Disco Inferno (??)

As the bus cruises along the smooth asphalt road, jade green hills and stony mountains emerge on all sides, filling up the wide expanse of the sky. I’m on my way north, to the farm I’ve chosen to stay at. I’m temporarily hungover from the city life. After two straight weeks of partying in Boston at Tvisha’s place, I’m ready to touch some grass. Upstate New York is so beautiful, it takes my breath away. It’s quiet, and the clouds are all gently gray. We drive through almost an hour of pattering rain before the bus drops me off at the lone bus stop in the tiniest little town. All it has is a marble chapel and a strip mall with local stores, all shuttered down at this hour. One of the farmhands, Daniel, comes to pick me up. It’s a half an hour drive to the farm. It really is the absolute middle of nowhere. So much so that the velvet night sky is intoxicated with stars, all glimmering like giant diamonds. I can’t stop staring at it. It’s been years since I’ve seen such a night sky.

The first disaster strikes before I even get to the farm. Daniel tells me there’s no Internet. Not a drop. I didn’t expect that. I’m adamant that I asked Aiden, the guy who owns the farm, about that before I went up there. I can’t survive without the Internet. My entire life is online. From the freelancing projects I do, to my daily social interactions and inspirations, to the well-worn rants on TikTok.

There are many aspects of modern life I’ve taken for granted, I realize.

The farmhouse is ancient, built by some Amish people, so there was no electricity, or running water, or air conditioning, until Aiden fixed it all up. Aiden is an ex-finance guy who quit his Wall Street job to run the farm and jump into the hippie lifestyle. He’s a good-tempered person, with shaggy hair, all lanky and tan from days spent laboring under the summer sun. Even though the house has six or seven bedrooms, most nights he sleeps out in the sunflower field, under the stars.

Aiden runs a very loose ship. There isn’t a lot to do. I was nervous he might want to work us to the bone, but most of the days are filled with lounging, sunbathing, playing boardgames, exploring the streams and orchards around the farm. After the cows are milked, the chickens are fed, and orders packed up, we’re left to our own devices.

The people on the farm are on this curious thing called the primal diet. They don’t cook anything. Not eggs, not fish, not meat. Even the milk that comes from the cows is raw, unlike the pasteurized stuff you find at the supermarket. They make cream and whey and cheese with it. I didn’t know there was a difference until I tried some of the cherry ice-cream they made with it and it made me violently ill.