The City Farmer
They operate between the lines and in the shadows. If you’ve been in the city and wandered the streets with open eyes, you’ve probably seen their work already.
It takes a certain type of person to be a farmer. You need to be tireless, patient, practical, resourceful, loving and above all, aware. A farmer has to have instincts; something that tells them when to harvest or when not to, when to plant, or cut. A farmer needs to know his plots of land better than he knows himself.
Walking among red bricks, glass facades, and on cobblestones is the last place you might expect to find a farmer, but that’s where Frans told me to look.
“There are farmers in the city too,” he said the last time we spoke. “They operate between the lines and in the shadows. If you’ve been in the city and wandered the streets with open eyes, you’ve probably seen their work already.” I wish I’d asked him to tell me more, where to look might have been a good start, or what signs to look out for. But now it’s too late for questions and answers. I’m left to my own devices, with his cryptic riddle circling my head.
For weeks we’d meet in the park closest to him. We’d sit for an hour, sometimes two, but those days got rarer as the end approached. He had cancer crawling all over his body in those days. Long gone were the manageable stages of treatment and remission. And in those last days, we covered almost every idea one might contemplate at some point, trying to make the most of each breath. But there was an idea that caught his attention. It was an off comment, or so I thought. But he latched onto it, sensing it was something more. It's worth mentioning, end of life treatment involves a hefty dose of fun intoxicants. So my friend got used to inventing more creative ways to say the simplest things.
“I like being around farms,” I’d said. We were talking about places to live. This sort of escapist hypothetical was a favourite of his. Sometimes I’d say South America, Costa Rica’s blue zone sounds particularly interesting. Or in a bamboo villa overlooking rice terraces in Vietnam. Then it hit me… I like the idea of being around farms. But it’s not only the scenery, it’s the people, the men and women, who tend the earth. These types of people are different, made to grow and care. And that’s when he said there are farmers in the city too.
It took me a while, but finally, I noticed one. Not that I knew it immediately. I'd been looking ever since Frans died, but so far, no one gave me the impression they were capable of tending the land. Until that is, one man started to catch my eye, seemingly everywhere I went. I took it as a sign, maybe Frans was guiding my eyes to fall on him or him in front of them. I first found my example sitting somewhere I hadn’t considered before and decided it was time to look closer. I’d assumed this rare breed would fix themselves to rooftops, allotments, parks or even the little squares of soil outside houses. But this city farmer wasn't there. He was on a terrace, switching between holding court and his folk, sometimes mixing them up so he was conducting the conversation. I took a seat a few tables to the left of his and watched the scene unfold. Of course, I didn’t fix my gaze on him or those surrounding his table. Instead, I leant on my well-practised technique of glancing. The trick is not to give your intended target away. It's obvious, but the obvious is always harder to get away with than the confused. Say you’re glancing at that pretty face you always see sitting on your morning train; you must maintain the same length of focus on her as you do on the scene passing by the window or on the announcements drifting across the screens above the aisle. Unless, of course, she’s doing the same to you. Then you're inclined to allow your gaze to linger, stating all your intent without uttering a word. But such occasions are so finite that it’s not even worth consideration.
“I’ve heard someone has brought the empty spot by the station.” The man next to the farmer is saying.
“I hope it’s not turning into another sushi place or salad bar,” another to his left replies.
“Nothing beats a good terrace,” a woman with her back to me adds.
“You’re spot on there, Elise. A good terrace can make or break an afternoon. A good terrace can start a relationship, and a bad one can end them just as quickly. When I was younger, my father brought me to a terrace to have coffee, just like this and told me when I was old enough to invite a girl out, I was to take her there. And do you know what, the first girl I took to that terrace was Louisa. We were fifteen!”
“It’s true,” The man closest to him says, although he needn't have because everyone involved is nodding.
“We also had our first date on a terrace, but he took me to one by the canal, and there was such a breeze I started to shiver. ”
“She was nervous.”
“Nervous? You were the one stumbling over your words.”
“And then what…?” The man closest to the farmer asks, prompting an encore.
“And then you gave me your jacket and said you'd always keep me warm,” she said, and the man smiled at his former nobility. I’m sure she’s smiling too, but it’s hard to tell without seeing a face.
“Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?” A waitress's voice asks somewhere above me. I look up and find the sun, then turn, and she’s there, on my right side. But I've moved too quickly, and now there's a pain shooting up my neck. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Just tweaked my neck.”
“Argh,” she sighs as if remembering the pain.
“I’ll have an espresso please… and a glass of orange juice.”
“We have apple.”
“Water’s fine, sparkling if you have it.”
“Great, I'll be back in a minute,” she turns and walks away, and for a beat or two, I'm distracted. There’s an eruption of laughter to my left; the farmer has decided to wrap things up and leaves his audience with a quick anecdote to sustain them through the rest of their day. He’s on his feet, patting down his denim jacket for the usual occupants. A cluster of keys jingle as he taps his right pocket, and then just like that, there’s a chorus of goodbyes, and he’s gone. Almost immediately, it feels a little colder. The sun has left us too, if only for a minute. It has some business with a drifting crowd of clouds.
“Your espresso and sparkling water,” She says, and I turn to my right. This time slower.
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good for now. Thank you, Joanna,” I say, noticing her name tag for the first time. She’s confused, a little embarrassed even.
“Oh, I'm not Joanna. It’s an old name tag. I’m new.”
“So, who are you?”
“Marie.”
“Well thank you, Marie. Actually, while you’re here, can I pay?”
I pay my measly bill of three euros; Marie must have forgotten something. Then I find myself distracted again before she’s out of sight. The coffee is less than good but more than okay, and the sparkling water’s left unopened. The farmer’s crowd has waned with his absence, and only the couple who found love by the canal are left talking to themselves in the last of the afternoon sun.
***
A few days slip by before I see the farmer again; this time, he’s not soaking in the sun on a terrace. Nor is he holding court or waving a folk. He’s a few faces ahead of me, queuing with a terracotta pot at his feet. I’ve come for no other reason than boredom. It’s the type that fills your closet with unworn clothes and your bookcase with unread books. And in my case, I'm filling my floor space with overgrown plants.
This is more like it, I think, as I notice the farmer in front of me. But he’s only buying one pot, and I doubt there’s enough space to grow anything productive. He’s getting close to the counter now, and there’s a smile growing on the owner's lips.
“Haven’t seen you in a week or two,” the owner says.
“I can say the same about you,” the farmer replies, and they laugh like they’ve said words that deserve a chuckle.
“How’s Marg?”
“Getting there... she’ll be running again before the end of summer.”
“I bet she’s pleased.”
“Well…”
“She has always been impatient,” and they are laughing again. But the owner has his eyes fixed on the queue growing behind his old friend.
“Oh, sorry. I never know when to stop,” the farmer says as he moves aside. There’s an old lady between him and I; she stares at the floor and slides her feet across it. A packet of tomato seeds is all she’s come for and she leaves without saying more than the obligatory. Hello, thank you, have a nice day. Now it’s my turn, and I’m met with eagerness.
“Be careful with that one,” The farmer’s telling me, pointing at the plant between my hands as he leans against the desk.
“Is it that temperamental?” I ask, but only out of politeness. I've already got two twice this size.
“Oh, he’s just messing with you. That’s one of the easiest to keep. It needs a lot of sunlight, little water and feed every three months.”
“Look at you. If I didn’t know you better, I would think you owned a plant shop or something.” The owner rolls his eyes, and I give them a half-hearted chuckle.
“Thanks,” I say, although I think the best feeding schedule is every two months. But I’m not one to nitpick. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” the farmer says, and I walk back onto the street.
Then just like that, he’s out of sight again, and I’m left analysing what I've seen. Something tells me he's cut from the same cloth as those Frans mentioned. But if that's the case? When will I catch him farming? It’s one thing identifying a prospect, it’s another noticing him at work. Once a face becomes familiar, you start to see it wherever you go. I walked home, planning a night patrol. Surely, that was when I'd have the best chance at catching him at work. My patrol would take me to all four parks and the allotments just beyond the ring road. Then I'd snake back through the little lanes looking for anything new, a clue.
And as it happened, I never went on that patrol. Instead, I fell asleep reading my old texts from Frans. Searching for something hidden among the blue and white bubbles. After a bad night's sleep, I needed some rest. I don’t make a habit of treating myself, but after weeks of late nights like that, buying another plant didn’t feel enough. I need something novel, like one of Frans' random ideas. I googled 'new things to do'. There’s a bathhouse an hour's walk away, and I decide to do what I’ve never done before and go to the spa.
I’ve heard stories about places like this. Nudity, Sexuality, Conspiracy. But only one of them is true. The rest belong to long novels about secret societies and scandalous affairs. Although, I was as comfortable with reality as I was with fiction. But novelty is rarely found between the long arms of comfort, so I de-robbed and went to join the rest of the novelty seekers. Among my peers were new faces, small towels, conversations and meditation. I’m sure some people here made a habit out of it. For the most part, though, it felt like this group of people still found the smell of rosemary and lavender intoxicating.
There’s a bar, a sort of indoor terrace. The spa has been turned into a moody jungle decorated with Scandinavian pine; blurring the lines that separate the outside from in. A table of women are ordering something green and blended from a blushing teenager wearing a cream uniform. I carry on past the terrace and the living wall that separates it from the action. That’s the pool… pools, saunas and steam rooms. There’s a queue of three lining up for the plunge pool, shuffling from one foot to the other as they wait. The main pool is empty and has been for a while; its relaxation is as close to perfect as you will see. I’ve always liked the idea of a sauna, so that’s where I decide to go first. But as soon as I open it, I recognise the red face already sweating on his towel.
“Look who it is, the man with the monstera,” he recognised me too.
“Hey, yes, I guess that’s me.”
“You’ve not been here before, have you?”
“How can you tell?” I ask, and he points his gaze at my feet. My socks are still snug around my feet.
“Argh, I’m not sure how I forgot those,” I say and pull them off.
“You aren’t the first person.”
“I guess you’re a regular?”
“You could say that. And what about you? What’s your story? I’ve seen you a couple of times now.”
“You have?”
“No more. A couple of times this week. At Michel’s shop, on The Queen’s terrace and…”
“Here? Now?”
“No, no, this is the fourth, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think so. I remember the terrace and the shop but nowhere else?”
“Argh, that’s it. The train, but it was last week. And what do you mean you remember? Are you following me or something?” He said and leant down between his legs and pulled out a wooden pail of water. “So?” he asks, pouring water on the stones and raising the temperature.
I suppose I was bound to ask him at some point; after all, for all my careful glances and random sightings, I still hadn’t understood what Frans had meant all those months ago. I still had no idea if this man would know either. But grief plays funny games, and you can quickly catch yourself asking a stranger strange questions in the sauna. There are farmers in the city too. Maybe it was the drugs, but I think he was onto something. And sure, it might just be my way of hanging on to a piece of him, but if he said there were farmers here, then I was going to find them. With every scout or second spent eavesdropping, I was with him, acting like we always did.
“Are you a farmer? I mean, like an urban farmer or something?” I say, tasting the salt on my lips.
“Ha, I haven’t heard that in a while. Why do you ask?” He's surprised, but not in the way I expected.
“I had a friend who told me there are farmers in the city, but it never made sense. I’ve been looking around a little more closely since he told me, but every time I start to think I've found one, they always end up being a disappointment.”
“Perhaps you have taken your friend's message too literally. I had a friend who used to talk about that kind of drivel too. But sometimes, he was right on the money. And he said something similar, although when he said 'farmer' he meant producer, cultivator.”
“So, I’m supposed to look for a cultivator? What distinguishes a cultivator?”
“It’s nothing special. You don’t need any machinery or a degree in agriculture. You can cultivate all sorts of things. Good and bad habits. Friendships, community, trust, love. It’s just a matter of effort and time. You have to tend to things when you are cultivating them. You have to feed, trim, and water.” He’s making a lot of good points, but unlike him, I’m not a regular here, and eight minutes in this pine box is turning my vision black.
“That’s an interesting thought,” I say, and leave him behind to reclaim my body in the plunge pool. There’s no queue.
Love, Luke