Olive Harvesting

I have reached a sobering moment in my study abroad experience. I no longer have the time or money to travel far distances. And you know what, I'm okay with that. I saw amazing places and had amazing experiences. There are places I wished I could see; cities that I wish it were possible for me to visit still. But I have no regrets on the time I have spent here so far, I only wish that I could had more time. So with no more trips to write about, do I keep writing this blog? I just can't abandon my wonderful audience! For their sake and mine, I have three more weeks to continue to enjoy interesting experiences and bring you along with me through this blog. Hopefully you will find these last few posts as enjoyable as the rest.

So last week when I received and email asking for volunteers to harvest olives at a local farm, I thought that I couldn't pass up such an opportunity. After a week full of rainy weather the trip was almost canceled. However the morning came and had clear(ish) skies and the trip was on. Friends from school and I met up with Trudi, the school counselor (it was her olive grove) and she drove us to a village nearby her property called Corciano for a coffee. Corciano is a small, stone-built village, one that looks too perfect for a post card. We walked around to take a few photos and got a tour from a local museum docent through a small Contadini house. The contadini were the members of the Italian agricultural poor class, similar to peasants. They owned no lands and were under contract by their landlords to provide to them a certain portion of their harvest (this practice, which was eerily similar to slavery, was finally outlawed in Italy in the 1960's, the last contract bound contadini are still alive to this day!) In the recent history contadini have been romanticized by Italian culture and are now seen as the root from which Italian cooking and culture are based in.

After our short tour we then drove over to Trudi's olive grove and started the work. It was a cool afternoon and the clouds were filled with the empty threats of rain. In Italy the olive harvest has never been successfully mechanized and is almost completely done by hand. The Italians believe that the mechanical handling of the olive is too rough, it bruises the fruit, and produces sub-par oil. We spent the next few hours placing tarps below trees and using small plastic rakes to comb the branches free of olives. It reminded me of a conversation I had with a cousin this summer.

One evening this summer my family and I were solemnly seated on the front porch at my grandparent's house in San Diego, reminiscing about days past and greeting the many neighbors and friends expressing their condolences over my uncle's imminent passing. My cousin walked out of the front door, carrying pruning shears, and updated us on what was happening inside and the withering condition of his father. He walked over to the large, dusty tree that braced up against the front of the house. He began to cutaway the dead or dying branches from the tree, letting the released fall to the ground and out of sight behind the wall of the porch. I asked my cousin what he was doing; why he was taking the time to take care of this neglected tree. I expected a response concerning a simple reprieve from dreariness of inside. I was surprised to hear a very different response. He explained to me that, if he no longer had to work for the rest of his life, he would like nothing more than to tend to his trees in his backyard. He would prune and care for them, watching them produce the fruits of his labor. I thought that for such a driven man, who has such a passion for cooking and the restaurant industry, surely he would not be so contempt to live the simple life of a farmer.

I thought on this conversation as I slithered between branches and plucked olives from their rightful places. It was a warm feeling caring for this tree. I rather liked the activity: the motion, the flick of the wrist, the rewarding perspiration on my brow. I finally understood my cousin's perspective. As a member of the modern, big-city American culture, I am bashfully unaware of the give-and-take relationship between mother nature and the farmer. My knowledge on the topic began and ended within the chilled produce sections of the supermarket. I realize now that farmers pour their lives and their energy into their fields, and the earth (hopefully) rewards them with sustenance. It's no wonder agricultural based societies looked to the earth, sun, and sky and saw the faces of gods.

Also I would like to point out, the museum docent was a pretty, young Sicilian girl that I struck up a conversation with. It just goes to show, even with a mustache, I can catch the attention of the ladies ;)