Can't Dance, Too Wet to Plow
Can't Dance, Too Wet to Plow
Apparently this is an American idiom I had to come all the way to mid-Wales to learn about. It's been particularly relevant because it's rained every day recently, and I can't dance. You can say it in place of, "might as well." Want to go to the movies / file our taxes / bake a pie? Can't dance, too wet to plow, so why not.
I had plans to work at a cheese making farm (called a 'dairy', which hurts my brain) in central Spain for the month of July. I'd get to milk the goats, press the cheeses, eat lots of Manchego, and pretend to be Don Quixote in the barren plateaus of La Mancha. The farm was outside a small town called Tembleque: home to 2,000 sun-baked spaniards and, as far as I can tell, not much more.
I flew into Madrid, where I figured I'd sort out all my logistics for the month ahead. In order to get to the farm from Tembleque, I needed a car. In order to buy a car, I needed some piece of information tying me to Spain: a visa, a foreigner's number, or residency. The visa train had long sailed, because in the eyes of the government, I had no reason to be in Spain other than to be a tourist. My beautifully intellectual culinary crusade was not very compelling to them. I'd love to say, "their loss", but in most aspects, it was my loss. The foreigner's number also fell out of the question for less clear reasons. The foreigner's office said this was something only the police office could do, and the police office said this was something only the foreigner's office could do.
I can only conclude I am the first foreigner to enter the ancient city of Toledo and ask to be recognized as such. I wish I could say I was a trailblazer here, but this trail was too bureaucratic to blaze. I learned there is an entire profession for this, where you can hire a Gestor to navigate Spanish Bureaucracy for you. In English I would pronounce this the same as jester, the silly man who dances in a king's court, and I don't think that coincidence should be overlooked.
That left me with residency, which would help me buy a car and help me stay in the EU for more than 90 days. According to the government website, one should be able to apply for residency and receive it nearly same-day if you are a family member of an EU citizen. It's a shame the government agency I met with didn't care what the government website said (or what I said for that matter). In the eyes of the handsome, very neatly dressed agent I spoke with, Ireland is not part of the EU, and even if it was, it wouldn't matter because I'm a dumb little American and I have no legal reason for being there. I didn't explicitly hear him say the American part, but then again my Spanish isn't perfect and it felt implied. I'm not sure where he learned that Ireland isn't part of the EU, or why he was so resilient to learn otherwise, but he was clearly a strict believer that rules are meant to be broken, and I can only respect the devotion he held to this principle.
For visual learners, it was eerily reminiscent of the ending of The Coen Brother's O' Brother Where Art Thou when the Soggy Bottom Boys get caught by the law for the last time in spite of their newfound freedom (Scene here).
As the gallows get set Ulysses says: "Hang on there, you can't do this - we just been pardoned! By the Governor himself! It went out over the radio!"
To which the cool devil in black shades responds: "Is that right?
...
Too bad we don't got a radio..."
The script then cues: The goons recover their leering grins and resume their happy task
Unlike the soggy bottom boys, however, no flood came to save me from Johnny Law, so I sought to flee my Arktabutta Valley. I called a friend of a friend, who happened to be ending his Watson in Spain at the same time, and he was the voice of clarity I needed. He had bought a car in the UK, highly recommended it, and, most importantly, told me that I was right, the government agents were being mean to me, how rude of them*.* He also raised the very interesting point that Europe is very old, has been here for a long time, and the world is really big and changing a lot more than Europe is. Why spend so much time there if it's not working out? Vienna waits for you, or something like that.
For now, I'm ignoring that last point.
I decided to jump ship and get the figurative next flight to the UK - the cheapest of which happened to be to Bristol, which I was informed was the cider capital of the UK (shoutout Ben Barton). Why not? Can't dance, too wet to plow, might as well change countries, focus, and foods for a month.
Do you think it's going to Rain Today?
Finding Wifi:
Bristol turned out to be a beautiful little city with wide rivers jammed with long house boats, good looking young people drinking at pubs, and lots and lots of cider. The beauty and charm comes at a cost, that cost being that it's expensive. One night at a hostel for a room with 9-12 beds goes for about $40. They all sell out each weekend.
I booked one night in an overpriced hostel, checking in at 1am and checking out at 11am, which means I payed $4 per hour to recharge the meat-sack I inhabit (i.e. sleep). For 8 of those hours, my central processing unit was turned off (my eyes were closed). The charging station (my room) was dark, moist, loud, slightly too hot, and crammed with 8 other meat-sacks who I tried not to disturb with my rustling. I was awarded the top of a three-bed bunk, which means I woke up at least the two people below me. I guess that's just the cost of existing.
The next thing my meat-sack demanded was fuel in the form of caffeine and calories. Who am I to argue? So I bought a breakfast of fruits and granola from a grocery store and, because I can't sit on the ground, I bought a coffee from a coffee shop to hide from the rain. Nothing brings me more joy than making these investments into my existence-fund bright and early in the morning. I then decided to go to the library, pushed by the real or imagined time-limit that comes with only ordering a small coffee, in search of wifi.
I think I heard on the radio someone say that, "Libraries are the last bastion of democracy." I'm not really sure what that means other than it's the only indoor public space where I can sit and feel like I'm not a hassle to anybody. The books are cool and all, and I'm glad that libraries politely hold them for us for those moments when we remember how to read, but the existence-tax exemption is the real kicker for me. While I was googling for that quote, I found an article by someone who discovered this little life-hack / loophole back in 2018, titled, "The Last Free Space." Put much more eloquently than I did, Linda Stack-Nelson writes,
"Libraries are the last place in every town and city that people can simply exist. Every building one enters today comes with some expectation of spending money... In a library, no one is asked to pay anything simply to sit... They are the last bastions of quiet and calm where nothing is asked of one but to exist... Libraries, as they exist in the twenty-first century, are the only remaining public domain."
Instead of saying existence-tax, they say "the threatening pressure toward expenditure that permeates the public spaces of modern Western culture..." (But why waste time say lot word when few word do trick?) All in all, I was just glad to see someone else had already thought my thought for me.
One time a few years ago while carrying grocery bags I realized Life is just what happens in between moments of lugging heavy bags from point A to point B. Entropy, in its eternal mission to reach thermal heat death, likes to elect me as its strongest most complacent soldier bag carrier.
Here, in Madrid, then Toledo, then Bristol, Life is defined as the continuous search for a good Wifi signal. But in the Bristol Central Library, wifi is abundant, and Life is marked as 'living' until I need to leave and find a new source of wifi.
Finding a car:
That was a roundabout way to say that I had a lot of logistical tasks to take care of: find housing, find an address to register my car at, find a car to buy.
Why do you need housing so bad, Marshall?
See above blurb. Bristol was a lot more expensive than I was expecting, and I had no good sense of how long it would take to buy a car. I ended up looking into couch surfing, where people open up their houses to travelers, and in return ask to be housed by others when traveling. I found a nice man named Steve who agreed to let me surf on his couch (sleep in his spare bedroom). Steve and his small dog, Milo, were very nice and he went as far as to give me cider, dinner, car advice, and a tour of Bristol's suspension bridge. Shoutout Steve.
Why do you need a car so bad, Marshall?
-
I learned in Mexico I get a bit more excited by working where things are produced. With cider, with cheese, with wine, and with mezcal, these things doesn't take place in a city, and busses and public transit doesn't usually stop at the orchard in the middle of nowhere.
-
I have a big bag with all my clothes and supplies for living in it. Every time I need to go somewhere new I need to lug this bag with me, looking and feeling like a pack-mule. You try fitting nine-months of clothes and possessions on your back. Imagine the classic image of Santa with his huge bag of gifts, but instead of a burly bearded man, its sweaty little me, jammed onto a public bus instead of a magic sleigh of reindeers. A car doubles as a storage unit on wheels.
-
If I ever need a place to sleep, and don't want to shell out the big bucks, a car also doubles as a mobile hotel room.
Why do you need an address to register your car at, Marshall?
For those of you looking to buy a car in Europe, to work an orchard per-say, or maybe just to do a sweet road trip, the UK is the only place to do it. All it requires is a UK mailing address to send your ownership documents and a firm confidence in your ability to drive on the left side of the road. Easy enough on both counts. The only catch is that I didn't know a single soul that lived in the UK. This meant I spent three days messaging everyone I knew who might know someone willing to let me use their address. Three days in the Bristol public library sending texts and emails to friends, family, and acquaintances, with lots of waiting in between. Shoutout Ian's Mom's friend for coming through, trusting the process, and lending me their address. At the last minute, Steve also offered his address, which I ended up using because the insurance was cheaper.
How did you find a car to buy, Marshall?
Steve, in his infinite wisdom on all things UK and cars, told me that I should either choose to learn to drive on the left side of the road, or learn manual drive, but not both. At this point, only one of those options was in my control, so I decided to forgo manual drive cars, which is about 90% of what exists here. Steve also recommended a car auction where he used to buy cars, which happened to be going on the next day. Early in the morning, full of zest and vigor and after many pep talks, I stepped confidently into the auction building ready to bid on some cars with the other grizzled old mechanics and dealers. Politely asking for my auction number, I was told no, this has been closed to the public since Covid. Sad and soggy, I retreated in the rain back to the Bristol Public Library to do more googling.
Facebook marketplace was too flakey and autotrader or other car websites were too expensive or outdated. At the last minute, Steve recommended his friend's used car dealership, where a beautiful bright red 2007 Volvo V50 sat, waiting for me.
Shoutout Steve, my Bristol guardian angel.
My goatee and I ecstatic about our new car
Side note:
I've never purchased a car before, so the fact that tapping my magic plastic card on a little machine gives me unlimited access to a mechanical death machine capable of outputting the continuous power of 230 horses is still pretty crazy to me.
Meme on the topic
You're a hero of the socialist revolution:
Two weeks of car debacles behind me, I was able to drive up to the middle of Wales to spend the next two weeks at Welsh Mountain Cider.
I've never Wwoof'ed before, but I've always flirted with the idea a bit, and it's a good temporary workaround to the existence-tax. Wwoof stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, and in exchange for work you get housing, experience and, sometimes, food. Bill started Welsh Mountain Cider after purchasing a six acre smallholding in the Cambrian hills and planting some apple trees. For legal reasons, this is a big simplification. Shortly after buying the land, he signed up for Wwoof to get a bit more help, at which point Chava showed up, "and love blossomed". Bill's words. Chava eventually returned to California, and Bill had his hallmark movie moment, where he was going to go to California, write a book, and marry Chava. With the help of, "heroic amounts of pot" (also his words), he did all those things, and now Bill and Chava run Welsh Mountain Cider with two little children running around.
When you're doing something helpful but tedious Bill rewards you with a, "You're a hero of the socialist revolution." When you do something correct, and it's not all that remarkable, Bill acknowledges it with a, "Bob's your uncle and Fanny's your aunt" Which is the British equivalent to saying voilà. Excitement is acknowledged with a, "bloody marvelous", or more often with a, "muddy blarvelous". Crying kids are consoled with a, "Oh yes, I know, life is suffering."
They make live ciders and live the good life. I don't know the extent to which the two are directly connected, but I'm sure there is a connection there. Live cider means they don't pasteurize at any point, and their minimal intervention methods mean they do as little as possible: they don't add sugars, water, yeast, chemicals, nothing. They juice the apples, put it in barrels, then put it in bottles. For legal reasons, this is also a bit of a simplification, but not by much. Living the good life means they enjoy being together, enjoy what they do, and enjoy doing what they do together. Chava bakes bread every day which Bill compliments every day, Bill sings folk songs to himself at lunch and Chava finishes the songs to herself at dinner, they answer every call to each other with, "hello dear", and together they're building a small compound in their own image, full of caravans, Thai rice shacks, at least one restored antique barn, and over 450 varieties of apple trees.
When I get really lost and confused as to what I'm doing sitting for days in Bristol Public Library, or shriveling to a raisin in the Oaxacan sun, or getting stung by wasps in the green grasses of Wales, I tell myself I'm here to learn about the world and my place in it. It's a bit more comprehendible than "food, fermentation, globalization, and climate change." Bill and Chava are great teachers of cider and all, but they've also got a stronger grasp on the world and their place in it than anyone else I've ever met.
Good views and Good vibes
The next blog post will be appropriately addressed to cider and cider alone, fear not. This post has run on a bit long and has been confusing enough as is.