Harassed by a Worker at the Vendemmia

He cupped my breast so fast I didn’t even realize that I had just been molested. I didn’t know what to do. One of the workers, who I’ll call One-Eyed Pete, kept harassing me today.

At first it started with glaring stares. One of the supervisors had to yell at him.

“Pietro, ma cosa guardi, (Pete what are you looking at),” said the supervisor when he noticed Pete watching me while I took a break to drink water at the end of the vines.

We switched fields later in the day. We began to pick the white grapes for Vin Santo. Only the best grapes are picked, those without any marks, mold and that are ripe. They are cut and then laid in a plastic carton so that they can dry by Christmas.

Because the labor was slower and more involved I had to rely on One-Eyed Pete for advice. Esat was busy riding on the back of the tractor running up and down the rows collecting the filled cartons. So I had to stay close to One-Eyed.

Of course the jokes started. But he and another colleague saw my displeasure and annoyance at hearing more jokes. So they began to assure me that they only say jokes to pass time. It’s only talk.

One-Eyed stepped closer to me to tell me that once a girl thought he touched her, but he really didn’t. I joked that he should stand back since I had my scissors in my hand. But missing one eye did not stop the little man on zeroing in on me. He reenacted how he touched her. He swiftly reached out his arm, placing his hands around my breast. I looked down, his hand was gone and he was laughing.

One of the non-Italian workers noticed what happened. This was the first time he spoke to me. He yelled to me from down the vine to stay away from One-Eyed Pete.

I didn’t know what to do. One-Eyed was slick, he acted like it was all in good fun and even had the other worker laughing about it. I was mostly mad at myself for letting it happen. The rules are different out here. If I yelled at him or told the owner, I would probably look like a prudish moralist or stuck-up American girl. I just kept reminding myself that it was my last day.

Esat remarked that they took advantage of him not being around. He noticed that they had all been acting differently since the day I arrived on the fields.

When I returned home I told my Tuscan male friend what had happened.

His response “Va be, in campagna (Oh well, it’s the countryside).”

Being Tired of Jokes at the Grape Harvest

Carrying the heavy baskets up and down hills, emptying the full baskets into the cart and picking the grapes in general have gotten much easier this week. Listening to the workers talk and make jokes about sex for eight hours every day has gotten tedious — especially when they are made at my expense. It is annoying me to the point of aggravation.

I usually work alongside my friend Esat from Albania. In between the vines we discuss our likes and dislikes of Italy. He also helps me out when I cannot carry my weight in the field. He knows that my body is not used to working in campagna, so he tries to assist me when possible.

Today Esat is away taking care of personal business. It seems that the jokes are more frequent and everyone feels less inhibited to speak to me about my personal life.

I don’t know how many more times I can fake a laugh. How many times can one smile or giggle at comments like “don’t take a sharp turn, I may have to kiss this bella ragazza”; “if I was younger…”; “do you like dopo cena (after dinner, aka dessert aka sex)?”

I thought that if I told them I had a boyfriend they would leave me alone. But that has just given them more material.

I pretend that I don’t understand what they are saying, but they’ve caught on and have called me out on it. “She understands; she’s just pretending. She knows what we’re talking about…wink wink.”

Taking a Break from the Rain

What started as sunny turned into a grey rainy day. After lunch we continued the repetitious task of cutting grape clusters. After we finished harvesting all the red grapes we would move onto picking the white grapes for Vin Santo. The grapes have to be dry when picked, said Guiliano.

I was excited to do something “new” and to see the initial process of how Vin Santo was made. But after lunch it began to rain. I held out and continued to pick, but eventually the raindrops got bigger and fell faster.

My co-workers and I ran to a little shed filled with hay located on top of the hill with the vineyards below. There I finally got a chance to sit down and talk to some of my co-workers.

Gino, my supervisor, told stories of the most memorable incidents during the 25+ years that he has worked in the vineyard. The one incident that remembered the most was when he caught a couple having sex in a gazebo that once existed on the property. His eyes twinkled and he had to stop himself from laughing in order to tell us the story.

We sat for an hour waiting for the rain to stop. I was told that we would not be paid for that time that we were idle. I explained to Gino that I thought this was unfair. Either let us go home or pay us. “My time is precious,” I said.

They thought my comment was cute, however I was serious. They explained that this is how it is when one works in campagna (the country).

The Vendemmia: Unglamorous Work

The vendemmia is one of the most unglamorous jobs I have ever held. To harvest the grapes I have to completely strip myself of anything I consider feminine. A green hat covers my head to protect my scalp from the sun. I wear old T-shirts that are now stained with purple grape splotches; the bottoms of my black pants or ripped jeans are stuffed into my black boots to protect my legs from weeds, overgrown bushes and other creatures that crawl on the vines. I wear gloves but I still have blisters on my right hand from the pruning shears that are used to cut il grappolo (grape bunch) from the vine.

We are required to work four hours before taking a one-hour lunch break, and another four hours after the lunch break. No other breaks are allowed. If I have to go to the bathroom, tuff. The field is my toilet. Luckily I haven’t had to do that. But my colleagues are constantly going among the weeds. A turned back is considered privacy. I try not to avoid seeing them urinate, but at times I catch a glance of a stream.

By the end of the day, I am sticky with grape goo and sweat. My arms and face, the only uncovered parts of my body are a magnet for thorns, seeds, pieces of grass and insects, including mosquitoes.

Because one has to carry the grapes that they pick up and down the rows, which are usually on a slant, the work requires physical strength. It is highly demanding on the body that by the end of the day I could care less how I look. I just want to splash water on my face, hands and arms and sit in peace.

The weather has been sunny and about 28 degrees Celsius everyday. The heat at times makes it almost unbearable to work. The others aren’t bothered as much by the sun as I am. This is not the first time they have worked on a farm. And also they have told me that it is worst to work in the rain because the mud makes your feet weigh 10 pounds each.

I am not embarrassed to say that I don’t even wash my hair at the end of the day. What’s the point. I don’t go anywhere and I haven’t done anything but eat and sleep. The only thing that reminds me of who I am is my tube of Lancôme lip gloss that I carry in the pouch fastened around my waist.

First Days Working the Grape Harvest

My First two days working the grape harvest were exciting only in the sense that I was among old school Tuscan farmers. The two main workers who I have the most contact with are Giuliano and Carlo.

Carlo picks up Giuliano and I at Giuliano's home every morning around 7:30 A.M. And every morning I watch their interactions and all-in-the-name-of-fun arguing from the back seat while quietly cracking up. I look over at my other colleague who shares the seat with me, Esat, who we pick up along the way to the vineyards, and I can see that he is just as entertained with the Carlo and Giuliano show.

I couldn't explain the particular details of what they are talking about because most of the conversation is in dialect; however I do know that both of them enjoy picking on the other or as they would say rompere i coglioni (to break balls).

The first ride into the countryside Giuliano insisted that Carlo could not see the road. Back and forth he insisted that. And each time Carlo assured him that he could see where he was going despite the slight fog. This went on for 10 minutes.

The two have been working the harvest for years. Giuliano has been working this particular harvest for 11. He showed me the ropes the first day and introduced me to everyone, even though he himself could not remember my name. To make the eight hours fly Giuliano tells me jokes. All of them with sexual innuendos. Although they are jokes, they give some insight into how Tuscan farmers lived and the roles of woman and men a long time ago.

If we were in the States and or working in an office, Giuliano and the others would be prime defendants in sexual harrasment lawsuites, but the only rules of conduct in the world of the contadino are: work hard.

Preparing for the Vendemmia

I returned from Sicily by train on September 5. Since that time I have been waiting for Florence to open up again, and fill with my friends and acquaintances who left during the July/August break. In addition to that I have been desperately trying to find work. Since the city is basically dead from July to early September it has been difficult for me to find a job. Finally Friday night my roommate gave me the good news: I will be working la vendemmia (grape harvest) for three weeks starting tomorrow.

Because the harvest is in the countryside of Tuscany, in the province of Siena, her parents will host me Poggibonsi. She gave me the details of my job; I will be the only woman; I will be working with old Italian men; they will be talking about sex and may occasionally try to pinch my ass; “So be nice, joke a little and at the same time keep some distance,” said Francesca.

I heard woman get paid less than men, which leads me to believe that I will make 4 or 5 euros an hour. Regardless of the pay and hard work involved in picking the grapes Francesca told me that it is fun. I know I will be exhausted and may even have to work in the rain, but I am excited to be a part of the process that results in the best wines of the world.

Knowing My Family's Stories

Will my family’s stories be lost? That is what went through my mind as I sat amongst my Uncle’s sister, her children and grandchildren looking at photos — tones of black and grey and color, old and new. Yesterday was the first time I met her. I spent the day with my mother’s oldest sister, Nella. I accompanied her in saying her “goodbye’s” to her sister-in-law before returning to Australia.

My uncle and I have never met. They moved to Australia shortly after he married my aunt. Although they had the best intentions to move back to Sicily, fate had a different plan. My aunt and I met for the first time in 2007 in Milan. This is the second time we were in each other’s company.

So I was happy to meet my Uncle’s family. At least I could get some feeling of what he is like and how he grew up. I asked his sister if she had photos of him when he was little. Everyone gathered around the table to reminisce in the past with me.

As I sat there quietly listening to their gasps and laughs as they recalled their life, I wondered if anyone would ever ask me to share with them my family’s history. Will I have photos of my children, their children and their children’s children?

After viewing photos of weddings, baptisms, military trainings etc… my aunt and I visited my nonno’s sister. At my great aunt’s home my zia Nella told the story of how she met my uncle. She told us how she and my mother and other aunt, their littlest sister, pushed a cart of spices through the dirt road. That was one of the few times my nonna would permit her daughters to leave the house. It was at that time that my uncle first saw her.

We eagerly listened to my aunt tell the story. I asked for clarification and details trying to understand how different her life was then, how strict my grandmother was and what exactly did they do for money.

Her eyes and mouth fluttered while she poured out her love story. I thought about taking out my camera and capturing it all on digital, so someone else could know everything I know; so the past would not be lost. But stories like hers lose value when recorded. They are best told from memory, passed on from relative to relative in those few precious moments when distance is shortened.