On my first morning at Casa de Carrasco, I overslept. Waking a little after eight to the sound of Sarah's yoga-instructing voice in the distance, I quietly unzipped my little green tent and looked out on the sun-soaked and unbelievably fresh mountain morning. Not wanting interrupt the class, I crept over to the shower block to brush my teeth, and then sat cross-legged in the morning sun listening to Sarah give instruction and watching little speedy birds dive into the swimming pool, fishing for water bugs. The two dogs I had met the evening before (Daisy, Sarah´s rescued black lab, and Stella, her boyfriend's dog of unknown breed and closely resembling a kangaroo) plopped down beside me and kept me company while the humans finished their class.
In the light of day, the last dregs of my mini-panic melted away. Over a shared breakfast of muesli, tea, oranges, and (of course) more cherries, the other guests discussed their favorite hikes around the retreat, and Magdalena gave Luna and Andreas suggestions on how to fill their time in Barcelona, where she is studying and where they are heading after a week in the Pyrenees. After breakfast, George and I got to know each other a little better while doing the breakfast dishes, clearing the common areas, running the generator, pumping water up to the storage tanks, and cleaning the pool (tasks with which I would become very familiar). He is currently in his third 'gap year,' still deciding whether or not to go to college (although he always says he hasn't gone to university 'yet' when people ask), and traveling the world volunteering, surfing, and exploring in the meantime. Our friendship was sealed when I taught him how to do a back-walkover later that morning. Those years of gymnastics definitely come in handy.
Suddenly, the morning was over, my 'work' was done, and the rest of the day was mine. Sarah made us lunch, and we all cooled off in the shade of her small and comfortable living room that looks out over the peaks to the west. She informed me that the fuzzy green pods growing on the low tree next to my tent are almonds, and that all the almond trees will be harvested in September, two months before the olive harvest in November/December. Some brown pods on the trees (much more recognizable as almonds) are left over from last year, when they didn't have time to harvest them all, and are still good to eat. The olive trees, I also learn, may need to be pruned while I'm here, but otherwise there is not much work to be done on the agricultural front (I realize that I'll probably have to pick up my organic farming skills some other time and place, but I'm not too upset about it). Another possible project is the extension of one of the hiking trails up higher into the hills. Sarah and Martin have been opening the 'Red Trail' up towards one of the highest peaks in the area, towards an abandoned monastery that will shortly be converted into a spa. Depending on who you talk to, this spa is either the best or the worst thing ever to happen to the area.
That evening, Elaine and Magdalena left the retreat, and Luna and Andreas grilled fresh fish and potatoes with rosemary they picked from the hillside. As I sat for hours around the table with these holders of U.K. and E.U. passports (George hails from a farm in Worcester, Luna from a small town in Germany, and Andreas from Switzerland), I sent a little message of thanks out to the universe for getting me on this trip, even if my cosmic repayment means periodically being grilled on the absolutely insane state of so many things in the U.S. of A. Conversations with Charles in Madrid, Luna and Andreas in that little kitchen in the hills, and (most recently) bar-owner and Barcelona native, Franc, have each ended with the European party declaring that I'd better defect as soon as possible, get a visa for anywhere in Europe, and start to live life for real on the better side of the Atlantic. So far, I'm inclined to agree.
On the subject of ex-pats, I should mention that the olive groves and farms in the hills of this part of Cataluña are surprisingly and overwhelmingly filled with British families, living British lives and creating very British communities. Likewise, the bookshelves are filled with the works of Chris Stewart (Driving Over Lemons), Jason Webster (Duende and Guerra), and Tim Moore (Travels With My Donkey), all Brits who came to this country to live out their fantasy lives by doing really unnecessarily difficult things (like, learning to play flamenco guitar, building a house and a life from scratch, or walking 800km on a pilgrimmage with a donkey). Staying here in the beautiful place Sarah has built from a decaying and long-abandoned farm, I have mixed feelings about the veritable land-grab that occured post-Franco, when farming families were free (for the first time in half a century) to move into sea-side towns and cities. Sarah is, for lack of better and less pop-lit comparisons, like a lumberjack Frances Mayes, or a British, stiff-upper-lip Elizabeth Gilbert. Following an ugly divorce, this park ranger, Sivananda yoga instructor, organic farmer moved to rural Cataluña to build a beautiful and fully functioning retreat center, revitalize acres of organic olives, and meet a nice, handy, helpful guy who doesn't try to steal her property or sense of well-being. Hard to judge or begrudge any foreigner who chooses to relocate life and, very often, extended family to this beautiful place, where (as I promise to explain in more detail next time), an impossibly bright full moon shines over deep and fertile valleys, the tinkling of bell-clad goats chimes through long afternoons, and a young American can come to practice yoga, wander in the hills, and scribble in a notebook.
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