When I finished mucking out my last stall yesterday I threw up my pitchfork like a graduation hat. I´m sad to be leaving the farm but I do feel a sense of accomplishment like I´ve passed some sort of ¨Foundations of Life¨course.
In fact, Richard and Sue threw a party in honor of the American girl who learned so much during her three weeks on the farm. They cooked paella and everyone told stories about the Americans’ first day – “straight in from Manhattan,” as they like to say — when we squealed when we walked behind the horses, yelled things like, “turd overboard!” when a shit ball rolled out of the wheel barrow, took pictures like Asian paparazzi and threw away things like melon rinds, unaware that chickens will eat anything.
The party got rowdier and Sue moved on to stories about past Wwoofers – like the Frenchman they caught ¨shagging¨ a horse (they chased him out of the barn with a pitch fork), the Israeli who said, “Heil Hitler!” to the German Wwoof every time she passed and the 18 year-old North Carolinian whose Mom emailed Sue every single night to make sure her boy was OK (He was. He met a Canadian Wwoofer and lost his virginity that summer). And after Sue had thoroughly checked to make sure I wasn’t a “typically PC American” she brought out the YouTube video “Achmed the Dead Terrorist”.
It was a grand time and after about 10 glasses of wine Richard got out their traditional Flaminco dresses and let the girls get all dolled up and ride around on the horses. We were just thankful Richard could still direct the animals after his whiskey dessert.
I am sad to be leaving the peaceful life I have here. But my parents are meeting me and P in Madrid tomorrow and I need some maternal TLC in return for all the love I bestowed upon that damn goat. After weeks of bringing her treats of exotic leaves and almond skins and scratching her belly, by my last day she was calm and nuzzling into me, producing a bowl and a half of milk, no problem. Turns out she just didn’t like being manhandled by Mans, who took a “no bulshit” approach to milking.
So, good-bye farm. Look how many new skills I have to put on my NYC resume now!