myself reflected in the many and abundant things across Europe. It was a poppy littered field at 150 mph, a cloud filled sky at dusk, a crescent moon over Biaritz, a hug from a stranger, a smile from a child and the embrace of the Mediterranean over my tired body. All these things, so brave of me to have seen, never cared to ask me what I thought of them. They existed for the same sake a tree grows, it does because it does. And thus I found the secret to my self. I must do what I must do, because like the tree, its what I do.

I believe I left off somewhere on the Road to Budapest, and for your patience I continue the Road to Budapest, Part 2. Enjoy...

Its dangerous and I toss my head back and close my eyes to the night and just accept that this moment is what the trip was all about. I have no place to be but here in this seat, and though I have been traveling since 8 this morning, almost 14 hours so far, I don’t care. Why waste this sweet Italian night on rented sheets?

VERONA

A stopping place while I wait for the night train to Munich. Stepping outside into the night air, I found no comfort in Italy, just tension and excitement that comes only from the truly unknown. The night it was thick, not quite humid and not quiet hot. It was in between and soft. The hour approached and my train would arrive soon. I found a spot on the curb outside to smoke a cigarette I had bummed off an old man that smelled of sweat, wet wool and diesel fuel and stared up into the heavens for something. One solitary star reveals itself to me and I find no solace in the lonely light. I am alone tonight, and the though my phone and computer and other electronic parts will run out of energy, I feel that I will not. Not tonight, I am awake. I am living and full of life tonight. I charge the quiet darkness with no real concern for logic. Its in the darkness that the truth of this trip will reveal itself and on the this rambling train to Germany I can see that there is no logic. No sense exists, no true rhyme or reason for the events of an adventure to occur. I believe that the algorithm for adventure consists of the following components; 1. No direct desire to achieve anything in particular, other than of course adventure. 2. Fearlessness to bear yourself to the world, whatever the consequences. I speak of fearlessness not just of events, places, but of people, animals, foods and all other facets of the life that exist in their various forms across the globe. And lastly, (3) A mind open to all the strange possibilities of life, the ability to change your mind, perspective or plans at a moment’s notice. It is with these three basic elements that truest and purest adventure can occur. The cost of adventure is a function of the three elements. For example those who are not afraid of the weather, I speak of fear of exposure to the elements not ignorance, might take the chance to walk across the Gobi dessert, or climb mount everest. Those who fear has encapsulated their habits might find that a cruise be a proper form of adventure because their proportional open-mindedness is far greater then their fearlessness. But as one develops this analogy further, one realizes that grade of an adventure is relative and thus flawed and especially unique. The difficulty with adventure is that in this chaotic scheme no two adventures are the same for any two given people. This allows for a freedom beyond any other formulaic expression because without a correct answer that can apply generally to all bodies in motion, then no one can be confined to generalization. However in this analogy their is one limitation, and that is the comparative fearlessness before and after the adventure. If the adventure fulfills the three basic principles, then the level of fearlessness will absolutely decrease. This certainty is due to the experience of said person in an environment outside of their normal existence and thus a broader feeling of capability grows and personal confidence and `worldly-ness’ as described as an overall ability to navigate the globe with reasonable ease increases its presence in that person’s motivation towards life. The greater the adventure, the more the person might be inclined to seek out opportunities that can provide alternative adventure as well as to expand the common sense of the individual. Having to communicate in other languages unknown the person with only the means of facial and body expressions can create a sense of personal awareness that boarders on obsessive.
The sleeper car I have found unfortunately has no place to sleep. The sleepers are wise and prudent to lock their doors, but it leaves me little to no choice as to where to rest my head. After a couple of late trains from Venitimilgla and Genova, I am stranded with only my Eurail pass. The cost of this consequence is never more then 5 euros, but there is a difficult feeling involved with trying to find a place to sleep, a comfort and relaxation. I will be in Budapest Soon, and hopefully will have a place to stay, but the constant state of adventuring into the unknown creates a growl within me. A silent roar that pushes me through my own discomfort and into the new. A thick layer of fog moves in to cover my mind as I vibrate like a bead of water on a smoking hot pan. The train banks hard and fast like a 100,000 pounds of thrust from a jet engine. The force of these fast turns is beginning to make me crazy. I never have felt so consecutively sick as I have on the trains in Europe. The cars are fitted with race car suspension, fit to take corners at super high speed and every French and Italian driver finds the hidden desire lurking behind their thick coat of cologne and wrap around glasses, a burning and unnecessary desire to drive like they were on a race track, and thus causing the prepackaged sandwich I bought from the vending machine just hours earlier to start a fight with my stomach and my throat.



It is the most gratifying thing to know that I can just keep on going. And so I do, sandwiched between two large packs I write and roll with the passing things before me. Time, a good friend of mine, has given me a secret to keep and I won't let it go, not for anything. Time has taken me in under its wing, and I don't think I'll be coming home soon. The sun creeps up beyond the summer alps, now green and lush with forestation and life. Their winter selves cast away as high hot winds from the valleys and blasts of sunshine shake the ice from their cold slumber and throw down the melted life down their slopes, the rivers beneath the tracks swell and the torrent currents plows against the clay banks of Austria. It had been almost 32 hours since I had left Marsaille. As the sun came up, my complete and utter lack of sleep began to play with my mood. I began to salivate, hungry, tired and restless, I just wanted something to do. Soon, I had something to do, give my passport over to two men walking in the bar car. It was the German Secret police, and it was just me and two other middle-eastern guys awake in the car. The cops looked at me and then to my compatriots awake. He took their passports, and with German Shepard (sort of gave away the secret if you ask me) in tow, they began to make phone calls and searched these men head to toe and their luggage as well. It was embarrassing, because though a world of dangerous and merciless men exist on this planet without a conscience, even on a basic level dignity can be snatched from those without their consent solely based on their complexion. This is nothing new, not by a long shot. But to be in the same lineup, so to speak, and not be selected because I'm lighter skinned, made me uncomfortable. These gentlemen were clearly used to the routine, and though I am used to racial profiling and long standing history of social injustice, I quietly stood aghast as the state of affairs I was witnessing.

We raced across Austria and into Germany. Munich approached as the sun gained confidence in the morning sky. I found the terminal packed with Burger King, Starbuck and other capitalist labels. A huge red sign above the Eastern entrance to the red Trink Coca Cola! And so thousands of miles away from home, I took a seat in Burger king, had a cup of coffee and a bagel for 2 euro and waited the two hours for my train to Budapest. I made a reservation at a hotel, and continued to wait. The hours passed by quickly and my express train to Budapest would depart momentarily. I found my seat, and plugged in my ear phones and let Bob Dylan cooly sweep away my worries. I ride on a mail train baby, can't buy a thrill the train pulls away from the station with a gentle tug, don't the moon look good momma, shinin' through the trees the departure rattles me back to reality and I realize that I'm heading to see my gal in a foreign land. Covered in sweat, filled with love, sitting still at over 150 miles and hour, I am bound for her and myself.



....continued in Budapest

Marsaille to Budapest Pt. 1

(the following posts will be directly from my daily journal. In the fast paced tracks of my own, often disorganized mind, the order of a typical book form, where form meets function and beginning middle and end colide into a safe linear order, I often find that task to be herculean in its demand on me. So as we move closer to the near east, I have kept track of my movements and my thoughts in this journal. To give you a basic outline I followed this line of cities from point A to Point B.

Marsaille to Nice
Nice to Ventimiglia
Ventimiglia to Genova
Genova to Milan
Milan to Verona
Verona to Vienna
Vienna to Munich
Munich to Budapest

this portion will cover the first leg of the trip to Milan (bolded). It is good to note that this trip was a consecutive movement from one city to the next. I had some layovers, and some troubles, but mostly I was on the steel lines that cross Europe. I hope that there won't be too much confusion, I tried to illuminate everything that I saw with the words I know. But unfortunately, I can't write smell, and I can't write as well I wish I could. I will paint the scenes I have seen, and I will cook what I have learned, but to be one with a journey means remembering more and writing less. Some of these stories I won't reveal and they will remain relics for my children to theirs someday. And so I give you leg 1 of a 41 hour journey to spend 24 with the woman I love. Some will be told, some will not, some will make you laugh, some will make you cry, but its what I saw, what I said, and what I lived. I will continue this form as it best describes what I see, and since I have already written it, it saves me the agrivation of trying to write the same feelings I felt after I have felt endless others. Enjoy.)


I had arrived in Marsaille after my experience in Lyon with the big B (Paul Bocuse) I found a bed and wonderful company, with Andre Benattar, the cousin of friends. I had spent only one day in Marsaille and felt somewhat snubbed for lack of a better word at the fact that the beauty and I woke up early after a nice evening with Andre and his friends Pierre and Sandrine. I had reviewed the hours for the train the night before and was well prepared to depart from the station Gare St Jean at 9:30 but when I finally arrived at the station there was no train. There are two major types of trains here in France as there are in the states, the TGV which would be something like the Accela and the TER which pulls a close second to the Metro North. So because Marsaille is a big port and hub in the south of France, the station houses both TER and TGV. I had checked the schedule but had failed to check the days for the departures and whether or not the same trains that depart on Fridays depart on Saturday. And so I had trouble figuring out what the best plan of action was. So I check the board and found that there was a TGV departing at 11 and though there was an additional 10 euro fee for the seat sans reservation, I decided that it was worth the 10 euros to get on board and make the trip to Nice sooner rather then later. I had originally found that all the first class seats taken, but luckily I found one and was comfortable in the quiet car and typing in no time.



But the train curves around the winding tracks carved directly through the soft limestone. Beyond the windows that only partially reflect the quiet passengers inside lies the Mediterranean sea. Its salinity and azure tone have long drawn the bronze skinned Europeans for sex and sun. The listen to the delicate sound of the water kiss the shore. Its lips are soft and supple as are those of the many supple bodies which frolic and float in it, and the kisses are more passionate then those of the burly and boistrous atlantic. The click of the tracks is almost inaudible from the cabin of the train. As the charger banks and rolls into each turn at high speed like a jet fighter, i can see out the window the many tile covered roofs of Mediterranean decor. At this first approach, I can see that the beauty of this part of the world is not that there is an individual culture but a melange of associated towns that share the same culture. Theirs is of the sea and nothing more. Marsaille has cliffs of bramble and limestone that shed the sea side towns from the heavy rains approaching from Lyon and the Alps. The tan faces of north africans speckle the sea shore and it becomes obvious that Africa is near. The worn faces of old fishermen impress upon me just how far away from home I am. I see their faces and want to paint them, immortalize them in some kind of golden frame in which each wrinkle of their dark faces can be analyzed and cherished for its history and nuances that reveal the age of a time now lost to capitalism and desires of the flesh. Passing vineyards long since passed their last harvest, rest and lie in wait for the next chance to grow and make the journey from vine to bottle. Red Poppy speckles the overgrown grass alongside the tracks like shining drops of blood on a canvas. Their color pure and filled with fresh passion. Their only crime is being to beautiful, they will be picked and discarded, but the great irony of nature will no doubt reveal a new flock of these fluttering pedals next summer. In other places, their color paints the patches of green with long and languid brush strokes. I can look out the window of this train and imagine that I am not here. That I am just going somewhere I know, to New Jersey to see Melinda, or to New Haven to visit with Nick. But no one would be home if I were to arrive. They are all gone, and then I remember that I have never seen anything before. I have never tasted life until now, and the satisfaction of this adventure reveals itself again. And yet, still yet, I have not found the thing that eludes me, freedom. I can smell it and listen to it whisper to me from dark corners of cobblestone streets. I chase the sound around every corner and hope to find it uncovered and waiting. But the reality is that I am free, my chase obliges my freedom. It is my mind that remains captive. I will attempt to find the key, and life, which has already begun to accelerate, will reveal the great truth to me very soon, and when it does I believe that I will be ready to receive the message. This crusade for truth in food will change the world for me, and hopefully in turn I may be able to shape the clay when I have the opportunity. I must begin however, with my own form, my own mental state of being. For without my confidence and a sense of altruistic sentimentality to surround my journey, the task will be difficult and such important descions I would otherwise instinctualy react to, would be besmirched unknowingly and could potentially deter me from what I believe to be a great opportunity. I speak only in generalities at this point, because the opportunity has not yet revealed itself. But I imagine then when my mind finds its freedom, then too will my momentum be great enough to break down the barriers that have held me captive. I have been learning through the windows of my mind. My eyes only partially open to the experiences because of my own familial dementia. The blinds were down but open to let in the light.



The traveler sees the world before him and jumps into the unknown fully. I think that french enabled me to a certain extent. Because of my ability to describe the feelings in my head, albeit, infantile and crude, I felt that I had a place in France, but now for the first time, I am alone without a language to communicate and its a fierce feeling. The feeling is so different now, I am in another country, the coast I leave behind and its suntanned flesh for the prada covered bodies of Milan.

Passing the mountain villages on the way to Milan, I see the greenhouses stacked upon one another, built to take full advantage of the terroir and precious sunlight.
loano really pretty. Half asleep and speeding pass rice and wheat fields open to the suns last winks of light for the day. The poppy’s still speckle the landscape and somewhere france is still with me. But I arrived in Milan late, and thus felt the wrath of full italian brutality. Its not that I don’t appreciate the work of state workers, but seriously, I was standing at the window speaking to the woman at the ticket desk. With a semi-pathetic tone in my voice (might explain her response) she never made eye contact with me and proceeded to flick the switch or release the lever that slowly closed the blind in the window. It was like the curtain at a peep show, sorry no hard feelings but the day is over and its time to go. So standing a little flabbergasted, having already waited in an entirely different line for 20 minutes I was not sure what to do. I did a little head bang on the ticket window, and decided it was time to move on. So I found the man who had shooed me away only moments earlier at the former window, and said, “Sir, the window is closed, I need to get to Vienna.” To which he replied in what must have been the first english phrase he was taught, “Vienna close(d), no ticket, go somewhere else.” A little shocked I tried logic, after all it was an Italian age of Enlightenment, “Where is the closest station to Vienna in Italy, Tell me how to get there, anywhere closer to the Austrian boarder is fine. Tell me anything that gets me out of this station, por favore.” To which he looked at me over his half moon glasses perched on the tip of his sun stained nose, “Line 22 upstairs, they help you.” The lesson here, when an Italian is screaming at you, that doesn’t necessarily mean that you are being yelled at. The language is latin, it has machismo, and more then that, and this is entirely personal, I don’t understand the language. And with that experience, I found the first moment of insight into the world that is Europe. The French, though arrogant have a method. Maybe they learned it from the Germans, but I have taken over 20 trains in the past month, and each one left either precisely on time, of a minute early. My train to Milan arrived 20 minutes late and I missed the last high-speed sleeper out of Milan. This is an adventure and tonight, I am sure will prove interesting. I am sitting on a regional train heading to Verona where I will pick up another train to Vienna. I don’t really know when I will arrive in Austria, but I can be sure that I will be tired and worn out. But now sitting in a comfortable chair next to a window open half way blazing through the hot italian night towards a city I have never visited. The tension is unbelievable. A blast of air screams through the car as the high speed train on the next track runs its fingers across the window. It momentum pushing the air ahead of it to thrust the windows back against the interior of their guides. The power is palpable the excitement builds. LIke standing on the top of a mountain in the dark of a moonless night, the breeze hits you from the unseeable and you can’t help but wonder if the next gust will toss you off your feet, though you are sure you are safe. Ibrahim Ferrer chanting spanish in my ears, Marieta, a woman he begs to for love, and the latin beat pulses through the nerves and pushes me further on down these Milano tracks to the city I don’t know.

Also to Note*

I will be organizing the photos most likely this weekend, so don't sweat it, there will be ORDER!!!! I cannot really take too much pity in your disorganized viewing, these pictures are pretty bad-ass.

Later.

More Posts Are Comming I Promise

Okay so I am here in Italy and its amazing. I realize that you, my doting fans wait patiently each and every morning for this page to load before you can regard my lovely words as you sip your morning coffee. I also realize that it has been almost 3 weeks since the last post, but don't sweat it promise it will be worth the wait. Just to give you a little update, I have visited the following cities since last we spoke.

Pau
Montpillier
Lyon
Marsaille
Nice
Ventimilligia
Milan
Verona
Munich
Vienna
Budapest
Venice
Florence
La Spezia
Sarzana...and the list will continue as tomorrow I am heading out to Cinque Terre! I miss you all and will upload everything. I have photos, videos, words. You name it ,I got it...talk soon

Ciao

Aarona Flores

(sigh)....shit!

And so the final day of my time on the farm had arrived. It was a cool fog covered morning in May, and the market was bustling in Rouffignac, but the coffee I had earlier that morning was strong, and well...something had to be done. Don't cringe yet, I promise nothing graphic, but as you can imagine my first thought was, 'I will find a bathroom around here somewhere and all will be well with the world.' However, when I did find the WC as it were, I was puzzled when I discovered this strange device in the room where a seat should be. Is this a joke, some kind of inititation to the farmers life? I had no idea but let me tell you I was not even sure if I was in the right place, so I checked the other stalls and there were urinals. 'Hmmm! Nothing strange there,' I assured myself. So I walked back to the other side. SHIT!!! And so I began to think, all the while my bowels turning knots and my patience withering by the minute. Here I was, standing in kimbo staring at a hole in the ground. I took a closer look, and found there were little foot sized parts just about hip distance apart in the front of the hole. Could they be serious? Where am I supposed to sit? Looking at the walls I saw no handle-bars, no notching to get a grip, nothing!!!!! And so, with years of athletics behind me, no pun intended, I figured I could squat for a few minutes without having too much trouble.


Let me tell you that it was not my legs I was worring about, not directly at least. The pants dropped and things began as usual except there was nothing to support me if I made that tragic fall. And so with one eye on the bullseye, things began to happen, and they happened fast. Too fast, and I found my knees getting weak, each movent of this odorous opus was taking more and more out of me, finally I had to resort to attempting to stick my hands to the walls. Everytime I thought it was over, I was too wrong, and because of the morning dew (seriously not trying to make this many puns) the walls were slick with condensation causing my position to slip ever so slowly and painfully southward towards the awful pit of despair to my rear! And so in a last ditch effort, I thrust my arms around the toilet paper holder, and with my shoulder dug into the right wall, balanced for the final notes. A sigh of relief came over me, finally, the dennemont come and I was prepared for a relaxing finish. I reached for the paper, and it felt light. Too light, and sure enough, with a soft tug, the remaining 5 squares fell limp in my grip. I was battered but not beaten, and so naked from the waist and with jeans wrapped neatly around my ankles, I waddled to the next stall and shut the door. Using my jeans as an anchor? i held the bunched up bit in between my feet as a saftey robe and called my self on-belay to begin clean-up.

It was an awful and jarring experience, I was wiped out and my thighs were burning. I used to think the french were just snotty, but now I know, its contempt they hold for us, those who shit sitting down.

Leaving Perigueux and part of myself behind

I have to say that this past week has changed something in me. I know my last post was somewhat preachy and if nothing more, overcharged with idealistic ideology. But its hard not to want to take the time to see the way life was and continues to be in the rural parts of the world. I can't say it was all moments of bliss and ecstasy, I managed to mess up a few times, and even learn a little french. There were moments of frustration and aggony which accompanies inability to communicate. But then again, people who speak the same language have the same crux to consider in their native lands. The week was, in a word, Funidmental. It taught me a lot about myself, and where the boundries lie for me, between satisfaction and overcoming insecurities. To get a little serious for moment, I promise laughs before this post is through, for me the line grew clear between working to impress and working at my best. The results are fractions apart, nearly the same, but the mental reservations that can overcome ones mind in a state of thrusting movements motivated by pure insecurity and desire to show one's prowess can only be construed as immature. I will not argue with the need to impress others. However I regard the act of impression just for the sake of impression leaves nothing more then a footprint in the sand. A momentary figure of what strength and presure one can exude, and yet nothing can prevent the great force of the ocean from obliterating the object which so proudly defined its owner. I learned of myself, and beneath the great wide open skyscape of Southwestern France, I found that the clouds and the sun, cared little for those it covered, and the land neither toiled nor spoke out to whose hands tended its bussom. Nature will not speak back, and shout and exclaim its dissatisfaction with those who work with and without it. Paul and Genevive Jacques, my hosts both lived alternate lives before they entered into the country for a live with the land. But Paul especially showed no real expression, save for his eyes; which both blue and bold gesticulated to even his smallest emotion. It was in his eyes that I saw my futility and my weakness. I hold no contempt for Mouissuer Jacques' eyes, because it was by his land that I found myself alone, in a field with sky above, earth below and the labor of my two very own hands giving opportunity to new life on the farm. It was an experience that has changed me and gave me the chance to witness the difference between the self I habitutally exude, and the one which lies within me. The one that has belonged to my father, and their fathers before them. If you want to find out just who you are in this life, then make something before you take something. Deal with the responsibility of overseeing something from seedling to harvest, and the decisions you make to kill, feed, and sell that life will reflect greatly in the reflection of the self you wish to be.

Oui-uh Oui-uh...non!

Ah the life of a french farmer, not really a terrible thing if you ask me. How would I know, you ask? Oh well I've been spênding the past week on a farm in France, (click here to see the farm) and its been amazing. I have alwaysz been the kind of person to enjoy getting my hands dirty, maybe thats why I love to paint and cook. Now of course you can add farming to that list. Its been wonderfuly impossible to find words to describe all the beauty that still exists in this really huge world. When I have visited Montana or Wyoming, I have seen the big skies that have called to the endless hearts and souls of cowboys and cowgirls with their endless tracks of clouds, but yet, there is something petite about their grandure, because you know that just down the road is a Mcdonalds or a KMART. It is hard to say whether those same cowboys who've spent their lives dedicated to the ways of a harmonious existance close to the ground would be proud of those commercial ventures that are taking up so much of their precious land. However, that is the cost of living in a country such as ours, with its wonders come tradjeties (spelled wrong. The same thing is happening here in France and the Roman holiday/La Vie en Rose sort of life I was expecting to find has now been replaced with Would You Date My Mom dubbed over in French, and the Le M. Its funny too because the French are so proud of their culture, but its kinda hard, I think, to declare originality when your skin tight jeans are sagging down to your knees and your emo-haircut is slowly drooping to one side of your face. With a baguette in one hand and a Mcdonalds shake in the other, its a confusing time for everyone thats for sure. BUT ENOUGH of complaining there is plenty of beauty to go around, and spending time on a farm is something I would recommend to everyone who is in search of a little more then just a typical vacation.

I have been picking, and ho-ing (not that kind) and fishing in lakes boiling with trout, (see picture below of the trout I cooked and caught!) But its a choice of a lifetime, I think, I can say that a certain amount of sentiment has crawled its way into my synical and sarcastic brain. Because to look up from your mower or spade or other sort and see the clouds of southwestern france floating over head, it is hard to long for civilization. The life is simple here, there is no capitalism. For 4 euros you can buy yourself a KILO of white aspargus as thick as your wrist, and they only charge what they need! Needless to say the whole experience has changed me for the better I think, making me more aware of my surroundings and to be more careful of how I think of my food and from where it comes!


I will update this again soon, I love you all.

Bon Journee