Norway-- Living on a Self-Sufficient, Pre-Industrial Farm

I have spent the last five days living on a mountain farm in Norway. On Tuesday night I flew out of Edinburgh and arrived in Oslo, and then took a train up to Lillehammer. I was met at the Lillehammer train station by a farmer named Dan who had offered to let me stay on his farm, and two Dutch woofers who were working for him. We drove away from the city, delving into winding dirt roads cutting through thick forest, having to beep regularly to scare clusters of sheep out of our way. I traversed the final kilometer on foot, as the road had grown too steep and narrow for our small car to carry both all of us and the cart of hay strapped to the back. Thick moss coated the roots and underbrush, while small waterfalls fell from the rocks on either side of the road.

The farm itself rests at the top of a mountain. It is a small, self-sufficient farm which had been abandoned for forty years before Dan bought it just over a year ago. There is no running water, with all drinking, cooking, and washing water coming straight from the nearest waterfall. As the altitude is so high, the water can be imbibed straight from the source as there is nothing further upstream to contaminate it. Each day, we would fill buckets with fresh water to carry indoors for drinking and ablutions. The farmhouse has minimal electricity, with only one lamp, and all cooking is done on a large iron wood stove. Dan's goal for the farm is to not only run a fully self-sufficient home, but also to live like one would have in pre-industrial times. He spins his own wool, weaves his own fabric, and sews his own clothing from the fabric he weaves. He has a wide knowledge of Viking history and lore, with a background in archeology, and in the evenings would read to me from books about the old Norse gods, translating word by word from Norwegian to English.

By day, much work had to be done on the farm. I helped with haying, stacking a stone wall, and building a fence around the property in order to keep sheep off the land. In Norway, the fences are to keep sheep out rather than in, and farmers' sheep roam loose with metal bells around their necks. At all hours of the day, a soft tinkling of bells floats up from the fields and forests. After the work for the day was done, we would gather in the main farmhouse to eat a hearty meal of roast vegetables, homemade bread, and meat, all cooked over a well-stocked fire in the wood stove. When darkness fell, which was between 9:30 and 10, we would part ways for sleep. My room was in the empty red barn next door. It had no electricity, so I wrote in my journal each night by candlelight before falling asleep.

Living so simply was deeply satisfying. An extreme juxtaposition from the bustling city life of Edinburgh, it was rejuvenating to be back among nature, doing hard physical labor outdoors all day in the fresh mountain air and sunlight. While the lifestyle was more extreme than I would choose for myself, I was extremely happy there. 

I realized that this adventure is sort of a sampler session for different ways of living. I am experiencing all sorts of lifestyles and landscapes and homes, and am able to collect my favorite parts of each to add into my own life. Being in Edinburgh proved to me that I need to live in a place rich in the arts, with cozy independently-owned cafes and a plethora of used bookstores. Life on Dan's farm taught me that I will also want a vegetable garden, plenty of fresh local food, a good view, and access to nature. Examining those credentials, I couldn't help but notice that Brattleboro, Vermont quite successfully fills all the requirements... 

Ah well, no time to be homesick when I'm already on a train to my next destination! Until next time,

-GennaRose

The Routine

It's been over a week now since I arrived in the fair city of Edinburgh, and my life here has fallen into a steady routine. I sleep late, waking to write up some leftover poems that had been ordered the day before. Then I sling my bags over my shoulders and wander to a coffee shop by the spot that I busk. My favorite place to ease into the day is a little cafe/bookstore combo called Looking Glass Books. The establishment is teeming with tall black bookshelves overflowing with colorful volumes, and plush purple furniture is scattered through the room. The floor is laden in fat black and white stripes, and a counter selling cakes and teas sits by the entrance. Together, the aesthetic feels rather like a literary Victorian circus tent. It's tucked a bit out of the way from the festival hubbub, so is a grand little place to hide out in and avoid the crowds.

Looking Glass Books ^

After a snack and some reading (I'm currently in the middle of my father's soon-to-be-published novel The Seance Society, a 1950s era murder mystery), I set out to work. Busking has been going wonderfully-- in fact, some days I am so inundated with poem orders that I can't keep up. The second day I busked, I had twenty poems ordered in just over two hours, and since then I have made a conscious effort to make business slow the hell down. It's great though-- I have been living exclusively off of the money I make busking, and even end up with extra to spare. I've been able to go to plays and eat out without having to worry, and only busk for about three hours a day, leaving plenty of time to explore. I don't think I'd be able to do it for much longer than that, because it is pretty mentally draining. However, it's really lovely work, and people seem genuinely happy to find me there. Countless strangers have taken my photograph, many of them posting about me on their blogs, twitter accounts, and in the occasional news publication. I've had a number of customers approach my stand saying they came to my part of town specifically to find my stand, which they had heard about through word-of-mouth. I definitely didn't expect any of this free publicity, but people seem excited to pass news of my poem stand along to their friends. Pretty darn cool.

Taken by a photographer from 3 Weeks, a Fringe news publication ^

People order all sorts of topics. Most popular are men ordering love poems for their girlfriends or wives, but I've also written poems about polar bears, professional wrestling, grass, necrophilia, lunchtime, gin, gardening, bravery, and the place of classical forms in the midst of modernity. I would say the number of poems I have written during the past week is probably numbering close to fifty at this point. Whew.

^Written for a man with a ferret in his coat pocket. I proceeded to hold the ferret and read the poem directly to it as it wiggled around. I lead a surreal life.

I pack up at around 4pm, and either meet up with a friend or see a show or head back to the flat to pass out. Sitting up on the scaffolding remains one of my favorite ways to decompress after a day of thinking and writing. There is really nothing like Edinburgh rooftops.

The festival is so chaotic, it really knocks me out. So many people everywhere, each of them handing you a flyer or soliciting one thing or another. It's nice to slip off for a bit of quiet.

I must be off now-- time to go sell more poems!

Love,

GennaRose

Setting Off

Hi all!

If you're reading this, you are probably an esteemed member of my family and/or friends, so you'll likely know that I departed less than two days ago across the Atlantic for a grand Adventure. This Adventure begins in Edinburgh at the Fringe Festival, and continues on as I travel across Europe by train, selling poems-to-order on the street from my Hermes Rocket portable typewriter. This blog will let me keep everyone up to date on my journeys, and give you all a glimpse into my day-to-day life as a nomadic poet/busker/backpacker/insane person.

But enough exposition, no one has patience for that. I leapt right into life here, so there's no reason you shouldn't plunge in just as swiftly.

I arrived in Edinburgh at 11am yesterday morning, after just about every airport mishap possible and a redeye flight. Finally, I made it into the city center due to the kindness of a benevolent stranger who bought my bus ticket into town (my debit card chose an inconvenient time to have a tantrum), and settled into my friend Rebecca's apartment, who will be housing me for the month. The rest of yesterday is a blur-- all I know is that it involved the Muppets movie, some cereal, and a seven hour nap between the hours of 3pm and 10. Jetlag 1, Genna 0. However, by evening I had gotten a smidgen of my spunk back, and enjoyed some rooftop stargazing.

Rebecca's flat, currently under construction to fix a sagging roof, is laden with scaffolding. If you slip out the kitchen window, you can climb a ladder and find yourself on a shabby wooden loft smacked onto the rooftop. From there, the city stretches out in front of you, chimneys craning their necks against the ruddy clouds, a stone skyline jutting like rows of jagged teeth. Imagine the chim-chimney song from Mary Poppins-- it's pretty much like that. In the distance, fireworks from the military tattoo blossomed against the sky, and then, at last, settled into dark.

The next morning, it was time to get straight to work. My busking booth is comprised of the following items:

-a Hermes Rocket typewriter

-a collapsible table

-a collapsible stool

-copies of my two latest chapbooks

-a lace tablecloth

-laminated signs decorated with pressed Vermont flowers

-carbon paper & regular paper

-pens, change, and other odds & ends

Here is a photo of me at my poetry stand, taken by a customer:

All of this fits into my backpack, mind you. It's rather miraculous.

I set up on Middle Meadow Walk, which is a busy footpath running though the center of Edinburgh's biggest grassy park. As the festival is on this month, the footpath sees thousands of passersby every day. It was a beautiful day-- 70 degrees and sunny-- and I sold a whole slew of poems. A homeless man in a pressed suit told me of his life working in the coal mines and told me with conviction, leaning in close to my face, that poetry needs to come straight from the heart. I sold a poem to a couple on their 20th anniversary. I sold a poem about Merlin and a poem about lunch and a poem about something called "wubbling," which involves wiggling from side to side when you get really happy. I wrote a haiku about eggs.

I should probably explain how this whole thing works, to those who haven't seen me in action before: customers give me a topic of their choosing, and then I write a poem on said topic as they go for lunch, or see a show, or wander about town. Then they return, collect their poem, and pay me a donation they feel is appropriate for my work. I still need to do a bit of troubleshooting with the process (for example, some people never return to collect the poem, causing me to do unpaid writing and leaving them without their desired poem...) but other than a few issues that could use smoothing, the process works quite well. I even worked out a deal with a local bookshop/cafe (from which I now sit as I write this entry) who will let me busk from their store on rainy days.

I wrote this poem below in exchange for a steak and squash crepe and a strawberry smoothie from a nearby food vendor. Good deal. 

So that brings us up to date, I do believe. Writing, exploring, living... And on it goes.

Love,

GennaRose