Friday, November 30, 2007
30.11.07
I taught my first official, sweaty underarm, dry throat, all in French class today. In front of thirty-two kids and one economics teacher I talked about my ‘financial testimony in America’. It felt fairly natural. Class started at eight, one student. We talked about video games. The two afternoon classes were equally inspiring, but after I did get to encourage one of the guys who was trying, despite the two girls around him making fart noises. Apparently, the headmaster made a few decisions that have rendered the Lycee Soult less than tranquil. The profs are uniting next week to form their response. I am part of the French Alpine Club here. The one hundred ninety participants got together to look at the pictures from the year, eat and drink; talk. I starred in three pictures. Nico’s mom came to get us at 11. Good thing, I used up all my good French for the day. It was going downhill quick.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
29.11.07
Not a usual Thursday, but welcomed. I slip easily into habit. Trying to be disciplined to work on lessons at night makes it tough to touch the floor four hours before the bus the next day. Heaving myself out of bed, donning spandex and a shirt I ran my hill course. I only have two routes, this is my favorite. The space heater warmed the bathroom so upon returning the shave and shower were delicious. Ninety minutes until departure. I drink coffee and read. Grab the bus at eleven twenty-five, the slightly grumpy pony-tailed blond woman chauffeuring. A quick prep for class; perfect; the class I dread is next week. Three classes, ending at five, debates raised more emotion than I thought. Substituted soccer for watching climbing. Tendonitis equals no climbing. Nico and his mom took me home while recounting Sarkosy’s speech on TV. Note to self, ‘Friends’ does not inspire. Wrote, ate the last bit of food, bed.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
28.11.07
Rotten apples spoil the bunch; a rotten kid can ruin your day. I try. Try to make the topics interesting, but today one kid would not shut up. Tried to ignore him, nothing. He was interrupting with useless English words. The third straight hour of teaching and thankfully the last, I was a little tired and edgy. Raphael, who took me home, gave me ammunition I can use to discipline them. Made it home before one and don’t have class for twenty-four hours, so I take the afternoon off. Looking for a pot to cook soup in, hesitated, to big? Left empty-handed. Right to the lovely library. I like it there, the clientele is interesting. Came home, napped, spent time being quiet in front of Jesus, and made crepes while talking to Laura on Skype. Looking for class ideas so watched some episodes of Friends. Yannick called. Quickly crawled into sub-zero bed, the first five seconds are the worst.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
27.11.07
Tuesday starts with the game of see-how-long-I-can-stay-in-bed-until-I-HAVE-to-brave-the-freezing-air. It lasts till 6:45. I happily walk past the busses I have missed twenty minutes ago. Meet Angelina at the municipal electric building to drive to school. Thirty-minute small talk session. She shushes me to hear about the riots that happened south of Paris. First class doesn’t show because they have to make up another class. I wander to the teacher’s lounge to fill five hours between classes. The university kids here are on strike; so to be ‘one’ all the high school kids decide to follow suit. However, one of my friends is an organizer and decides to call it off because most just want a day off. I eat lunch with the teachers; teach two classes that average out to be below bearable, and meet my ‘new’ Peugeot mountain bike. Dragging it over to the climbing wall, I freeze for four hours before Jean Baptist takes me home.
Monday, November 26, 2007
One week, onethousandonehundredandtwentywords
Brandon encouraged me to write everyday, and not just for me.
I saw this challenge in action as a friend had to write a story in 160 words exactly for a contest. On my run today I decided to do the same. This is one week. Seven days where I will write 160 words exactly about each day. It is so that a week will be documented, so that all of you will be in the know, and for me, I am trying to be a better writer so this is good practice.
Welp, here it goes.
26.11.07
My week doesn’t really begin until Tuesday, I will have to have a less than stellar intro day. Monday, there is not a whole lot open with, I don’t do much really. Recoup from the weekend, I slept in this morning till 10:30. And plan for the week. I spent a little over a half an hour under the table reading and journaling. Why under the table? No heat save a small space heater so I put it under the table, put a blanket over and called it good. I did yoga in my freezing kitchen, and then sat on the computer for a few hours, looking at pants, dietary changes to help tendonitis, and ideas for lessons. A run along a city path. Flat and oddly crossing streets. Passed by old women on a walk, slowly moving, but moving none the less, they smiled at me, ‘bonjour’s all around. Made a rice, lentil, quinoa salad. Worked some more. Bed.
I saw this challenge in action as a friend had to write a story in 160 words exactly for a contest. On my run today I decided to do the same. This is one week. Seven days where I will write 160 words exactly about each day. It is so that a week will be documented, so that all of you will be in the know, and for me, I am trying to be a better writer so this is good practice.
Welp, here it goes.
26.11.07
My week doesn’t really begin until Tuesday, I will have to have a less than stellar intro day. Monday, there is not a whole lot open with, I don’t do much really. Recoup from the weekend, I slept in this morning till 10:30. And plan for the week. I spent a little over a half an hour under the table reading and journaling. Why under the table? No heat save a small space heater so I put it under the table, put a blanket over and called it good. I did yoga in my freezing kitchen, and then sat on the computer for a few hours, looking at pants, dietary changes to help tendonitis, and ideas for lessons. A run along a city path. Flat and oddly crossing streets. Passed by old women on a walk, slowly moving, but moving none the less, they smiled at me, ‘bonjour’s all around. Made a rice, lentil, quinoa salad. Worked some more. Bed.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Regional food
One of the many interesting things about France and most of Europe for that matter is that back in the day, people didn’t travel a whole heap. However mundane and sleepy this statement may be to start out a blog entry, stay with me, the crescendo is coming.
So since Frenchies didn’t go many places, and had to make a living with what they had, they started taking those things that grew well in their area and making France the culinary mecca it is. For instance, in the north of France, cows liked the open areas and helped to make some of the best Brie and Camembert in the world, if not the only. Apples also grew surprisingly well in the climate and tended to like the rain and wind and soil, much like in Washington. They take these apples and make the best lightly fermented cider you have tasted, and for those, like me, who like it a little stronger, there is Calvados. Beautiful amber color, sweeter than most like it, but strong and delicious. And with the French when two things are good, sugar and cream, meat and cheese, butter and chocolate, why not mix them? You got it, mix whatever parts cider and Calvados in a tall glass and you have a Pommeau [ pronounced pom-o, French for apple is pomme]. Usually served before dinner, or as a sedative if drank alone.
Near Chamonix up in the mountains it is cold and a little tough in the winter, but les dames, (the ladies) the cows, as they are called, like the sweet alpine grass and the cool mountain streams so this is where we get fondu (bread dipped in melted cheese) and a delicious dish known as raclette. Raclette is cheese melted in a small open oven in the middle of the table, and then scraped onto a plate full of potatoes, thinly sliced meat, onions and pickles. Well really you could have half a sock on your plate if you wanted, and once you put that melted cheese over it, you’d probably like it just as well. Although neither one of these plates are particularly light, they are good when it is negative 10 outside and there isn’t much to do but try and stay warm.
In the West there are delicious wines in Burgundy area, Seafood galore in the south, sauerkraut and sausage in Strasbourg near Germany, and as for me…well I got to try the specialty of the my region last night at a local restaurant.
Here in the region of Tarn the specialty is fois gras, which is goose liver, as well as a main dish called Cassoulet.
The next entry will be about my experience tasting these treats, but while we are on the subject of regional food.
My father is a gardner, by hobby, not profession, but he darn well should be. I have never in my life tasted a better tomato than the ones from dad’s garden. Not even a heirloom tomato sold in Bellingham for $6 a pound at the farmer’s market compares to the taste and texture my dad produced in his tomatoes this year. Organic has nothing on these fruits. Blood meal is about the harshest thing he puts down for them, that and a truckload of carefully chosen ripe manure from the local stalls.
So the challenge to myself is to get out to the public library here and learn all I can about growing stuff. Who knows, when my folks retire, and if this takes off, maybe dad will be the community farmer. Or maybe I will learn enough to take care of my household and maybe create a local delicacy of my own?
So since Frenchies didn’t go many places, and had to make a living with what they had, they started taking those things that grew well in their area and making France the culinary mecca it is. For instance, in the north of France, cows liked the open areas and helped to make some of the best Brie and Camembert in the world, if not the only. Apples also grew surprisingly well in the climate and tended to like the rain and wind and soil, much like in Washington. They take these apples and make the best lightly fermented cider you have tasted, and for those, like me, who like it a little stronger, there is Calvados. Beautiful amber color, sweeter than most like it, but strong and delicious. And with the French when two things are good, sugar and cream, meat and cheese, butter and chocolate, why not mix them? You got it, mix whatever parts cider and Calvados in a tall glass and you have a Pommeau [ pronounced pom-o, French for apple is pomme]. Usually served before dinner, or as a sedative if drank alone.
Near Chamonix up in the mountains it is cold and a little tough in the winter, but les dames, (the ladies) the cows, as they are called, like the sweet alpine grass and the cool mountain streams so this is where we get fondu (bread dipped in melted cheese) and a delicious dish known as raclette. Raclette is cheese melted in a small open oven in the middle of the table, and then scraped onto a plate full of potatoes, thinly sliced meat, onions and pickles. Well really you could have half a sock on your plate if you wanted, and once you put that melted cheese over it, you’d probably like it just as well. Although neither one of these plates are particularly light, they are good when it is negative 10 outside and there isn’t much to do but try and stay warm.
In the West there are delicious wines in Burgundy area, Seafood galore in the south, sauerkraut and sausage in Strasbourg near Germany, and as for me…well I got to try the specialty of the my region last night at a local restaurant.
Here in the region of Tarn the specialty is fois gras, which is goose liver, as well as a main dish called Cassoulet.
The next entry will be about my experience tasting these treats, but while we are on the subject of regional food.
My father is a gardner, by hobby, not profession, but he darn well should be. I have never in my life tasted a better tomato than the ones from dad’s garden. Not even a heirloom tomato sold in Bellingham for $6 a pound at the farmer’s market compares to the taste and texture my dad produced in his tomatoes this year. Organic has nothing on these fruits. Blood meal is about the harshest thing he puts down for them, that and a truckload of carefully chosen ripe manure from the local stalls.
So the challenge to myself is to get out to the public library here and learn all I can about growing stuff. Who knows, when my folks retire, and if this takes off, maybe dad will be the community farmer. Or maybe I will learn enough to take care of my household and maybe create a local delicacy of my own?
The Meal
A friend, David, from the climbing club picked me up with his girlfriend, Cecil, at about three in the afternoon because he wanted to take me to this place and treat me to a real Cassoulet. I talked about this with them last night, but in America if I were to take you out to dinner, I would pick you up, we would go straight to the restaurant, eat, then leave and I would take you home. That is the short, of it, but that is usually how it goes. Here, no no no no. That doesn’t work. We walked around Castres, my city, for a little while, bought some good beers for the before dinner snack, he choose a Belgiun, I chose one from Corsica. We got a little fois gras, went to get some bread in Mazamet, then up in the hills to walk a little in a midevial town called Hautpoul. Braving the wind and cold we made our way down to a wooden toy shop, then hiked back up to the warmth of the car. It was really enjoyable. He is a sweet guy. Loves to climb, lives in a cool little house with his girlfriend, and their cat. Anyway, while his girlfriend went out to get groceries because they didn’t want to do it on Sunday, we sat and chatted and he showed me all his favorite books, and favorite comic book artists, the chair he was going to buy for his birthday to start what would be his library, and talked climbing. I will say, I have noticed that French as a whole read much more than Americans. Just a side note. Once his girlfriend returned we sat down with our beers and fois gras, pate, and bread and had a delicious pre dinner meal. We were all super hungry, and had to stop ourselves from eating to much. Off to the restaurant!
It is this little place outside of town where you have to make a reservation before coming, but it isn’t all that expensive and the food is about as authentic as you will find. The two servers rush around putting things on the open grill, taking orders, busing tables, and laying down plates of traditional French fare. For us, there was no choice, Cassoulet. It is made with white beans, duck legs, a few different kinds of sausage from the region and some pork for flavor. Heavy, yes, but not as heavy as you are thinking. The trick is the beans. Just to cook them you have to make a stock out of all kinds of vegetables and pork bones, which in itself is a delicious soup. And the trick is you can’t over cook them. There is a fine line, and these beans cannot fall apart and become a puree when you serve them. I tend to do this when I make black beans, but I like the texture better a little more mushy. In any case, when this maneuver is done, you layer some pork, cooked beans, sausages, beans, sausage, beans, then the duck legs, and more beans. Cover it all with the stock from the beans, and it goes into the oven for another hour or so. It simmers until the top beans just start to turn brown. You have a little bit of crust on top that is super flavorful plus all these fun treats inside that have been baked in the broth. Fatty duck, sausage, pork. Fat city right? Nope. I don’t know how they pulled it off, but there was NO floating oil or anything in the sauce, it really did seem light. You better believe all the sauce that was left on the plate gets wiped up quickly with the table bread. Mmmmmmm.
Interestingly enough, Cecil’s dad is a winemaker in the south, but Cecil doesn’t like alcohol at all. I am the American of the group and David, tries, but admittedly, he is no wine expert. So David asks our server for a wine that would go well with the cassoulet, half bottle of course. The woman brings us the bottle and opens it so that it can breath. This was the first time in my life that I tasted a wine, didn’t like it all that much, but the taste totally changed with the meal. It complemented the beans and the duck meat perfectly.
We sat for another forty-five minutes digesting, while the servers were rushing about. We talked about life in France, and some of the differences for me I have noticed. I tried to tell stories about being in Bellingham and Nashville and the organic movement there. Family, friends, telling funny stories isn’t all that easy in another language I have found. I have been trying to make soup lately, it has been going well, but Cecil is apparently an expert so she was giving me tips, but it all stopped when dessert came.
Think of the richest plain yogurt you can think of, solid, almost like ricotta cheese, but light and in about a six ounce container. It comes raw, no pasteurizing or anything from a little village about seven miles away. You empty it out onto your tiny plate and then with the little dish of honey they have brought you, drizzle ever so lightly, or generously, as you want and then be carried away into dairy heaven for the next ten bites. It was heavenly. When we finally pushed back from the table it was ten thirty, a slow two hour dinner is always healthy.
Upon returning to my apartment, I went straight to bed, got up this morning and without even the slightest need to eat set out for a long, long walk along the river under gray skies, and glowing trees of tangerine, yellow, and deep blood red all around. Back to the apartment to make some more soup.
It is this little place outside of town where you have to make a reservation before coming, but it isn’t all that expensive and the food is about as authentic as you will find. The two servers rush around putting things on the open grill, taking orders, busing tables, and laying down plates of traditional French fare. For us, there was no choice, Cassoulet. It is made with white beans, duck legs, a few different kinds of sausage from the region and some pork for flavor. Heavy, yes, but not as heavy as you are thinking. The trick is the beans. Just to cook them you have to make a stock out of all kinds of vegetables and pork bones, which in itself is a delicious soup. And the trick is you can’t over cook them. There is a fine line, and these beans cannot fall apart and become a puree when you serve them. I tend to do this when I make black beans, but I like the texture better a little more mushy. In any case, when this maneuver is done, you layer some pork, cooked beans, sausages, beans, sausage, beans, then the duck legs, and more beans. Cover it all with the stock from the beans, and it goes into the oven for another hour or so. It simmers until the top beans just start to turn brown. You have a little bit of crust on top that is super flavorful plus all these fun treats inside that have been baked in the broth. Fatty duck, sausage, pork. Fat city right? Nope. I don’t know how they pulled it off, but there was NO floating oil or anything in the sauce, it really did seem light. You better believe all the sauce that was left on the plate gets wiped up quickly with the table bread. Mmmmmmm.
Interestingly enough, Cecil’s dad is a winemaker in the south, but Cecil doesn’t like alcohol at all. I am the American of the group and David, tries, but admittedly, he is no wine expert. So David asks our server for a wine that would go well with the cassoulet, half bottle of course. The woman brings us the bottle and opens it so that it can breath. This was the first time in my life that I tasted a wine, didn’t like it all that much, but the taste totally changed with the meal. It complemented the beans and the duck meat perfectly.
We sat for another forty-five minutes digesting, while the servers were rushing about. We talked about life in France, and some of the differences for me I have noticed. I tried to tell stories about being in Bellingham and Nashville and the organic movement there. Family, friends, telling funny stories isn’t all that easy in another language I have found. I have been trying to make soup lately, it has been going well, but Cecil is apparently an expert so she was giving me tips, but it all stopped when dessert came.
Think of the richest plain yogurt you can think of, solid, almost like ricotta cheese, but light and in about a six ounce container. It comes raw, no pasteurizing or anything from a little village about seven miles away. You empty it out onto your tiny plate and then with the little dish of honey they have brought you, drizzle ever so lightly, or generously, as you want and then be carried away into dairy heaven for the next ten bites. It was heavenly. When we finally pushed back from the table it was ten thirty, a slow two hour dinner is always healthy.
Upon returning to my apartment, I went straight to bed, got up this morning and without even the slightest need to eat set out for a long, long walk along the river under gray skies, and glowing trees of tangerine, yellow, and deep blood red all around. Back to the apartment to make some more soup.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Alps, days, and keys…
This is going to be a longer entry so grab your favorite hot beverage, sit down to laugh, cry and get a peek into the last two weeks of French life.
We are in the holiday’s of Toussaints, which is All Saints Day. High schoolers get almost two weeks off for this holiday to be with family and put flowers at graves of relatives. For me, it was a little sad when the bell rung on that last Friday. I missed a little more than I would like to admit being with my family and such, but the saving thought was the trip coming up with the climbing group from Mazamet.
Four days in the Alps. A place called Le Verdone. It is considered the Grand Canyon of France. It is a different sort of climbing, not like Indian Creek or anything, but it is calcite rock which is super sticky until you have a few years of grease and food scum on it, then it gets a little ‘skatey’ as they say here. And to get to the base of the cliffs you either have to go thirty minutes out of your way and walk another half hour to get to the base, or you rappel down as many pitches as you want to do and then climb up. First day was pretty easy for everyone, about 6 pitches and we got in before dark. I was super stoked to do this one climb called La Demande, a 13 pitch, 5c-6a (5.10-5.10c) route that was dubbed one of the most beautiful climbs in Europe. Had to be done.
Well this day, day two, we decided to rappel down, and after some route finding and all that climbing stuff, we got on the wall at 1:30. I was optimistic, my partner for the day Dave was as well, but I was going to have to lead all the pitches if we were going to be out by dark. So we headed out, but before we left they gave me a headlamp “just in case”. I reluctantly put it in my pack and started up the next pitch. It really was beautiful. There were some hard pitches in there, and it was marked in the guide book that it was bolted, but thirty feet between each bolt is a little sketchy at points. Pitch seven and we were more than half way there. David came up over the lip to the belay station, smiling as he does, and said, “Et alors?” (and so?) it means more than this usually and in this case it meant, “So what do you think, it is 4:30 we have about three more hours of climbing and about an hour and a half of sunlight, do we go for it or head back down?” He was tired I knew, I was to really. A little more mentally than physically, but what I am learning about climbing is that there is a goal that is to be reached, and it is good to go for that will all you have, but the fun is in the process, and you have to know when it is time to say done. I said done.
We were at the last rappel, pulling the rope throught, using headlamps that I was happy to have, and i was in the process of telling David to be careful because there was a knot in the end of the rope, and just as i said it, the rope came out of his hand and there it was, a knot at the end of the rope dangling in the void, 15 feet or so from us. At the end of thirty minutes it came back to David’s hand and we continued the decent. Once on the ground though, we had another 6 miles to walk. We started in the wrong direction. But in about the third mile in the right direction, and no one stopping to give us a ride, one of the guys from our group came to get us. We had a little run in with a wild boar as well, but only some snorting and russling in the bushes, enough to give me a little fright at least.
We thought that we were going to get it from the rest of the group, but come to find out that there was still another group on the wall and by this time it was close to ten in the evening. We helped fish the other two off the wall while huddling near each other and jumping around to fight the cold North wind that was coming down on us. We all made it back, no problem, but I was still aching for that send of La Demande.
It was just going to be two of us again the next morning. A younger climber Nico and myself. After waking early and getting all our stuff together we had upped out numbers to three because Jeremy, who is one of the stronger climbers there, 5.12d, decided to come along. It was a relief to have someone else take the lead every other pitch, because if not I would have been out of gas for the last pitches which were the hardest. At nine in the morning we set off from flat ground to spend the next seven hours jamming our fingers in cracks, stemming up slippery chimenies and looking behind us every little while at the floor that was getting further and further away. The leaves were changing and the temps were perfect, it was a great day to send a good route.
I found out I love chiminies. We had just punched through our first real chimney and Jeremy said how he didn’t really want to lead the next one, so I took the lead. I was on some bad holds, pulling a little to hard when my feet slipped and my right pointer finger caught onto a good corner...ooo that hurt. When I looked down blood was pouring out of a dime sized peeler in my finger and Jeremy in polite French told me that it was dripping on him. “Oh sorry” I said and taped it up as best I could after flinging some of the blood on the wall just for good measure. I finished out the last beautiful pitch and then it was an easy exit to the rest of our party waiting for us all to cheer us and congratualte us. Beer and conversation followed that evening, and all but I was to climb the next day.
But the story is not over. After 5 more hours in the car to get to Mazamet. I was in the car with a friend and his mom to give me a lift to my house when I thought I should get out my keys. Good idea, except that I couldn ‘t find them. I all but emptied my entire sack out in the back seat there to look for them, and I found nothing. Welp... what now. Luckily I live in a place where there is a common door and then seperate appartment, I knocked on the door and happily there was someone just in the hallway there. He let me in, told me it was stupid that I lost my key, as if i was happy about it, and proceeded to the back garden to see if I could get into my bathroom where I knew that the window was broken.
After a hop up onto an about-to-fall-shack, hold onto the side of the house and switch feet in a small vent hole I was just able to reach my window, climb in and go to the front door. GREAT! Not only do I have no keys, but the only way to lock and unlock my door is with a key. Downclimb to my stuff, link up all the quickdraws I had and haul all my stuff up one bag at a time. After two bags, I had to climb down once more to call Laura an hour later than scheduled. Upon the return I only wanted a shower and a bed, I turned on the water and there was only cold. Well, no shower. To bed. I still didn’t get my key, which was in the car i drove to Verdone in, until a day later, and there were plentyt more stories of being locked out of the outer door for hours, pleading with the neighbor to let me in later, and then finally getting my key at seven in the morning the next day.
Well as for adventures and stories, I hope that there are more to share with you, I know that there will be.
Cheers
We are in the holiday’s of Toussaints, which is All Saints Day. High schoolers get almost two weeks off for this holiday to be with family and put flowers at graves of relatives. For me, it was a little sad when the bell rung on that last Friday. I missed a little more than I would like to admit being with my family and such, but the saving thought was the trip coming up with the climbing group from Mazamet.
Four days in the Alps. A place called Le Verdone. It is considered the Grand Canyon of France. It is a different sort of climbing, not like Indian Creek or anything, but it is calcite rock which is super sticky until you have a few years of grease and food scum on it, then it gets a little ‘skatey’ as they say here. And to get to the base of the cliffs you either have to go thirty minutes out of your way and walk another half hour to get to the base, or you rappel down as many pitches as you want to do and then climb up. First day was pretty easy for everyone, about 6 pitches and we got in before dark. I was super stoked to do this one climb called La Demande, a 13 pitch, 5c-6a (5.10-5.10c) route that was dubbed one of the most beautiful climbs in Europe. Had to be done.
Well this day, day two, we decided to rappel down, and after some route finding and all that climbing stuff, we got on the wall at 1:30. I was optimistic, my partner for the day Dave was as well, but I was going to have to lead all the pitches if we were going to be out by dark. So we headed out, but before we left they gave me a headlamp “just in case”. I reluctantly put it in my pack and started up the next pitch. It really was beautiful. There were some hard pitches in there, and it was marked in the guide book that it was bolted, but thirty feet between each bolt is a little sketchy at points. Pitch seven and we were more than half way there. David came up over the lip to the belay station, smiling as he does, and said, “Et alors?” (and so?) it means more than this usually and in this case it meant, “So what do you think, it is 4:30 we have about three more hours of climbing and about an hour and a half of sunlight, do we go for it or head back down?” He was tired I knew, I was to really. A little more mentally than physically, but what I am learning about climbing is that there is a goal that is to be reached, and it is good to go for that will all you have, but the fun is in the process, and you have to know when it is time to say done. I said done.
We were at the last rappel, pulling the rope throught, using headlamps that I was happy to have, and i was in the process of telling David to be careful because there was a knot in the end of the rope, and just as i said it, the rope came out of his hand and there it was, a knot at the end of the rope dangling in the void, 15 feet or so from us. At the end of thirty minutes it came back to David’s hand and we continued the decent. Once on the ground though, we had another 6 miles to walk. We started in the wrong direction. But in about the third mile in the right direction, and no one stopping to give us a ride, one of the guys from our group came to get us. We had a little run in with a wild boar as well, but only some snorting and russling in the bushes, enough to give me a little fright at least.
We thought that we were going to get it from the rest of the group, but come to find out that there was still another group on the wall and by this time it was close to ten in the evening. We helped fish the other two off the wall while huddling near each other and jumping around to fight the cold North wind that was coming down on us. We all made it back, no problem, but I was still aching for that send of La Demande.
It was just going to be two of us again the next morning. A younger climber Nico and myself. After waking early and getting all our stuff together we had upped out numbers to three because Jeremy, who is one of the stronger climbers there, 5.12d, decided to come along. It was a relief to have someone else take the lead every other pitch, because if not I would have been out of gas for the last pitches which were the hardest. At nine in the morning we set off from flat ground to spend the next seven hours jamming our fingers in cracks, stemming up slippery chimenies and looking behind us every little while at the floor that was getting further and further away. The leaves were changing and the temps were perfect, it was a great day to send a good route.
I found out I love chiminies. We had just punched through our first real chimney and Jeremy said how he didn’t really want to lead the next one, so I took the lead. I was on some bad holds, pulling a little to hard when my feet slipped and my right pointer finger caught onto a good corner...ooo that hurt. When I looked down blood was pouring out of a dime sized peeler in my finger and Jeremy in polite French told me that it was dripping on him. “Oh sorry” I said and taped it up as best I could after flinging some of the blood on the wall just for good measure. I finished out the last beautiful pitch and then it was an easy exit to the rest of our party waiting for us all to cheer us and congratualte us. Beer and conversation followed that evening, and all but I was to climb the next day.
But the story is not over. After 5 more hours in the car to get to Mazamet. I was in the car with a friend and his mom to give me a lift to my house when I thought I should get out my keys. Good idea, except that I couldn ‘t find them. I all but emptied my entire sack out in the back seat there to look for them, and I found nothing. Welp... what now. Luckily I live in a place where there is a common door and then seperate appartment, I knocked on the door and happily there was someone just in the hallway there. He let me in, told me it was stupid that I lost my key, as if i was happy about it, and proceeded to the back garden to see if I could get into my bathroom where I knew that the window was broken.
After a hop up onto an about-to-fall-shack, hold onto the side of the house and switch feet in a small vent hole I was just able to reach my window, climb in and go to the front door. GREAT! Not only do I have no keys, but the only way to lock and unlock my door is with a key. Downclimb to my stuff, link up all the quickdraws I had and haul all my stuff up one bag at a time. After two bags, I had to climb down once more to call Laura an hour later than scheduled. Upon the return I only wanted a shower and a bed, I turned on the water and there was only cold. Well, no shower. To bed. I still didn’t get my key, which was in the car i drove to Verdone in, until a day later, and there were plentyt more stories of being locked out of the outer door for hours, pleading with the neighbor to let me in later, and then finally getting my key at seven in the morning the next day.
Well as for adventures and stories, I hope that there are more to share with you, I know that there will be.
Cheers
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