Art (and climbing, duh)

Barcelona presents many opportunities for the art connoisseur. I’m not an art connoisseur, but I’m getting there and I can fake it pretty well, which as far as I can tell is half the part. I had a rough upbringing with art, in the sense that before I was ten years old I had effectively learned to sleep standing up in art museums, in plastic chairs at Shakespeare plays, and even in the presence of loud opera. I was an art atheist, and my parents were bent on making me a believer. I didn’t realize it then, but they were playing the long game. At sixteen I wasn’t subjected to as many Shakespeare plays and, fortunately, opera had been dropped, but I wasn’t allowed to be as uncultured as I wanted. On my first trip to Spain I was instructed by my mother to go to the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao, “go or don’t come home!” she said. Kevin was in college, so this threat carried extra weight for me. Well we went to the museum, so as far I know she was being facetious. Things change. A week ago it was a rest day and I had nothing to do, so I went to an art museum, the National Museum of Catalan Art (MNAC). I can see it now: my parents are jumping out of their seats, hands in the air, cheering, “we did it! We did it!” I guess they won.

Actually I can’t give my parents all the credit. I took an Art and Artists class this last semester that took me through the last steps on the path my parents started long ago. My professor, Eduard, was passionate. So passionate that had he spoken english we would have all thought he was crazy. Somehow spanish made the enthusiastic gesticulations and extended closed-eye monologues seem normal. I think the best professors not only transmit information, but impart passion. Eduard was a great professor. Throughout the class I’ve come to appreciate Pablo Picasso, criticize Salvador Dalí, relate with Antoni Tápies, and love Joan Miró.

I bring this up because over the course of the two hours I spent at the MNAC I came to the conclusion that Gothic and Renaissance art totally sucks. I divide it into two categories (no, not “boring” and “less-boring”): (1) Jesus and, (2) what-happens-if-you-don’t-believe-in-Jesus. I guess it makes sense in an illiterate culture. If you can’t read the bible at least you can understand pictures.

Believe in this...

Or this’ll happen...

Centuries of the same art. I can’t help but imagine what a Gothic artist would say if he saw a Miró painting, “Gah! Why doesn’t he just paint Jesus already!” These days I think I could give a decent explanation of why Miró had some great art, and maybe I could explain to the gothic guy why his art was terrible. Here’s some Miró I like...

 self-portrait

nocturno

And a Tápies

In climbing news I went to Margalef this last weekend, and over the course of two days I managed to get some nice climbs and a minor rib injury. I was climbing an easy 11d when a foothold broke and sent the weight of my falling body into a ledge at nipple-height. Saturday I felt ok after the impact, Sunday I was sore, and the soreness got worse until this Thursday. Today I feel better, but today is also the first day I’ve taken pain killers so who knows. Anyway, I nearly sent a 13a second go, but fell at the last hard move. No big climbs this weekend. On Sunday I got on a 12d despite my aching ribs. I didn’t want to do the climb but I realized that it would be my last chance for a while so I reluctantly tied in. My head wasn’t in it, I was tired, my body hurt, my technique was terrible, but somehow I still got halfway up before falling. I deserved to fall a lot sooner. It was an incredible climb, I’m not bummed that I fell, but I am bummed that I didn’t have it in me that day to give it a real go. It was a beautiful route and I think it would have been a great fight had I been in better shape. Regardless, I got some great photos. As always it was a great weekend, and with my time in Barcelona coming to an end I’ve come to realize how incredibly fortunate I am to have a group of supportive friends with which to share the weekends. I have another weekend left and hopefully I will see all my friends in Rodellar this summer, but I’ll miss the community I’ve become a part of and I’ll look forward to re-joining in a year. Barcelona, hasta pronto.

Tres Ponts Takedown, Siurana Smackdown

March has been a busy month. Last weekend Equipo Caracoles checked out a new area called Tres Ponts, and most recently we spent a weekend at the infamous Siurana. Equipo Caracoles is the name we’ve given ourselves, it literally means Team Snails. Appropriate, considering our habit for leaving late and enjoying luxurious and lengthy breakfasts before finally going climbing. Luckily the climbing is Spain is pretty punishing, so despite our lazy pace we always come back having climbed enough.

Tres Ponts is a small crag near Andorra, and gets its name from the nearby three bridges crossing the Rio Segre. The rock itself is unique, more than anything because of the endless “cantos invertidos” or jug underclings. An undercling is just like any other hold except it’s upside down. To get an idea of the holds at Tres Ponts imagine grabbing the lip of a bucket, now turn the bucket upside down. A lot of the climbing revolved around reaching up high to an undercling, placing the feet as high as possible, reaching for another undercling, repeat, repeat, and repeat. It’s exhausting, especially considering the climbing is all overhanging. Another technicality is that since the holds are upside down it’s impossible to rest with a straight arm. If you want to rest your forearms you are forced to actively hold your upper body in a flexed position, usually a position resembling carrying furniture. Well it turns out I’m pretty good at the style because I had my best weekend of first go climbing to date! On Saturday I bagged the 35 meter Instint Salvatge 12c onsight after a long fight to the anchors. I think the route name accurately describes my state of being during the climb, pure savage instinct. For a long stretch of the climb I was fighting for every hold, no time to rest or to chalk, just movement. It was perfect. I’ll remember that one for a while.

Here are some shots of the only climb I fell on the whole weekend. Of course I don't have photos of the climbs I did...

Half of Equipo Caracoles: Me, Edu, Dimitry 

The evening brought the usual tonterías from Equipo Caracol. After finding out that we would have to wait another hour for dinner, we quickly rushed to the local sausage store where they serve free samples. Apparently the store is famous in Spain, and some top chefs special order the sausages for their restaurants. Being a starving climber made the samples even more delicious. That only killed half an hour, so we decided to go back to the restaurant and beg to be served a little early. A nice three course dinner and some local wine quickly sent us scurrying towards our sleeping bags.

We were back to Tres Ponts on Sunday with high spirits. After warming up on a tough 11d and one of the best 12a’s I have ever done, Dimitry and I decided to have a go at one of the area classics: Alt Urgell 12d. Dimitry went first, figuring out the powerful opening sequence, but a small error botched his onsight a few moves later. After getting to the top I lowered him down and prepared to give the route a good flash go. A flash is similar to an onsight in that it is a first try, but unlike an onsight a flash means the climber knows the moves of the climb. In this case since I had seen Dimitry climb the opening moves and I had asked him about the moves above, so I knew what to do and what to expect. I managed to link the small edges and technical climbing through the first few bolts. Despite nearly falling on some easier climbing, I finished off all 35 meters and clip the chains without falling, my first 12d flash.

Tres Ponts

The school week between climbing adventures was much worse than normal and hopefully the worst week of the year. Several long days and one long night were spent writing a final essay for my Greek Art class. I don’t get any credit for the class, but for some reason I still put a lot of effort into the essay.

Next up was the infamous Siurana. I should say famous, but after my last experience getting terrified twenty feet above a bolt unable to move Siurana permanently earned the “in-“ prefix. Saturday somewhat mirrored my first experience, but was a bit less terrifying. In terms of performance it was definitely the worst day of climbing I’ve had in a long time. I only onsighted two 11c’s and an 11d, falling on both 12a’s and a 12b. To put this into perspective I haven’t fallen on a 12a or 12b in a several months, and in this case I was actually unable to do the crux moves on one of the 12a’s and the 12b. The style of climbing of Siurana is the opposite of what I am good at: small edges, vertical climbing, and very technical. The good thing is that it exposed a weakness, and I can clearly see what I need to do to improve. Sunday I got on a couple climbs that were a little more suitable for my style and I had a great day. A couple easy onsights were followed by getting spanked on an 11d. I finished off the day with my best 12c onsight and a nice 12a onsight. The 12c “El prado del rey” was probably the most difficult onsight I have done to date. In seems silly to onsight a 12c but fail on an 11d. I guess it all comes down to the style of the climb. The 12c was much more physical and based on endurance while the 11d was more technical. Overall the weekend was great, and I hope I can come back to Siurana to continue improving and to keep on learning. 

CIEE Blog March

CIEE blog for March, based on my Alquezar trip.

Hacia Tierra Salvaje

It seems a lot of students have similar travel plans: Amsterdam, Berlin, Lisbon, Marrakech, Paris, and the Alps. The Alps are sort of the odd one in the group in that they present a higher risk of getting frostbite or buried in the bottom of an alpine crevasse. However, it seems that after several weeks near the ocean some students need a change of scenery and jet towards the most well known mountains of the continent. Not that I recommend against the Alps, in fact I have some great memories of steep skiing, shivering bivouacs, and acute altitude sickness, but despite the loss of brain cells incurred by those activities I can still reason that a lot of people might not be looking for such adventures. Maybe there is an alternative...

According to a recent and reliable 30 second Google search Spain is the second most mountainous country in Europe (after Switzerland). Sure there are the nearby “mountains” like Montjuic and Tibidabo, and the slightly farther Montserrat, but my six month long hands-on research has also shown that within a two hour drive in any direction (except east) one is sure to come across some sort of interesting mountainous terrain. For rock climbing and hiking the terrain is endless, and a trip to any Barcelona mountain store is sure to inspire a trek into the wild. For skiing the Pyrenees are the under-appreciated mountain range to the north offering excellent skiing at better prices and less-likely-to-cause-frostbite temperatures. Several companies offer round trip deals from Barcelona to the Pyrenees making transportation a breeze.

In order to take full advantage of the nearby terrain I recommend checking out some of the local clubs and organizations. It turns out that the Club Alpí Català, founded in 1876, is the oldest in Spain and one of the oldest in Europe. More importantly these days the club offers an endless variety of weekend adventures, some for complete beginners and some for seasoned outdoorsmen. Nearly every weekend in the appropriate seasons there are trips going hiking, cycling, nordic and alpine skiing, rock climbing, mountaineering, ski mountaineering, and canyoning (and I guarantee you’ll have a better time than the guy in 127 Hours). The truth is that Cataluña offers countless daylong and weekend adventures and can keep the avid outdoor enthusiast occupied for a lifetime. If you’re not interested in an adventure, the mountains of Spain offer casual and relaxing days in the sun too, even in the middle of winter. So, at the very least think twice about booking that flight to the Alps, a trip to the local mountains might be more rewarding and even a bit more relaxing.

CIEE Blog February

Here is the February post I wrote for the CIEE (my study abroad program blog), which I submitted on "February 29th"

Flip-flops in February

Apparently there are seven cardinal sins, I wouldn’t know what they are because I’m not religious nor enough of a Brad Pitt fan to have seen Seven. Regardless, I can guess what would make the list. However, in Barcelona there seems to be an eighth: wearing flip-flops in winter (I’ll wager it didn’t make the first seven). When described in magazines, newspapers, and travel guides Barcelona is usually preceded by adjectives like young, stylish, diverse, and open-minded. No doubt, Barcelona has an exciting flavor and all of those adjectives apply, but flip-flops seem to be the point where style and open-mindedness collide. Style comes out on top, but at least the collision provides some great entertainment.

On the first day of orientation, a short six months ago, our group of salmon-polo, khaki shorts, flip-flops wearing students received a short presentation about how to blend in, and clearly we needed it. We were recommended to look around and see how Spanish students dressed, and it was noted that in general Spanish students tend to dress up a bit more for school. While walking around Universitat Pompeu Fabra it’s easy to see what is fashionable these days. Despite numerous students bringing brightly colored “Spain clothing” the trend is definitely in the darker colors, particularly shades of grey and black. Up top Spain has some very distinct hairstyles. Generally guys sport shorter hair and use a good amount of gel, and for the ladies bangs abound. However, the most noteworthy hairstyle is undoubtedly the dreaded mullet. A dreaded mullet? Think military cut up front, Lil Wayne in the back. Actually it’s not really fair to generalize the dreaded mullet, after all within the genre there are several sub-styles. Always business up front, but the party in the back varies. Some go for a single long dread, some for a few long dreads, some keep their dreads short, resembling tarantula legs, and, in the most extreme cases, some ornament their single dread with jewelry, key chains, and other jingly-janglies. Looking down you’ll find clogs, sneakers, slippers, heels, and boots. All of these fall within the realm of being stylish. No flip-flops.

During the fall semester, when hot temperatures made between-class beach stops a necessity, flip-flops were tolerated. Wintertime is a different story and, despite the incredible weather, it’s clear that my California born philosophy of “sun’s-out-toes-out” is not shared in Barcelona. So, around late October when the beach visits stopped, I started with the grey sneakers and brought out my darker jeans. Being blonde and pale skinned makes looking like a local a near-impossibility, but I made an effort to adopt the style. However, despite my best efforts, sometimes wearing flip-flops cannot be avoided. In my case, wearing flip-flops usually results from the combination of general laziness and nice weather. Lately there has been an abundance of the latter, and honestly there is never a shortage of the former (which explains why you’re reading a February blog post in March). Luckily, in comparison to the US, Spain’s laundry machine rates are significantly higher, so I can claim that my lack of clean socks and apparent laziness toward simple chores is instead an example of my frugal nature. Regardless, I’ve been wearing flip-flops in February.

I got used to the strange looks after a couple days. A couple people shook their heads. Even the nice weather didn’t deter some people from asking, rhetorically, “aren’t you cold?” The standout moment came as I was walking from the metro to class at the Casa. A fellow pedestrian, himself rocking a dreaded mullet (a few long dreads, nearly hip-length, in case you were wondering), casually approached until he suddenly caught sight of my flip-flops and stopped dead in his tracks. He shot me a horrified look, threw his hands up, and yelled “estás loco?!?!” Despite the stinging irony of having my style be called crazy by guy with a dreaded mullet, I quickly responded “no estoy loco. soy loco!” Feeling witty thinking I had just said, “I’m not crazy today, I’m crazy all the time!” I later realized that instead I said something along the lines of “I’m not crazy, I’m actually mentally insane!” Joke’s on me I guess.

Nowadays I have clean socks so I’m back to wearing stylish grey sneakers. I figure I have two weeks before I’m back to flip-flops, and hopefully by then spring will be in.

Alquezar

The problem with working is that it can get it the way of doing something fun. The solution is holidays. Usually holidays are taken to celebrate a well-known historical day or a famous person, for example here in Cataluña September 11 commemorates the day Barcelona was sacked by French-Spanish forces (apparently there is no victory in Catalan history to celebrate). However, requiring an event or a person to take a holiday can lead to the problem of needing a holiday when no holidays are in sight. Thus, feeling desperate in the period between Christmas and Easter, Spain invented a holiday. I think the Spanish government forgot the second step of assigning some meaning to the holiday, but at least everyone got to enjoy a day off of work. So with three days free we decided to check out a new area: Alquezar.

Alquezar is an old town in the Pyrenees of Aragon, and it certainly holds the mysticism suggested by the name. Over the centuries the limestone stained Rio Vero has cut the mountains of the Sierra de Guara and formed a deep canyon surrounded by sheer walls. These days it is a paradise for hikers, canyoners, and climbers. While it was the climbing we came for, I think I enjoyed experiencing the landscape the most. It was like nothing I have seen, like the start of another world.

The climbing was excellent, and we spent two days climbing long routes on the right side of the castle and one day getting crushed on the caves to the left. I enjoyed getting some nice easier onsights and on Sunday pulled off a great onsight of Alquezar.com 12c. On Saturday I had a little bad luck when a foothold broke well after the crux on another 12c onsight, but no worries, onsighting Alquezar.com was enough. Usually when I show up at a cliff for the first time there are certain lines that immediately catch my eye, series of chalked holds that flow through improbable features or natural lines up the rock tend to be where I look. The better I get the more incredible lines open up to me, and this was definitely the case for Alquezar.com. The climb is actually two pitches, the first a long and vertical 11b, and the second an explosively overhanging 12c. In this case you don’t stop to belay, but instead keep climbing. Overall the climb was probably about 150 feet tall, with all of the hard moves in the top twenty feet. One move involved a dynamic leap from one two-finger pocket to another two-finger pocket, leaving me dangling by a total of four fingers and no feet! Usually I don’t think too much while I climb, but I did have a split second thought: “Aww man that was sick!” Not very eloquent, but it was best I could do in the moment. I struggled to clip the anchor, and it was a very rewarding onsight.

Alquezar is know for being a winter climbing spot because all of the walls face south and it gets a lot of heat. For the days we were there it was actually a little too hot, and so we ended up climbing some easier routes during the day and then getting on the harder stuff as the sun was setting. On Sunday, we found the middle of the day simply too hot to climb. I decided to venture down the canyon to check it out, and I ended up going for a swim.

When I rejoined the rest of the group it was still too hot to climb, and after my tale of a refreshing bath we all went down for a swim. Unfortunately my camera battery died filming my first trip down to the river, so I didn’t get any footage of our whole group swimming.

I think we caught the climbing on the end of the season, so I won’t be heading back to Alquezar in the near future. However, nearby Rodellar is just coming into season so I’m looking forward to getting back to the Pyrenees sometime soon.

For now I’m off to Montgrony!

February come and gone...

Well it’s been a little slow on the Blogging front, sorry. Study abroad has been a lot of study lately. Biggest of all was a 45 min presentation about representations of the myth of Achilles in art, in Spanish of course. I’ll try to catch up.

A few weeks ago I traveled the furthest from Barcelona that I have been since coming to Spain over five months ago. Madrid! Every semester the whole study abroad program goes on a trip, and so all fifty students jumped on an early morning train on Friday and left for a weekend in Madrid. I didn’t really know what to expect from Madrid apart from what I had read in Rick Steve’s Spain guide, which wasn’t much. Overall, I was really impressed with Madrid, and I had a great time. On Friday we spent some time walking around the city, checking out the palace, the plazas, and the other major sites. The evening was the highlight of the day though. First we went to a Mexican restaurant where, compared to the US, we paid twice as much for half the food. In Spain though, Mexican food is a novelty and middle eastern food is the cheap food. We wandered around Madrid for a while, enjoying the lively atmosphere of the late night, until we finally arrived at a salsa club for rumba night. Now, I’m not much of a salsa dancer and have no clue what rumba is, but I’m pretty damn good at making a fool of myself. Luckily in our group was Michelle, whose Latin-American heritage meant she knew every song playing and the proper dances to go with them. After getting rumba 101, I began with the fool making. By the end of the night I got a thumbs up from a Cuban guy, but I’m not sure if it was a “thanks for making the rest of us look good” thumbs up or a “awesome, you almost look like a beginner” thumbs up. Either way, it was a fun night. Saturday we went to Toledo for the day, where we essentially went on a three religions tour. We saw one Jewish temple that was an Islamic mosque for a while, one enormous cathedral, and another small church housing an incredible Greco painting. Sunday we were back in Madrid. Despite a night at the lively El Tigre bar, and some bar hopping in the gay neighborhood, I was ready early the next morning to do some art touring. I made sure to take full advantage of the free espresso in the breakfast lounge, probably putting the hotel out of business. We were off to the museum, and I was off to the Guernica. Wandering for a few minutes through a few Picassos and the war propaganda section, I attempted to make it look like I was there for something other than the Guernica. I gave up and bee-lined for it. It is stunning.

 the palace

 attempting artistic photography

 curved walls to support the weight of the adjacent plaza

 Toledo.

 another attempt at artistry. 

 Gazing at the Guernica

 The Guernica

Plaza-ing

On the climbing front I’ve been climbing a bunch at Margalef. In general I’ve been getting crushed, which can be hard to deal with but I can easily rationalize. At the moment, after going through a full six weeks of climbing outside and the going through three weeks of low-intensity, high-volume base training I have absolutely no power, but I can hang on for a while and my technique has never been better. Basically this has meant that I have been onsighting 12b like crazy, but have been getting shut down on most 12c’s and every 12d. 12b usually presents moves that are just below my power threshold, but if I push it to the threshold or a little higher then I’m off. There was one route a couple weeks ago that crushed me more than the rest, an incredible 12d on the Balcó de l’hermita in Margalef. Despite knowing that I should be logging a lot of 5.11 climbs as part of the base building period, I keep pushing myself onto harder stuff. I have never onsighted a 12d before, but for some reason I convinced myself that it was time to change that. While tying in I studied the series of small pockets that sparsely dotted the first fifteen feet. A quick knot check and belay check and I was off. Two finger pockets -just reaching the first joint on the fingers- were linked by long and precise stabs. The moves were difficult, but I did them perfectly, and with a little teeth gritting I found myself past the powerful start. A short shake out and I kept going, linking move after move of small pocket pulling. I clipped the last bolt, a few far pockets the only obstacles to my first 12d onsight, but a familiar cramping was working into my forearms. I was pumped. Fall now or fall later has become the negative phrase that has taken me to the top of my best climbs, and now it starts to creep into my head automatically when I start getting tired. Fall later, I thought, and threw for the next pocket, and the next, and the next. Hitting a large three finger pocket next to anchor told me the climb was over, my first 12d onsight, but that’s when tragedy struck. I reached to clip the anchor with my left hand, but the carabiner was stuck. After fumbling for several seconds I grabbed the anchor, my belayer thought I had clipped in took up some slack, and I was soon flying off the rock. And that was it, no 12d onsight. I hung in silence, crushed, knowing that I could have done nothing differently, but still being empty handed. It’s silly because I can easily justify onsighting the climb, but for some reason I can’t justify it for myself. Climbing is funny that way, it’s our personal standards that really matter. The climb haunted me for a while, but I think in the long run it was good for me. Instead of going home, eating a kebab and drinking beer, I ate a salad and planned my week’s training. Despite feeling crushed, the fact that I can almost onsight 12d when I’m not in best form is a good sign. Also, as much as I enjoy hitting a new grade, I climb because I like the challenge and having to fight my hardest. I had to dig deep to keep going. I’ll always remember the intensity of the last few moves, and the emotion of slowly falling away from the anchors. Cataluña has no shortage of 12d’s, so I’ll keep trying, and trying, until it happens.

Over the last several months I have been thinking about some possibilities for the future. I came here with the intention of experiencing Spain, becoming a stronger climber, and returning to US with future aspirations unchanged. However, the realization has recently sunk in that Spain will not be a one-year program, and that I will be back, perhaps for many more years. Being 22 means that many friends are facing college graduation with the threat of “real life” looming in the near future. Despite having another year in Boulder before my own graduation, after college options have been on my mind lately. I have been seriously considering the possibility of coming back to Spain for a masters or doctorate program, and at the moment the prospect of spending several more years out here is very exciting.

"I'm looking into graduate school out here," I told my friend Jan, the owner of Rockbusters who turned his Spain roadtrip into a career, over a beer recently.

"Pshhhh, you'll be back." He said. I'm not sure whether he was so certain of my ability to get into graduate school or my complete addiction to Spanish limestone. 

At the same time it is daunting to be taking steps toward a more definite future, but I suppose sooner or later every young adult faces the same challenge. Being called a “young adult” used to bug me. I think I wanted to be considered a real adult, and I must have secretly hoped that being called a grown man would help my chances of growing a real beard. Now, looking at my fuzzy stubble I think I can say young adult is probably the appropriate term. After all neither an adolescent nor a real adult would have a web browser with open tabs to “Political Science Postgraduate Programs” and “DOUBLE RAINBOW SONG!”

I'm off on a 3 day adventure to Alquezar this weekend. Somewhere new and exciting.

Trains and Witches

A couple weeks ago my friend Jeff flew in with the plan of spending a few months traveling and climbing around Europe. I was only taking one class at the time, and so the time was perfect for a couple long weekends of climbing. Being car-less we were confined to the routes of public transportation and the power of our feet. Luckily a few notable climbing spots are stops on the Tren dels Llacs (Train of the Lakes) which follows a series of lakes between Lleida and Pobla de Segur. The Tren dels Llacs is Spain’s answer to Switzerland’s Glacier Express. As we coasted along aqua lakes and tunneled through steep mountainsides, I was mesmerized with wide eyes and my nose pressed to the glass windows.

First up was Sant Llorenc de Montgai, probably best known as the new home of Chris Sharma, the world’s most recognized, and arguably best, rock climber. We showed up to a fog that would put even the pirates of the Caribbean to shame. We walked for about twenty minutes to our campsite only to find that despite the “open all year” slogan the campground was closed. The refuge in town was also closed, but we decided it would be best to climb first and troubleshoot later. Unfortunately the fog had made the rock pretty saturated, but it was a light week for me anyway so I was content to climb some easier routes. That evening we killed a lot of hours at the bar before clandestinely camping under a picnic shelter. It misted all night, and the next morning was even worse. Climbing would be impossible so we decided to head back to Barcelona and try out luck in another area. Unfortunately the next return train didn’t leave for another four hours, but more frequent trains left from a town about 8 km away. Time to hoof it! After a little more than an hour a fellow climber pulled over and drove us the remaining few kilometers.

After that trip we climbed for a day in Montserrat, spent a few days in Barcelona, and jumped back on the train for another weekend. We planned to go to Santa Linya, but that plan changed very quickly.

“You know there’s nothing there,” said the train employee as he checked our tickets.

“Well there’s some good climbing,” I responded.

“No, I mean the stop is in the middle of nowhere, 12 kilometers from town,” he said.

So, we upgraded our tickets for a couple more stops and decided to go to Terradets. I had actually wanted to go to Terradets in the first place as I had been told that one crag, Paret de les Bruixes (Witches Wall), was the best in Cataluña. We showed up at the refuge to find a sign “we’ll be back in a minute.” Apparently the owner’s watch must have been broken because that minute lasted three days (maybe longer). We had hoped to buy a fuel canister from the refuge, and so we ended up eating our dinners in the small restaurant a few minutes away. We camped out on an old train platform and walked to the climbing every day.

I’ve said this before, and I hope I say it again: best climbing of my life, period. Paret de Bruixes is tidal wave of immaculate limestone. Consistently 10-30 degrees overhanging, 30 meters tall, tufa curtains, flat edges, flowing movement, and uniquely continuous climbing. What makes the routes spectacular is that each move is as hard as the previous move, which means the climbing gets progressively more exciting. I like climbs that are mental, climbs that force me to hang on until the end, and every route I climbed at Paret de les Bruixes was an exercise in mental endurance. Also, for some reason, the specific rock formations have created the most incredible movement I have experienced outside. It involved lots of twisting, big moves to good holds, and generally intuitive climbing. It was a good weekend of onsight climbing for me. I onsighted a few 12a’s and 12b’s with surprising ease. Unfortunately I was also an idiot and blew both of my 12c onsights. On the first one I arrived at a tricky sequence, read the moves, and as I was going for it I decided to change my sequence. It didn’t work and I went flying. With the original sequence I easily climbed to the top. The next day’s 12c failure was even dumber. I started off the day with a short 11a, and I had hoped to get on one of the longer 12a’s to finish warming up. They were all occupied, so I figured I would just go for it. The sun had just hit the rock, and the rock was still very cold. After 20 feet I couldn’t feel my fingers, I managed a few more moves and then fell from good holds when my fingers simply opened. I spent several minutes wincing in pain as I re-warmed my fingers in my armpits. I then easily climbed to the top. I would have really liked to have succeeded on those two onsights because they were incredible routes. I learned my lessons the hard way.

 Nice view

Paret de les Bruixes

Rain in Cataluña kept me in Barcelona this last weekend, but I felt like I needed a weekend off anyway. I have managed to climb outside a ton over the last month. Between December 19^th and January 21^st I climbed 21 days outside. Over those 21 days I climbed my three hardest routes ever and tripled my hardest onsights. Now I’m happy to be starting a normal routine of school and weekend climbing. I’m setting new goals for my big climbing trip this summer, and more importantly I’m creating a path to realize those goals. Winter training 2011 has begun!

CIEE Blog

In addition to this blog over the next couple months I'll be writing some entries for the CIEE (my study abroad program) blog. They're directed at potential study abroad students. Here is my first little entry about climbing and Spain adventures:

Being a second semester student means that the first few weeks of this semester have been rather different than the first few weeks of last semester. No hours walking around lost. No more ordering “huevos”. No calling every single person “usted” trying to be respectful. No looking at a 3 oz cafe Americanos and wondering where I would find the remaining 29 oz for my daily fix (now I wonder in milliliters). Being a second semester student also means new students usually ask for some bit of advice, or at least for a bar recommendation. I can never remember bar names or where they’re located, so I opt for giving some advice. “Just do what you always do,” I say. Now that might sound like the worst advice ever, but bear with me. I’m not saying you should speak English and keep listening to that Rick Astley album on repeat. What I’m saying is that you should find a way to do what you love doing in Spain. Shoot hoops? Join a basketball team. Like doing good? Volunteer in Barcelona. As a rock climber I immediately joined a local climbing gym and have been fortunate to climb with a group of dedicated locals nearly every weekend. In addition to strengthening my fingers, weeknights in the gym gave me the chance to pick up the Spanish climbing lingo and learn how to properly swear when I fall. Weekends started at 9am in Plaza Espanya where a good friend would pick me up and together we would head off to one of the numerous world class climbing areas surrounding Barcelona. I originally hoped that climbing would give me the chance to improve my Spanish and my climbing skills, and it has, but I have come to realize that more importantly climbing has introduced me to incredible friends and has allowed me to experience Spain as few do.

9 am Plaza Espanya, and I’m still not sure where we’re going. Borja pulls up exactly ten minutes late, which is on time in Spain. I find out we’re off to Montgrony, a limestone cliff above Gombrén, about an hour and a half away. We chatted about climbing, Spain, the US, and anything else that came to mind. Somewhere along the way we stopped at a bakery to pick up some food for the weekend. Later on, Borja offered me some morcilla pizza, which looked like a dark sausage pizza. Not one to reject food, I took a bite and loved it. Borja then informed me that it was a traditional Spanish sausage made of pig’s blood, rice, and onion. Apparently it was good fuel too because I ended up climbing really well that day. That night introduced me to another local tradition: mushroom picking. Actually, I didn’t see the mushroom picking, but I did experience the pre-mushroom picking party. After climbing we went to a hermita, a small abandoned church, to cook dinner and camp. The local wine supplemented dinner, and finally with aching backs and stiff forearms we were off to sleep, or so we thought. That’s when the mushroom picking crew showed up.

Just after midnight I was getting into my sleeping bag, thinking about how happy I was to be sleeping inside instead of outside in the mist and rain. Two large thuds signaled the arrival of the mushroom pickers, one thud from the rack of beer for the adults and one thud from the rack of cola for the kids. Who knew that the tradition of mushroom picking begins with a family party until late the next morning? I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume it was a planned effort to sleep in until noon, the prime mushroom picking time. Here’s another fun fact I learned that weekend: the average Spanish picnic table, given several hours of rain, will leak onto the poor soul trying to sleep beneath it at a frequency similar to Wikipedia’s definition of Chinese water torture. Needless to say I didn’t sleep much that night, but how else can one discover the local passion for mushroom picking?

Oddly enough I enjoy those kinds of experiences, and they tend to be the memories that stand out. Several weeks later, while camping outside of Chulilla, a small town near Valencia, I had one of my shoes stolen by a dog in the night. Luckily the next morning a local man, after a hearty laugh at my predicament, invited me into his house and gave me a pair of his son’s shoes. Throughout my travels in Cataluña and Spain, I have always found myself surrounded by a group of kind locals. Unknowingly I have also had some of the best olive oil, almonds, and wine that Spain has to offer. I have experienced rugged and beautiful landscapes. But more that anything, I have been welcomed into a team of fanatical climbing friends. I have climbed a lot of incredible rock too, but I expected that. So like I said, just do what you always do, and the results will be anything but routine. 

Chulilla

After flying back from Sella, I took two days off before meeting up with my friend Victor and heading south once again. Before becoming a climbing fanatico Victor was a near professional soccer player and competitive arm wrestler. Yes, a competitive arm wrestler. This time the destination was Chulilla, a small mountain town just west of Valencia. Chulilla itself is incredibly charming. Perched between mountains and at the bend of a great canyon, Chulilla is small town Spain at its best. In the only store the owner proudly sells the local honey and welcomes climbers to enjoy his home. In the bakery the bread is baked fresh in an old wood burning oven, and the bakers themselves seem to glow with pride and fulfillment, particularly so when they threw in a free bizcocho (sweet bread) for us to try. In the evenings everyone meets in the square where the kids kick around a soccer ball and the parents share coffees and glasses of wine. When I tell someone that I am studying in Europe I am often asked where I have traveled. Feigning embarrassment I reply that the furthest I’ve gone is a couple hours from Barcelona, but the truth is that discovering a place like Chulilla is as much of an experience as flying abroad to a new country. I may not be writing new chapters in my travel log, but my Spain chapter is growing increasingly thick.

To be fair Victor and I did not come to Chulilla to eat bizcochos and sample honey, we came for the sweeping limestone walls that tower over the nearby river and stretch for kilometers in all directions. On a favorite climbing website that I frequent all too often Spain is described as having an unfair amount of perfect limestone and Chulilla alone verifies that statement. A recent article in Desnivel (the climbing magazine of Spain) has brought this world-class buried area into the spotlight, and it has quickly become the latest cool spot for climbers. I know it’s the latest cool spot because it was raining in the Basque Country. I never checked a weather report, but I know it was raining in the Basque Country because climbers can be like drug addicts and seemingly all the Basque climbers had made the several hour drive to Chulilla to escape the rain and get their limestone fix. The Basque entourage even included Spanish stars Iker and Eneko Pou who recently climbed all four of the hardest big wall routes in the Alps. So what could possible be this good? 30-40 meter routes climbing vertical and overhanging limestone, thought provoking movement on continuously difficult rock, perfectly sculpted tufas and edges, sun and shade aspects which could both be climbed in the always perfect weather, and hundreds of routes throughout the immense and beautiful canyon. Also the area was stacked with fantastic 5.12s, which meant it would be a great place to do a lot of onsight climbing (trying to successfully climb a route first try). Previously my best onsight was a 5.12c and I had only done one. Over the course of the six climbing days I successfully onsighted three more 12c’s! Each one was unique in its own way. One was a rope-stretching climb of consistent difficulty up to a crux move at the top. One involved powerful moves lower down and sustained climbing to the anchors. The last was an easy climb to a very thin four-move crux. A big part of the difficulty is mental. Tying in for a 12c onsight attempt when I have only succeeded on one or two out of many was butterfly inducing. By the end of the trip, after succeeding on three out of six 12c onsights and both 12b onsights my mentality was completely different and my confidence was much higher. One of my short term goals to complete by April was to onsight 3 12c’s, and I’m really happy to have finished it one week later!

On most climbing trips rest days are a necessary evil. To climb hard routes the body needs to be rested, and after three days (with four left) a rest day was mandatory. The average rest day consists of a shower, a little extra coffee, maybe some reading, and -in the worst case scenario- school. This rest day started of the same, sort of. Victor’s van has a showerhead attachment, so we decided to use it. However, the showerhead feature does not come with an actual shower, so in the parking lot of Chulilla we took turns stripping down and taking quick, cold showers for all the locals to see. Next up was rest day entertainment, and instead of literature we drove to Valencia for a tour of the aquarium, an Imax movie, and a showing (dubbed in Spanish) of “The Tourist.” I used to hold the notion that Valencia was an industrial city lacking character and interesting sites. One day at the Oceanografico and the City of Arts and Sciences changed that completely. First of all the architecture of the place is astounding (dude I live in Barcelona, that’s saying something!), google it! The aquarium was the best I have ever seen, showcasing rare species like...

 Beluga Whales!

 Bob Esponja! Sponge Bob!

Even Rock Climbers

The rest day was great, and I’m really happy to have changed my opinion of Valencia. Make me wonder how many places I’m missing out on because of stupid assumptions.

The fifth day I awoke to a surprise: of the four stinky sneakers that we had left outside the van to air out, only three remained. I spent a while hobbling around on one shoe trying to find the missing shoe. One of the stray dogs must have snagged it as a prize. I asked fellow climbers and parking lot residents but without luck. I saw a man walking back to the group of houses behind the parking lot and figured I would ask him too.

“Hi, I left my shoes outside last night and I only woke up with one of them, have you seen a shoe around?” I asked in the “usted” form

After a good laugh he responded, “It’s ok come with me.”

A short walk later we arrived at his, Vicente’s, house and he walked me down to his garage. After ruffling through boxes and all the other crap that exists in garages (Spaniards have just as much crap in garages as Americans!) Vicente produced a pair of old indoor soccer shoes. I tried them on and found them to be too small, but realizing the gravity of my situation –no shoes, no walking to the climbing- I responded, “they’re perfect!” After a conversation I found out that the shoes belonged to their son who used them when he visited from university every now and then. Happily they offered me the shoes and shooed me off to go climb.

The next few days of climbing were great. I climbed “Los Franceses” 12c which was one of the best onsights I have every done. We enjoyed the long routes, and drove back to Barcelona content and very, very tired.

In the last week I’ve sampled some classes back at Universitat Pompeu Fabra. My friend and climbing buddy Jeff Mckinnon just flew in today and we’re off to Sant Llorenc de Montgai tomorrow for a long weekend of climbing. Who could have guessed?

El Oasis, lots of good rock 

 Chulilla

El Oceanográfico

Recap. Relax. Repack

Two weeks in Sella, living on the Wildside.

Wildside Sector: On the left are my Czech climbing partners Cuba "like country" and Jan

I spent the last couple weeks camping and climbing just outside of Sella, which is a small town in the mountains near Alicante, Spain. I climbed 10 out of 13 days, and every day went to the “Wildside” sector to climb steep, golden limestone. Life was a simple rhythm: wake up late, coffee and breakfast, climb several routes, return exhausted, cook, drink a beer or two, sleep for eleven hours or more, repeat. No technology, no showers, just climbing. In other words it was a relaxing vacation! I climbed with Jan, the owner of Rockbusters, Czech expat, and climbing bum as well as a host of locals. Armando, the forty-year-old climbing monk, lived on a diet of rice and “porros” (explained later) while he dedicated every bit of his being to the routes. Jimmy, despite the nickname, was Spanish to the core. He rocked the dreaded mullet and smoked profusely. The local teenagers shared the refuge in an attempt to get away from their parents. They climbed during the day, but most of their time was spent... well I’ll just say that thanks to them I expanded my Spanish vocabulary to include “porro” and “verde” (aka “spliff” and “joint” respectively). I was the first American one of them had ever met.

Christmas was good too, even though Santa was late, because the present was worth the tardiness. On December 26th after 7 tries over two days, I climbed “Mediterraneo” my first 8a (5.13b). In Europe the climbing grades are different and here 8a is the most coveted level and the benchmark grade for the big leagues. When I finally linked the climb from the ground to the anchors without falling it felt effortless. I knew the moves and executed them perfectly without hesitation, and seemingly without gravity. For the rest of the day I felt like I was floating, delirious, the moments of the climb etched into memory, relived over and over. It was a stark contrast to my pre-climb thoughts. Two days before I had fallen from the last move, my hand latched the final jug, but I watched, powerless, as my fingers slid open and I peeled away from the rock. I had been exhausted halfway up, I mentally gave up, my body surprised me and took me to the last move but no further. Back on the ground I knew I would succeed if I were fresh, so I took a rest day. On the day of the climb, I warmed up and gave Mediterraneo a try only to find I wasn’t really warmed up. I got pumped and fell from easier moves. Second try of the day I felt good, I made it to the final moves. This was it. 8a was mine. Cocky, I lunged for the final jug. I don’t know what happened, but next thing I was hanging from the rope swearing. The trip back to the ground seemed endless. I wasn’t tired but had failed. The next hour was agonizing, I was furious with myself. I vowed to give up climbing because I was worthless. I would fail and I knew it. I would go home empty handed. I wouldn’t accomplish anything. The weight was sickening. After belaying, and spending a few minutes alone in the sun warming up, I tied in. I had one, maybe two tries before I would be tired. Again and again I pictured myself falling from the final move. I couldn’t clear my head, so I started climbing. The first half is a 12b that I had wired, and I flowed through the moves mindlessly. I soon found myself at the final rest before the extended crux. I closed my eyes and just breathed. I smiled and something clicked. I saw myself catching the final jug. With a forceful exhale I pushed all thoughts from my head. Move by move, I stuck the crux, smoothly climbed the thin tufas, and caught the final jug. Everything changed when I clipped the anchors. It was without a doubt my proudest climb. I was happy, content, and had a laugh at the thoughts that had poisoned me before the climb.

The next morning however, as is always the case, I woke up hungry. I had tasted hard climbing and wanted more. I set my sights on “Ergometría” the most classic 8a of the sector. The climb is perfect. The hardest moves are just off the ground, but the remaining twenty meters of extremely steep stone will quickly send the indecisive climber to the ground. All the moves are difficult, but are separated by a few good kneebar rests. What’s a kneebar? Well you use your foot and knee to hold on. The following photo will explain.

After trying the route a few times and figuring out the moves I felt exhausted. I took a rest day, and came back to fire the route on my second try of the day (4^th total). Here are some photos.

Last few moves

I spent the last two days trying “Celia” another 8a that I had no expectation of finishing. On my second to last day I felt exhausted on every try, on my last day I felt even more exhausted. Somehow I still fell higher and higher with every try. As the sun was setting on my last day of the trip, New Year eve, I tied in for a final try. No saving energy, no holding back, one last try. I climbed through the lower section and rested. I launched into the crux and soon found my forearms exploding. I was staring at the final bolt, but was too pumped to pause and clip in. “It’s overhanging, I won’t hit anything” I quickly reasoned and kept climbing. A few moves later I stuck the final hold, and with a lot of rope between me and the last bolt, I pulled up slack to clip the anchors. Six days - my first 8a, second 8a, and third 8a. 365 days from 5.12b to 5.13b, not a bad finish to 2010.

Sella itself was quite an experience. A small town, it seems like a place locked in the past. A place where all faces are familiar. Where Bar Paco and Bar Casino each has dedicated patrons, between which mingling is prohibited. Every few nights we’d head into Bar Casino to try our luck at the fickle Wi-Fi, and while one of us would attempt to connect to the rest of the world the other would enjoy the people watching. A usual group of old men would show up every night for their beer or two, and their cigarettes - a pack or two. I went to the panaderia one evening hoping to find something sweet to celebrate my first 13b. I saw what appeared to be a delicious fruit filled pastry. I asked what it was and received the peculiar answer of “oil and salt.” I figured he must not have understood what I was referring to, and it looked good, so one slice of that please. Mouth watering for a bit of sweetness I immediately chomped down. My tongue quickly discovered my mistake. Instead of a sweet fruit pastry, I bit into what can only be described as a soft, giant, and even drier Saltine cracker. Drier than a Saltine, not possible you say? Well, I quickly coughed in up and ran back to the bar to get a sip of beer. Bienvenidos a España, I guess I’ll call it a cultural experience.

I’m back in Barcelona for a day. I’ve been productive. I woke up at eleven, drank coffee in bed for a couple hours while watching “Lethal Weapon” and I did some laundry. As much as I love being away from my computer, sometimes a soft bed, a warm coffee, and mindless entertainment are just what I want. Besides I’m about to be off for another week. My friend and regular climbing buddy Victor has this next week off and has invited me on a climbing trip! Obviously I’m going, so we’ll be camping in his van for another week of climbing. 2011 y más fanatico que nunca! Venga!