October 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
The first thing I wrote in Glasgow was, “I do not want to live in the U.K. and hate myself.” Which, reading now, seems dramatic. And, maybe not directly but definitely inspired by the first line of Lena Dunham’s book, which I read with lightening speed and a swelling heart. But here’s the thing: I left France sobbing. Instead of taking street style photos of cool girls in Paris going to and from Fashion Week shows, I cried in my hotel room and occasionally got up to look at the Eiffel tower sparkling. More drama. Mass text I sent: “I miss a farm, bad.”
September 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
I knew I found a good place when my boyfriend texted, “Is there electricity at the farm? All your photos are so dark.” Overnight, fall happened. Which means it’s even darker. Which means I’m even more obsessed with the shadows here. September, you’re unreal. Our farewell to summer was eating raw oysters, pâté, and drinking bottles of Tête de Mule on a rainy afternoon. And now there’s cold air and the excuse to put lavender infused honey in everything. My god, the honey. On a closing note, I knew I found a good boyfriend when he texted, “Come back…I’ll buy you a damn farm if that’s what you want.” Again, sweet.
September 7, 2014 § 1 Comment
I’m working on a small farm in France. The days have been simple and symmetrical. Rewarding, challenging, and terribly sweet. I am thankful for rose and baguettes that appear in the kitchen each morning like magic. The fog over the hills in the dewy cool hours between seven and eight. Repetition of wearing the same clothes (two alternating pairs of men’s levi’s, leather workboots, t-shirt), gathering tomatoes, raspberries, figs. Feeding a wild brood of chickens every morning. Swooning over every little thing: the herbs, our smallest black sheep, the language. Reading a ton, not writing enough, but still categorizing my days through the objects and setting. Living is storybook here, silly as it sounds. I can’t effectively describe leaving a southern state and waking up each day in a village in the southwest France. But there are photographs.