At the end of my first day harvesting olives in southern Italy, I cried. What was I possibly thinking, flying 6,400 miles from San Francisco to Bari, Italy, in late fall to engage in two full weeks of manual labor?

I’d just spent eight hours laying down large green nets beneath rows of trees and raking olives off their branches from the moment the sun cracked its way above the horizon to the time it disappeared below the plateau. My legs and arms were aching, my clothes were covered in mud, and all I wanted to do was sleep.