Alfred
Alfred’s handshake was firm and callused, an accolade of the hard toil on the farm. His eyes were unwavering, a lucid stare, through sharp clear blue lenses. They made me uncomfortable in the beginning.
I remarked at how much he looked like a farmer. He had the fitting garb and grubbiness, but there was also something immaterial, an effortless comfortability with it all. He was in his early thirties, standing 6 ft 4 inches tall, with a slim build. He wore a blue button-down shirt, a pair of dark chino work pants, leather work boots and a well-worn fabric Akubra. With his scruffy beard and unkempt hair, and amidst the backdrop of a 17th-century Tuscan farmstead, he looked an awful lot like a particular politician. It was only after three days that I finally had the confidence to tell him, “Alfred, you look like Abraham Lincoln.” He laughed, and so did another volunteer, who exclaimed that they had suggested just the same thing.
I got to know him out in the vineyard, superbly befitting for such a person, where we spent many hours in the mid-summer Tuscan Sun convening in quite an intimate fashion. He was another volunteer, coming from Denmark, yet he had spent a year and a half on the farm over multiple stays, so he was enlisted to manage the six volunteers while the owner was away. We all found the vineyard through Workaway, a website similar to Seek but the job listings are from regular people (usually farm owners) offering accommodation as remuneration for work. Free of any red tape and offering unique experiences at no cost, it attracts travellers and other adventurous souls.
I quickly learnt of Alfred’s extroversion. Not in any sense that he demanded attention, but a good conversation. I had supposed this was by virtue of the monotonous toil in the fields where great commodity lay in wholehearted exchange. He proved that wrong every evening. I watched him practically bridle the dinner table, armed with limitless red wine and hand-rolled cigarettes, both steering and fueling conversation, he oscillated easily between driver and passenger. It became abundantly clear that there was no condition for his extroversion but that Alfred was fundamentally a conversationalist.
Discussions on sociology and politics were his favourite and would crop up quite literally at any moment, which made sense, being that he had a Bachelor’s degree in Social Sciences. He would reel me in as we shepherded the goats in the crisp 6 am air, or as we pruned vines and he gleefully tiptoed into analogies of the CIA and rebellion uprisings.
I especially enjoyed his conversations as we hacked vigorously at brambles with machetes - there’s something to say about endorphin-fuelled philosophical investigation. Alfred would easily traverse from conversation on the price of train tickets to the immigration crisis, but he particularly enjoyed discussions on community, taking great enthusiasm in detailing the perks of living alongside a group of people with shared values and beliefs.
Our morning shift went from 6 to 10:30 am, where the sun would slowly climb until it shone above the mountains of the Arno Valley. From our vineyard at the base of the mountains, we would watch the surrounding valley come alive with colour until eventually, we joined them, pulling our hats tighter and loosening a button on the shirt. The local town of Donnini would also wake for another day, sitting perched on a hill directly adjacent to the vineyard, shining in its trademark Italian red, orange and white hues.
While those conversations out in the fields were my favourite, it was clear that Alfred preferred the dinner table. With dessert finished and three glasses of wine in the bloodstream, a miasma of cigarette smoke hanging about him and reclining back in his chair - he was at home.
The scene of these dinner conversations is important. Set in a 17th-century Tuscan farmhouse with no signs of modernity but three dim lights and some kitchen appliances, you would easily feel as though you had gone back in time - this immersion only intensified by a particular Abraham Lincoln look alike.
The table was old, long, and of rich dark wood. Bordering it was an immense stone fireplace and surrounding walls covered in myriad rustic cookware and utensils. It was the kind of space where you noticed something new every time you entered.
Infused with the smell of pasta, the satisfaction of full stomachs and wisps of cigarette smoke, accompanied by the charming lilt of Italian accents and an endless flow of red wine - the ambience was nothing short of romantic.
On one of these evenings, three of us headed out to Donnini after dinner, jumping in the beat-up old Mercedes wagon with back seats that were fixed to the car by only their own weight, sliding and bouncing around to the pothole riven road. Alfred was a fellow traveller this evening and made a point of getting changed before heading out into civilization. I did a double-take. Who is this man wearing such civilian clothes as a t-shirt, sweatpants and sneakers? Is it really the same one who chose to sleep on hay instead of a bed during our siesta? My brain underwent a discombobulation. I couldn’t help but think of those ultra-rich billionaires who domesticate exotic animals such as tigers and leopards, dragging them into a world in which they simply didn’t belong.
My time on the farm wore on and I became blissfully accustomed to rising at 5 am to eat homemade ricotta and honey on home-baked bread while sculling indulgent volumes of moka pot coffee. It certainly is a lifestyle. In the process, I also uncovered another layer of Alfred - his unwavering optimism.
He showed his optimism on numerous occasions, one of which was after finishing another rambunctious morning of hacking brambles. I asked how many more trees there were to clear.
“1,495.”
It smothered even the most poignant cocktail of endorphins and Tuscan goodness in me. “It is okay though,” he began in his Danish accent, “today we have made some progress, today we have moved closer to our goals.
Sure thing, Alfred.
Another day I was quick to ridicule another volunteer who had left after spending only five days on the farm, during which she scarcely socialised. “But it is not a bad thing that she has come,” Alfred explained, “she came and she tried, and it didn’t work out. At least she gave it a shot.”
Fine.
He showed it again one lunchtime as we ate ricotta pasta in the shade of a tree while sitting on a hill that overlooked the vineyard.
Discussing our exes, I suggested that Alfreds must have been smart, that he wouldn't have accepted otherwise. “Yeah, okay, but everyone is smart in their own way. Some are good at Maths and some are good at understanding new concepts quickly and some are good at understanding how you feel.”
Let me have some fun, Alfred!
Another afternoon, right before eating lunch, I helped Alfred carry a big bucket of goat heads and innards to a faraway field where they would be buried and forgotten forever. The smell coming from the bucket was thick and oppressive and one I endured comprehensively as I heaved the abundant biomass up and down hills, taking essential but entirely reluctant lungfuls. I spewed the exact diatribe and inflammatory expected after such an ordeal, expressing particular dismay at the gruesome act of slitting the goats' necks, a process that seemed far from optimal for both the goats and their executioner.
“No, it is not an easy thing. But you must know that for the goats it is quick, they go faster than you think. And you know, it is an important thing for Louis to do,” the owner of the farm and slaughterer in this instance, “it allows him to fully confront the nature of this lifestyle, of the food that finds its way to his table. It is so easy to forget about the taking of an animal's life when you buy it in cling wrap off a shelf in the supermarket. You are detached and place no value on this life you are eating. I think it is important that every person should at some point slaughter an animal and confront this themselves, they should understand this nature of life.”
When I left the farm I swore to embody Alfred’s optimism. It wasn’t some ungrounded romanticism that he engaged in - it was a mindful and intelligent perception of the world which fundamentally leaves him in better stead to its impediments, whatever they may be.
One day I proffered another observation, suggesting that Alfred also resembled Chris McCandless, a young American man who abandoned his home without a trace, traversing the country for two years before arriving at a solitary death in the Alaskan wilderness. A book - written by Jon Krakauer - and subsequent film were made, both titled Into the Wild, earning much intrigue globally; many curtailing Chris for his reckless abandon of family and safety, but a significant swathe becoming entirely inspired by his indomitable search for purpose, individuality, and freedom. Across my travels, I’ve met many of these supporters, almost always, young men. One of these such people was Alfred.
“I was very inspired by that guy! He understood that life is finite, that experience and life must be chased. He really went for it you know, really went for it.”
Alfred spent most of his post-high school life travelling, vagabonding, tramping, chasing the marrow of life itself - experience. He’s worked on a farm in Africa, and in Mexico, gazed at some of the Earth’s most beautiful landscapes, partied in outlandish hostels, and met a staggering amount of interesting people along the way.
“Everything is organised and accounted for in Denmark”, he told me, “including people.” Letters had begun arriving at his parent's residence, politely inquiring where the hell their son was: a bank account that had seen no activity for years, no job record, an outbound log on his passport, no taxes paid - the parliamentary bean counters weren’t happy. This bean was off living! In his early thirties, Alfred was happy with the life he had chosen. He was proud of it. He had enough life experience to account for six average humans, after all.
Yet this freewheeling tenure was steering to an end. Halfway through a diploma in agriculture, he was on track for starting his own farm, his own community. I smile when I think about this because I can’t help but think just how perfect it is for him.
One evening, near the conclusion of my stay, the house was alive with activity. Everyone was home, and a full suite of entrees, mains, desserts, red wine and Amaretto was served. Giulia, the wife and Mum of the house danced around with her 6-month-old son in her arms after dessert as a local radio station played old rock tunes. It’s one of those glorious moments of travel where goosebumps prickle at your skin, and sub-consciously or not, is the very reason you click that purchase button on yet another plane ticket.
Like many other evenings, this one drew on past our bedtime, as always, at the hands of that enveloping Alfred. I have a video of this very moment on my phone, and there’s Alfred, reclining in his chair at the far end of the table, revelling in some deeper-than-you’ve-had-in-months conversation about, whatever. Watching him cradle a glass of Sangiovese as a haze of cigarette smoke obscures his face is a joy, energising, because I think of all the things that he discussed and stood for.
The one I remember most fondly is also the one which he didn’t speak of at all: the sheer joy of sharing the company of someone so optimistic and enthusiastic, who took half measures in pursuing one of life’s greatest gifts - a good conversation.
Such a beautiful narration, Ned. It took me to Donnini, working the fields with everyone there haha. Although, realistically, I'd likely be that ridiculed volunteer who left after a few days and didn't socialise.
I like the sound of Alfred