This past weekend bore witness to me checking off yet one more experience on my life's to-do list: taking part in the annual harvest of olives in Provence. I cannot express how privileged I feel to be included in such local celebrations and to experience them not as a tourist, but as a neighbor and friend, perhaps even as a long-lost relative. The atmosphere of this part of the world is one of instant family and it seems so strange to me now that I was warned against it by my host family in Paris. It is natural, I suppose, as we all harbor prejudices, but I feel more at home here than I ever did in Paris. I am more excepted, viewed as someone worth knowing and not a simple everyday stranger, or even worse, an intruder. I would like to think it is due, in part, to my openness and enthusiasm for the culture, a love that runs surprisingly deep for someone with such new and minimal experiences here. All the same, excitement is contagious and I find that when someone shows interest, the other party reciprocates, and the process that follows carries a snowball effect. Friendships are formed, dreams are born, and the desire to travel and learn grows even stronger.
The olive harvest held a dreamlike quality for me. As a child, I was always in favor of reliving history, taking myself back to a time before modern conveniences and dreaming up romanticized visions of such a life. While I am now well aware of the less-than-ideal life styles that existed before my time, I still take great pride and pleasure in participating in age-old traditions that have survived wars, plagues, changing political tides, and technological advancement. I feel somehow more connected to the old world, one which took nothing for granted and who truly lived the phrase "waste not, want not." If this trip is teaching me anything, it is to truly appreciate everything I am given, be it time or whatever, and to make everything count for something.
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