I realize it would have been more interesting to read posts while I was in France, and my posts would have been more interesting, perhaps. But I wanted to "live in the moment," and not worry about computers, internet, etc. Upon my return to my family and friends in the United States I was bombarded with requests for a brief summary of my experience WWOOFing in France for six weeks.
“Tell me about it! Did you have fun? Learn much? Did your French improve? Are the stereotypes true?”
To which the short answer is yes, I had the time of my life, learned more than I can recount, and indeed the French wear a frightening amount of stripes. (They also don’t have screens on doors or windows, but leave them open anyway, leaving them to perpetually complain about the bugs in the house.) But it was so much more than that. My experience has completely changed the way I think about the world, and it is very difficult to write a concise summary.
I was fortunate to stay with three wonderful families for two weeks each. The first was a small farm the Scottish family, consisting of a mother, father, and three home-schooled children, bought only two years prior to my visit. Their focus was on living self-sustainably and this permeated every aspect of their life. I slept in an enchanting yurt furnished with a few stuffed animals the children had provided for our comfort and with what we, the Parisian WWOOFer and I, deemed a candelabra.
The other WWOOFer and I normally worked together on various tasks for 3-5 hours each day. The nightly animal chores, which consisted of caring for their two pigs, three geese, four sheep, and five chickens, were quickly adopted into our routine, as well as planting a field, digging new garden beds, watering and planting the plants in the greenhouse, and fashioning “willow waddles”--small fences around garden beds made from willow branches woven together to prevent the soil from flying out of the bed when the chickens scratched for insects.
My main purpose in WWOOFing was to practice my French, so it might seem odd that I chose to stay with a Scottish family, but their description on the WWOOF France website explained that they were interested in learning to use scythe. Living with perhaps the most respected scythesman in the United States, I thought this would be a good exchange in skills. After I had been there one week their scythes arrived, and I was able to pass on what little knowledge and skill I possess of scythes. It was very strange to be the one instructing, but with modern technology a phone call or email home quickly clarified whatever questions I had. 
After two weeks (and a teary parting) we said goodbye, and I began on a rather long and confusing day of traveling by many trains to the second farm—a dairy farm with about 65 cows that were milked twice daily. Immediately I noticed a different atmosphere; there was a mother and father, but their four daughters were between 16-21 and rarely at home. The parents only spoke French and, while this was definitely beneficial for my practice, sometimes I had trouble communicating. This really made ordinary events quite exciting, as I often had no idea what was about to happen. David Sedaris wrote an essay titled “In the Waiting Room,” about his mishaps resulting from misunderstanding the French language. “Every day was a new adventure!”
A normal day began at 6:45 AM, to bring the cows “home” (i.e. milking shed.) We normally finished milking around 8:30, had breakfast, and began cleaning the “laiterie” at 9. I did various jobs with the gardens and fences until 12:30 when we ate lunch. I usually had free time until 5, when we milked again. Several days they asked me to help them in the afternoon with tearing down a very old brick house, from which each brick had to be cleaned and neatly stacked in order to be sold, or something. We always ate dinner after 8—once after 9. This is strange for an American, and they were very surprised when I said I eat around 5 normally. I had also noticed in Paris that most restaurants didn’t open until 7:30.
Everyone seems surprised that I actually milked cows while volunteering/working on a dairy farm, but indeed, I fully participated. Of course, they used machines, and could milk 12 at one time, but there was a lot of human involvement. I even became habituated to having cow poo splattered all over me. We also gave bottles of milk to the calves which we had (very tragically...) separated from their mothers. Somehow I never got a picture of me with the cows, unfortunately, but here is me in my milking outfit, which I adored; I felt very Rosie the Riveter-esque.
One of the daughters was home for several days and brought me hiking and biking during my free time. Now, I did not learn to ride a bike until I was 12, and I’ve never been particularly keen on this mode of transportation. I go very slowly and panic whenever a car drives by, imagining my tire slipping on a rock and my flailing body being thrown under the wheels of the passing car, but I agreed to climb on the frightfully crickety old bike anyway. I am extremely thankful that I did, because I saw the most beautiful sceneray of my life on that four hour ride.
Again, after two weeks and a sentimental goodbye I was navigating the French transportation system once more. (Somehow one of my hour and a half bus ride was free, which continues to baffle me. ) The final farm I stayed on was, like the first, very newly purchased and not yet producing for more than their family, which consisted of a mother father and two small children. They have a herd of cows for meat, which took absolutely no work while I was there, and a herd of the sweetest animals I have ever met—goats. They are the sweetest, most intelligent, and most entertaining animals in existence, I believe. You can bring them food, and they ignore it, because they’re just so excited to see you, and they want your love, pets, and attention. Their milk, cheese, and soap are absolutely delightful, and, in my opinion, superior to that of cows. Also, they are much cleaner and it is easier to take care of them.
The family was technically the owners of five sheep, but a few days before I arrived they had escaped. We spent many hours searching, finally finding them, tying their legs together and placing them in the back of a Jeep to bring to another farm with more patience for them. As I work in a bookstore, I found this scene very humorous because of the popular children’s book Sheep in a Jeep, by Nancy E. Shaw. Unfortunately, “Les Moutons dans une Jeep” was not nearly as catchy or entertaining to my companions.
This final picture is of one of my new best friends. He is 6 years old, fairly patient with my French, Star Wars obsessed, and absolutely fabulous. He never seemed to register that I was a foreigner, which was very pleasant. Whenever we both had free time he would invite me on some adventure outside, including but not limited to: picking cherries (for which he very kindly provided me with a helmet), playing “cache-cache” (hide-and-go-seek), cutting hay with his “saberlaser” (lightsaber), and exploring the woods. For my final day the family treated me to a day at the sea, and he and I were the only swimmers (with jellyfish, I might add.) He memorized (part of) my address (Ariana 1900 USA) so he can visit me someday, and told me I was welcome at his house whenever I wanted. Indeed, I intend to visit them again. I feel as if I have another home in France now, and I would not trade my experience for anything.
