All the days on vendange looked the same. If it was my turn to make breakfast, the alarm woke me up at six. The mornings were cold and dark. I never wanted to get out of the tent, but I had obligations. I had to brew coffee I prepare breakfast. Five minutes into being awake, and orange flames already colored the old dusty ruin. B woke up with the smell of freshly brewed coffee penetrating the tent. Fire warmed us up from the outside, and coffee from the inside. I rolled a spliff, drank my coffee, and watched the first sun rays covering the vineyards. After breakfast, we dressed up, and went to work. We were lucky, because our shack was close to the domaine where we worked. Less than five minutes to get there. Despite that, I was always fighting with myself over not turning back. Each day, I won.
After that, I always found the work quite enjoyable, almost like meditation. We progressed through the fields, our backs hunched over the small wine plants, always cutting grapes, always screaming “Seau!” when the bucket was full. There are two main jobs to do on vendange. Coupeur and porteur. We, coupeurs, are the hunched bio-harvesters cutting and collecting the massive clusters of grapes. Porteurs, on the other hand, make sure that we always have empty buckets, and bring what we gather back to the truck. Whenever they were late, I enjoyed the few precious moments to stretch my back.
For lunch, we usually brought nothing with B, at most a stale baguette. I usually smoked a spliff while B smoked a cigarette, and we talked with the Polish or the Italians. We were friendly with both groups. We were the only Slovaks in the whole town.
Most days, we worked until three, and after that, we were free. We prepared a hearty lunch, usually pasta, or rice with beans. Even the simplest food tasted exquisite after a day of work. We had some beer, and then we went either to Sorgues, to buy groceries, or we stayed in Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I smoked more spliffs, we both had some more beers, we socialised with others… The normal stuff. When the sun came down, it was time for dinner and then sleep. Yet another day in the vineyards was ahead of us.
On one day, we spent most of the time with Italians. They were two – a strange couple. The two least likely people you would imagine to be together. The guy looked lifeless most of the time. He didn’t speak too much. I’m not sure if it was because he didn’t speak English, or if it was his personality. Although he didn’t give out many signs of life, the girl compensated. She was eccentric, straightforward and talkative. She always seemed full of energy, even if she looked like a trainwreck most days. They apparently took ketamine almost always after work, so their appearances of made sense. When we learnt about their favorite pastime, we were curious and wanted to try it ourselves. The girl said she’d get us some from her dealer. That sounded like a pretty good plan, but the pricetag of 70 euros per gram didn’t. We passed on this offer.
After work, we usually went straight home, but that day there was something we needed to discuss with the boss. The Italians did as well. We talked some more, when B decided to go home and cook lunch. I didn’t go with him. Familiarity breeds contempt.
When the boss went to the garage for a while, the Italian girl took out a small plastic baggie with a questionable white powder and… You know how it goes. We stood next to the boss’ car, and she prepared three small lines on the hood. She snorted one, her boyfriend did the second one, and then…
“Let’s go, here’s the banknote.”
I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect it when she took out the baggie, and I definitely didn’t expect it when I stayed with them. I never had ketamine before, so I hesitated. The thing is, I didn’t even hear about this drug before. Like days before, at best. I had no idea what I was getting into if I snorted. I did so anyway. I figured, when am I going to have this sort of opportunity again, right?
The boss came back as soon as we finished the deed.
“What are you three still doing here? Go home! Work’s over,” he barked. They don’t like vendangeurs that much, even though they’re done without them.
“Yes sir! Au revoir.” We replied uniformly and we each went our own way. The couple went to the town, I went back home, back to B.
Halfway there, I started to feel weird. At first it was a strange sensation in my head. Or rather, in my mind. Afterwards, the physical effects set on. My legs felt heavy, my head felt heavy. I was breathing more heavily, but not in a bad way. I took a shortcut through the small wood near our ruin-home. I needed to sit down, fast. B was already cooking.
“I had ketamine,” I told him.
“Shit, I should’ve stayed. How do you feel Paulie?”
“Heavy. Funny. Light.”
It was getting to me. Sitting was no longer enough, so I laid down in the tent. B finished the lunch, and started eating, but I didn’t pay attention to him anymore. I didn’t pay attention to anything. Lunch, B, or the world around me didn’t concern me in the least. I was flying through the outer space, but at the same time, I was deep in my body, which I didn’t feel but it was too heavy at the same time. And I wasn’t really out there, but I totally was.
“I need music,” I said, and took the guitar.
The tones were more than sound now, but less than music. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew there’s another person in the room, but I didn’t care. I was playing until I couldn’t anymore, and then I laid and to be honest, I don’t remember much of what was going on most of the trip. I think in about an hour and half, I was coming down. I smoked a spliff, but it didn’t bring the trip back. I found myself laying in the tent, alone. B went to the town. I smoked spliffs and wrote poems. Then I had a beer and went to the town as well.