I spent my weekend in a farmhouse filled with chicken. 150 chickens, 8 dogs, 1 cat, 6 kittens, 30 parakeets, 10 ducks and 200 hamsters to be exact. To be fair, not all of them lived in the farmhouse, but not being a particularly animal-loving person (despite a childhood obsession with becoming a farmer) I was not pleased that there were animals in the house at all. But I have learned my lesson: Next time a Colombian invites me to a rustic farmhouse I will kindly decline. When my boyfriend invited me to spend the weekend at his friend’s girlfriend’s parent’s farm (complicated, I know) I didn’t hesitate to say yes, even when he told me the farm was a little rustic. However, having lodged in a closet in Athens, the floor of an unattractive passenger ships, and dozens of one star pensiones throughout Europe and Asia, I told him not to worry, I could handle it. When he said rustic, I thought he meant some of the walls needed a new paint job or the place could use a few more decorations. Little did I know what awaited me.
I won’t go into details, but the weekend included a nervous breakdown (on my part) due to dire living conditions, many beers and whisky shots to forget dire living conditions, the killing of a chicken (which my boyfriend passionately opposed, apparently not realizing the chicken he eats everyday had to be murdered at some point to make it to his plate) and good times in between.