bavaria, germany.

Friday August 8, 2025 – Salz, Bavaria, Germany

 

Perhaps it’s simply a side effect of growing up in the city. Ever since I was a boy, I dreamed of one day working on a farm. Exactly what a farm was, I surely hadn’t a clue. Just the endless rows of corn (or were they wheat?) which dashed passed the car window as we drove through the Catskills.

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We never saw anyone tending the fields. Did the fields tend themselves? But I’d seen cowboys on TV, and my mind made the obvious connection.

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Cowboys, tractors, pickup trucks, rough hands. Real America.

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The farm.

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Well, I finally made it. Kind of. My friend M’s family runs a small organic farm in the northwest of Bavaria, and when I eagerly enquired about lending a hand for a few weeks, she quickly hid her surprise with a definite ‘yes!’

 

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I arrived by train last night, sweaty and unsure. We communicated with a nervous mix of German, French, and English. 50% of which was surely wrong. I guess ‘communicate’ is a strong word. We gestured. And laughed.

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The farm is run by a tight-knit group of relatives, friends, and a few helping hands. As best I can tell, their main products are potatoes, various whole grains, eggs, and sunflower seeds.

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These are distributed regionally as well as via their farm-to-table café and grocery. All-in-all the farm carries a vibrant spirit of family, community, tradition, sustainability and self-reliance.

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For one American in particular, it is something of a dream. Or a fairytale.

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The farm has been in the family for 5 generations and grainy ancestral photos fill the walls.
 

Salz is small. But the home is big.

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The bread is baked fresh, daily, as is all the food. Anything which is not personally grown is purchased from nearby farms – all organic.

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For the life of me I can't tell if Salz lives far in the past or deep into the future. Either way, it is certainly timeless.

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The meals are generous and shared. The recipes are old. We sit together: the family, the workers, and me.

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I am certain that no one in the world eats as well as the provincial European.

 

After dinner, we drove out to one of their barley fields to watch the final harvest. I hopped into the tractor – what the locals call a ‘bulldog’—and bounced along for the ride. I watched the sun set slowly, almost regretfully, over the hills, as tractors all up and down the hillsides rushed to finish the harvest, large plumes of dust rising up like tails in their wake.

 

August 9

I spent three hours today in the barn packing up sacks of potatoes.

 

August 12

I’ve been introduced to the eggs.

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I’ve seen eggs before, of course. But never like this.

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First, the coops. Hundreds of hens all living together. I guess that's why they call it 'cooped up'. The coop is split into three parts. The main structure where they live and lay their eggs. An enclosed outdoor portion where they are fed. And an open-air pen (maybe 50 square meters) for them to range freely.

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The farm is organic and keeps to strict population, nutrition, and space requirements. An electric conveyer belt carries the laid eggs, still warm, out of the coop and into a small packing zone. These are then transported back to the main barn (two or three times per day) for further sorting and repackaging.

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In total, each egg is handled three or four times. A thousand eggs per day and four touches per egg, my fingertips are stained white by the end of the day.

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That night, I googled ‘Germany Bio Regulations’:

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‘Bio farming practices ensure crop rotation for an efficient use of resources, a ban of the use of chemical pesticides and synthetic fertilizers, very strict limits on livestock antibiotics, a general ban of genetically modified organisms (GMOs), use of on-site resources for natural fertilizers and animal feed, raising livestock in a free-range, open-air environment and the use of organic fodder, and tailored animal husbandry practices, both in the EU and North America, with variations on both sides.’

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August 14

Germans sure do love their bikes. Yesterday, the family arranged a bike rental for me and gave me the day off. Were they testing me?

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M and I rode up to Kreuzberg, the tallest mountain in the area. The reward was a Benedictine monastery on the peak, complete with a medieval brewery. We quenched our thirst with large bottles of golden helles before heading back down.

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Traveling around the world, I'd often spot a sole German – or a small pack of them – paddling away on their bikes. It could be a remote mountainside, a rocky path, or deep in the wilderness. It doesn’t much matter. A German on a bike will find a way through.

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I’d breeze past in a car and laugh at the sorry figure bent over the handlebars. It seemed crazy to me that anyone would willingly submit themselves to such torture. Traveling itself is adventurous enough. Why add insult to injury?

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Well, yesterday, chugging my sorry butt up that mountain, I finally understood.

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Cycling is a spiritual pursuit. Hear me out.

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Cycling is a breathtakingly beautiful balance of effort, skill, calculation, technique, machine, and psyche. All at once, all together.

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Unlike running, cycling is not simple endurance. Unlike driving, cycling is not merely technique.

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Cycling is the unification of all human potential.​

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With advances in gears, suspension, materials, there is no challenge that a determined cyclist cannot meet.

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A cyclist engages with her terrain in much the same way that an alpinist views the slope. It is a knot to be worked through. And in working through it, a mysterious ineffable something takes place.

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Any cyclist can handle any challenge, as long as one plays by the rules. The rules of the road and of the body.

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On my bicycle, I experience the world around me, all the while I am not captured by it. Cycling is freedom.

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But freedom must be earned. Painfully. It must be wrested from the earth.

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Sweat drips from my brow. My calves burn with strain. My mind is heavy as iron. I drown in possibilities.

 

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This morning, I went out early with C and M to set up the electrical fence around the chicken coops. It was hard work in the blazing sun. I worked with my hands. At the end, I looked around at what I created.

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August 19

We spent the weekend out on the lake. Long sleepy days. You know the type. I borrowed a SUP and paddled out alone. Mostly I splay out on the grassy shore, soaking up the dream which is rural Bavaria of ’25.

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We munch on spicy pommes and sip ice cold Radler.

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Does everything really need to change? Surely, some things are allowed to stay the same. The sun glints brightly off the surface. I squint.

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I know I have to grow up eventually. But maybe I’ll just wait one more summer. Or two.

 

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The evenings at the farm are all the same. At this time of year, it stays light forever.

But as the light turns gold

And the heat turns merciful

The family slowly warmly collects

Around the large wooden table

In the center of the yard

The table fills with dishes

As if on its own accord

Some return from the fields

Others from the kitchen

Or from the home

Another day has filled

And here we are again

Together

Around a large wooden table

F drinks a beer (two)

I sometimes join

M has returned from cycling

The children bathe in attention

We all have our role

Nights like these might come in a row

Or not at all

Three generations

Land

A home

Together. Together.

After eating

I sit for a bit and list to the German chatter

Then I clear my plate

With everyone a gute nacht

Retreat to my room

Alone. Alone.

 

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Yesterday afternoon, I went with M and U on the potato harvester for the first time. As the large machine stumbled over the neat rows, it harvested thousands of potatoes and stones. Our job was to pick out the stones as they rolled by before they ended up in the large crate. It was fun at first. A game, almost. But it hadn’t rained in weeks and we were soon choking in dust. Well, I did, at least. The others seemed to be used to it.

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The potatoes were smaller than usual. I could see the disappointment in their eyes. Not enough water, they said. The last few years had been too dry.

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No one knows if the farm will make it another generation. Rains are decreasing, temperatures are rising. We returned home three hours later, caked in dirt, red-necked, and exhausted.

 

It was a great feeling.

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August 27

Day 21 on the farm. I’ve picked up some new lessons.

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The other day, while riding on the harvester, choking on hot dirt, the tractor throwing me around, it finally dawned on me: farming is hard.

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I’d been romanticizing the work for so long – how refreshing it is to work with my body, to work on the land, to participate in the cycle of life, to be rugged and awake! But today the bubble burst. I just wanted to go home.

 

Labor is hard. Plain and simple. It’s in the name.

 

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The business of organic farming:

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When the topic of finances arises, the mood invariably tuns sour. There is very little optimism among the farmers; rather a sense of ‘hanging in’.

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Threats crowd in from all sides:

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• Climate change means too little rain.

• Inflation means people are reluctant to pay more for better food. At the same time, capital expenses (like tractors) have tripled in the last decade.

• The industry relies on government subsidies. Yet farms (unlike the neighboring bright green gold course) are not allowed to use irrigation or sprinklers.

• Economically, running a small farm just isn’t a great investment. The work is extremely difficult, the expenses are immense, the hours/days/months are long, and the pay is uninspiring.

• Will the next generation (now aged 8 and 10) even want to continue the journey? If so, the business will need to further diversify – they already run a small produce shop and café – new weather-resistant crops will need to be introduced. Emerging technologies will need to be deployed.

 

Farming is not a job. It's a lifestyle.

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On one tractor ride home from the fields, M confides in me: ‘If local laws do not adapt soon, in ten years time there won't be a single potato grown anywhere in Germany.’

 

The farm, run by a small family united by place, history, and, most importantly, sweat, vibrates to the unceasing hum of an unhurried busy-ness. Like a beehive or a space launch. Everything and everyone in their place, working together.

 

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August 30

Last day in Salz. Tomorrow I’ll board the 9am train to Schweinfurt and then on to Frankfurt and down to Provence.

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I sit at the big wooden table, where I’d sat for countless meals, and try to record my thoughts. Nothing comes.

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I simply reflect the damp chilly morning air that has descended on the town.

 

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August 31

A few minutes after my train pulls out of the station, I receive a text from M:

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Nos adieux à la gare ont été très brefs et rapides. C'est pourquoi je tiens à t'écrire à nouveau pour te dire ce que je n'ai pas pu te dire à la hâte.

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…

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And that just about summarizes my thoughts, as the train picks up speed.

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My goodbye, to Salz, to the farm, to the family, to M, to this singular precious period of life, was very brief and rapid.

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Just the other day, I wrote to E, sharing the concept of nitzotzot (sparks) from Jewish mysticism. When god created the world, she broke her pure light up into tiny sparks which she hid all throughout space and time. During our lifetime, we encounter these sparks – here and there – and try, in our own way, to re-collect the divine light.

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Well, I spent a month in Bavaria collecting sparks.

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Having done so, I rest back in my seat, turn toward the window, and rest my gaze on the glowing horizon, barely just visible out in the distance.