By ELLEN LONDON
Veteran Freegans and first-timers dig through garbage bags for produce, dairy and bread during a recent "trash tour."
Every night, a community of eco-enthusiasts committed to living off the consumer grid spreads out across New York City in search of food, clothing and furniture — in the trash.
Known as “freegans” for their non-consumer philosophy — they want things for free — the group is made up of social activists from all walks of life trying to cut down on corporate waste.
Rebecca Lowery, a Texas native and a freshman at King’s College in downtown Manhattan, was an enthusiastic participant in the “trash tour” held last Thursday. It is a a monthly event that brings freegans and interested members of the public together to go Dumpster diving. “Some people find it revolting,” Lowery admitted, “but I’m really excited to get tips about how to do it, and hopefully cut down on my grocery bill.”
While the term “Dumpster diving” recalls all of the gritty glamour of launching oneself into a garbage heap, the actual practice is methodical. Subsisting on found food requires vigilance and close observation of the wasted goods left out on the city’s curbs at the close of each business day. A dedicated freegan might make several trips every day, checking and rechecking garbage bins to find all of the staples for a healthy diet: bread, dairy, produce and meat.
Lowery was one of about 20 people who gathered at nightfall for last week’s trash tour in front of the Radio Shack on East 35th Street and 3rd Avenue on the Lower East Side. The tour was Lowery’s first experience with freeganism, although she had heard about the non-consumer lifestyle from her mother, an eco-enthusiast who dabbled in Dumpster diving in Texas. One of the tour’s three leaders, Janet Kalish, invited everyone to “grab a bag, dig in, and see what you find!”
While some members of the group were initially hesitant, the more seasoned scavengers rushed forward to the pile of shiny black trash bags heaped on a nearby curb. They worked quickly, but carefully — it’s the freegan way to leave the site better than they found it. “And it really is better off,” Kalish pointed out, “because there’s less waste in the bags when we’re done with them.”
From one trash bag, Kalish and a fellow leader recovered blocks of mozzarella cheese, unopened challah bread and a package of hot dogs. “You’ll want to boil those, but they’re perfectly good,” offered a freegan nearby. Lowery was timid at first, but began to fill her bag excitedly after finding an eggplant with which to make her favorite dish: eggplant parmesan.
Food gathered during dumpster diving is often still technically good, but is thrown out on its expiration date.
When the group finished collecting their bounty, Kalish showed them how to reknot the trash bags. The stores relinquish any property rights to expired goods once they discard them on the public sidewalk, meaning that this form of Dumpster diving is legal. Even so, Freegans make a point not to give local storeowners reason to stop them.
After a quick stop at a bagel store up the street, where they dove for plastic sleeves full of uneaten goodies, the group moved on to Gristedes, a grocery chain known in freegan circles for its waste. Kalish instructed the group to stack all of their findings in front of the store before divvying them up. “This goes to show how much waste is produced on a typical night in New York City,” she began, gesturing to the towers of packaged muffins, frozen vegetables and organic milk. Most of the items were marked with sell-by expiration dates of Sept. 3, the same day as the tour. “This stuff goes bad at exactly midnight tonight, so eat up!” Kalish joked, in reference to the common misconception that food goes bad precisely on the day of its expiration date.
By law, grocery stores are not supposed to keep goods on their shelves past their expiration labels, suggesting that Gristedes is practicing good business even while creating waste. It’s this corporate conundrum that Kalish and her fellow freegans are trying to correct.
Hungry for a snack after the foraging frenzy, Lowery opened a package of Weight Watchers blueberry muffins. Her plastic shopping bag was full to the brim with “enough groceries for a month.”
Kalish had filled her two shopping bags and rolling weekender suitcase with enough food for herself and the upcoming “Freegan Feast,” a monthly gathering for freegans from all over the city to cook and eat their found food together.
While environmentalism may have become a national trend, she emphasized that the Freegans’ mission is lasting: “As long as they keep wasting it, we’ll keep on finding it and eating it.”
