You guys. I’ve found the greatest thing on the planet. For real.

Wait. Maybe the second greatest thing.


But it’s a close second. And it definitely wins over the slurpees at that 7-eleven by my house.


So I guess on 3rd Avenue, this thing I’ve found is definitely the greatest thing on the planet. Except you can’t do it on 3rd Avenue, because it’s a travel thing that you can only do in other places that are not 3rd Avenue– places like New Zealand, WHICH IS LUCKY FOR ME BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE I AM.

I’m talkin’ ‘bout wwoofing, y’all.

“What’s that?” you say…


…which is a dorktastic name for this really cool thing: basically you go out to a farm for a couple/three weeks, do a bunch of farmy stuff, and then the farm people give you a bed to sleep in, and probably also some food, very likely – ya know – from the farm.

Obviously this is the best because #1) while you’re wwoofing, you don’t have to spend any money, and #2) most of your meals are cooked in duck fat.

AND PLUUUUUS, you get to meet a bunch of awesome people who know all this stuff you don’t know. And then you get to learn all that stuff, like killing chickens or using wheelbarrows, which you can totally put on your resume. I’m dying for the day a potential employer asks me what my strengths are, and I can point to my aptitude for dirt-sifting.


When you’re wwoofing, you can make fancy cheese or chill out with rabbits OR BECOME FRIENDS WITH A HORSE, OH MY GOD.


Maybe you have to weed a garden or two but WHAT THE FUCK EVER, LOOK AT THE VIEW.


And okay, ocaaaasionally you have to clean people’s toilets, but I’m pretty good at that already, so I try to see it as a place where I can really shine.

And really, you only have to do that stuff for a few hours a day, and then you can do whatever you want, like practice your juggling or make Thanksgiving Dinners.


Sometimes there are other wwoofers there to hang out with, who teach you cool stuff about their countries or how to say curse words in their languages. Or (if the kids are around) how to count really fucking fast in Finnish.

And – extra bonus – you can force them to help you make Thanksgiving Dinner.


Where’s the downside, right?


I mean, sure you could stay in a hotel and do all the stuff you’re supposed to do when you visit a new country. All that stuff is fine and great, and I’m definitely doing it. But hands down, the most this-is-why-I-quit-my-life experiences I’ve had in the months since I left have been digging in dirt with Kate, or cooking quince pie with Tsarina, or sharing my family’s weird holiday foods with these sweet people who have inexplicably welcomed this f-bomb-dropping*, poop-stuff-talking** American into their homes.

*Mom, I promise I watch my language when I’m there – they think I’m an angel. Although these are people who regularly kill their pets and then eat them, so let’s put this in perspective, k?

**Poop stuff is pretty much always okay.

So there it is, people: the greatest thing on the planet. You don’t need any of those meditation classes or PhD programs, or whatever dumb soul searching you’re doing. Quit all of that and get your ass to a farm in New Zealand. And please for the love of Christ, bring me a goddamn slurpee*.

*23rd & Lex – those guys are always on point.

A thousand puppies will live forever if you share this post, I totally swear.

A thousand puppies will live forever if you share this post, I totally swear.

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