Baignoires: les re-rencontres du troisième ti-type.

On ne sait plus qui disait (parait que c'était Futuna, mais si quelqu'un de plus illustre, respectable et respecté l'avait dit aussi, ça aurait donné un peu plus de poids à cette assomption: un prétentieux syllogisme de la mer Thume, un bon vieux Dirty Harry ou un Sir Edmund Hillary estampillé sans assistance respiratoire, en auraient jeté un peu plus, c'est sûr...), qui disait, donc: qu'à l'instar des corps célestes - qui flottent et filent dans le vide inter-galactique, séparés de plus en plus et toujours plus par l'expansion constante et vertigineuse de l'univers -, des amis qui ne se seraient pas engagés dans un processus actif, mutuel et réciproque de rapprochement, tendraient inéluctablement à s'éloigner les uns des autres?

collision entre deux corps célestes ayant su contrecarrer les effets 

délétères de l'expansion universelle sur l'amitié (image d'archives).

N'y voyez pourtant aucun fatalisme, c'est une application peu directe et pseudo-rigoureuse des lois de la physique, façon vulgarisation à la grande soupe quantique post-moderne: l'idée d'expansion implique que du vide se glisse entre les corps célestes* et entre les âmes terrestres*, respectivement. La distance relative entre eux augmente donc inexorablement et cette augmentation elle-même est en perpétuelle accélération. Bon, voilà, c'est comme ça: pas un drame non plus. Faut l'accepter, comme on accepte tant d'autres choses, et le prendre en compte au moment de cultiver des relations personnelles qui respirent la santé - comme mes dents!

Du coup, forts de cette petite révélation mystico-schtroumpf pleine de vrais morceaux de sagesse bon marché, on a déserté nos pénates ariégeoises par un beau weekend d'Avril, pour mettre le cap sur la voisine ensoleillée outre-pyrénéenne: celle dont l'étendard rougeoie à tout propos et à peu près partout le long de la route qui poudroie. Avant de partir, on avait évidemment déposé au pied de l'autel de K. - notre dieu lare à nous (eh non, Oliver N-o, ta statuette n'est pas notre seule idole domestique) - quelques croquettes et un bol d'eau fraîche propitiatoires, puis tiré notre révérence à nos retraités de voisins, pour ne pas qu'ils s'inquiètent de notre absence. L'objectif était ambitieux: rallier le joli bourg de Baignoires, célèbre pour son llac et son mon-monstre, pour y retrouver non seulement S.B. Powers, notre cyclotouriste sinophone et néanmoins préférée, mais aussi le Willy Fog qu'on ne présente plus et une surprise de taille en la personne de C.S.C aka thank you for the fish. À vrai dire, la surprise de taille était plutôt POUR la C.S.C qui ne savait pas, en pénétrant chez la S.B. Powers, qu'elle tomberait sur le Fog. Ni sur les nous: ding dong! Hola! Mais? Oooh! Ô, la joie des retrouvailles, ô l'émotion des câlins, bises, larmes et rires, ô les trucs chaleureux qu'on se dit et la mesure du temps qui passe. Et puis un peu de ô, voici des feuilles qui ne battent que pour vous, et nos cœurs en brochette sur une branche de fruitiers en fleurs...

entre une carcasse de mégot et un papier de bonbon

se balance au gré du vent un drapeau catalan...**

Ça faisait, vous l'aurez compris, beaucoup trop longtemps qu'on ne voyait ni la une, ni le autre, ni la troisième. Mais ça faisait aussi beaucoup trop longtemps qu'on vivait et divaguait aux confins des deux Catalognes sans être jamais passés par la case Baignoires, pourtant célèbre dans toute la casa nostra et au-delà. Aaah, Baignoires! Julien Lepers aurait dit: "Je connais bien Baignoires: il y a une place... devant l'hôtel de ville... avec au coin... un bar... c'est le café... le café... du commerce? Oui!" Anyway. Orgueil du Pla de l'Estany et cœur du cœur des comarques gironines, elle est surtout réputée pour la qualité de son eau, pour son lac, ses fontaines et ses canaux: certains l'appellent l'Amsterdam ou la Venise catalane et l'on raconte que quelque peintre flamand venait y prendre ses quartiers d'hiver et y exposer ses croûtes (de sources fantaisistes et troubles). Il paraît que son club de foot, l'Atlètic Club Baignoires, fut fondé en 1913 et que son monastère bénédictin fut le premier de Catalogne, ce qui semble incompatible avec l'aura de mystère, de légende millénaire et la date supposée de fondation de celui de Montserrat - mais nous laisserons ces querelles de clocher à ceux qu'elles intéressent (saviez-vous, d'ailleurs, que Notre Dame du Sabart, en haute vallée de l'Ariège, est une vierge noire elle aussi ; apparue toute seule dans la montagne elle aussi ; et qui, conduite à dos d'homme dans la vallée, y serait retournée obstinément jusqu'à ce qu'une chapelle lui soit édifiée in situ elle aussi? Coincidence? I don't think so...).

la vue du balcon: les toits environnants à l’œil nu ; au zoom optique x6 ; à la lentille subtile et digitale instagramorrhoïde.

Ceci étant, Baignoires est ef-fec-ti-ve-ment un adorable petit bourg aux relents médiévaux, dont le noyau historique qui a d'ailleurs germé aux fils des eaux vers les périphéries, semble n'avoir été construit que pour servir d'écrin au confortable et lumineux appartement de notre chère S. B. Powers: hauts plafonds et pigeons, chambres avec vue sur vieilles pierres, meubles récup' et boutiques rustiques façon bio, canapé king size et autres cloîtres à cyprès... En résumé: de la musique pour les yeux, les oreilles, les nez et les bouches!

la arbre de le genre Prunus tout embaumé de par avec les fleurs dessus lui.

Tant que le soleil a brillé, nous le lui avons bien rendu: arpentant les ruelles étroites comme des Mérinos du 8 mai dans un village provençal aux tons ocre (les chapelets de crottes en moins, cependant), battant le pavé médiéval (dans la plus pure tradition des demi-noix de coco) et descendant le courant: depuis les nombreuses berges (pas mornes pour un sou, soit dit en passant), il est vrai. On a poussé jusque-z-aux bords du lac - si bleu, si calme - et pas que la chansonnette. On a poussé le bouchon un peu trop loin et on n'a pas pu le récupérer. On a poussé le volet, à regarder le ciel disant: la journée sera belle si l'on en juge par cette aube. On a vu d'authentiques spécimens de canard colvert Anas plathyrynchos par-dessus le toit, dont l'un berçait sa patte palmée. Un soir t'en souvient-il? on voguions en silence, d'ailleurs. On a dit "Ô taon surprend ton veau! Éboueurs trop pissent, sucent pas de votre gourde: les seins nus - tabourets et rapines - dévissent dès plus tôt de nos jours... Comprenne qui doit, puisqu'il est bien connu après tout que le baigneur vient en aide à qui selle fait tôt. Ou était-ce: à qui selfie tout? Bref. On a rejoint les berges du lac, on a pris la chose avec philosophie et une méthodologie irréprochable (la même qu'avait utilisé l'autre dans le labyrinthe de l'ami notoire - celui qui tirait les ficelles en répétant à qui voulait l'entendre: Ariane sert de courir, il faut faire l'appoint! - c'est dire si on le tenait, le bon bout.

la cabane de bain au bord du lac: les herbes folles au bord du lac ; le canard luisant au bord du lac.

On a donc choisi une berge que l'on a longée avec soin et ténacité, et aussi avec un ciel si bleu qu'on aurait mangé dessus par terre sans se laver les mains. Heureusement qu'on avait à boire et pas les yeux dans les poches, parce qu'on a vu depuis les miradors, des vues qui se miraient dehors et un bébé serpent qui a bien failli nous mordre la poussière de sur les Birkenstok.

le serpent Dave, du jardin dédain: là, l'était tombé dans les pommes...

Et avec le temps, va, tout s'en va la cruche à l'eau qu'à la fin on crevait la dalle! On a finalement vérifié que la berge qu'on avait choisie était la bonne puisqu'elle nous avait ramené de l'autre côté, c'est à dire celui dont on était parti et qu'on n'avait jamais vraiment quitté depuis, grâce à la tactique du mur gauche du labyrinthe... Le lac de Baignoires est définitivement une curiosité de la nature, un trompe-l’œil baroccoco-modern kuntz avec de vrais morceaux d'Escher en forme de ruban de Möbius couché sur le bord de l'eau, qui aurait avalé le chapeau d'un éléphant de Dali.

À partir de là, tout est allé très vite: on a eu juste le temps de finir de jouer notre petit tour et paf! pile comme dans une synchronie (pastorale) ou un con (ça erre trop!) en sol (-eillé) majeur, on est tombés sur des amies de la S.B. Powers qui passaient par là, mais en suivant l'autre berge. Plusieurs coïncidences fortuites ont voulu que nos chemins se croisent sur la tranche du ruban de Möbius, aux environs du Tennis Club...

le lac version herbes folles ; le lac version la cabane du pêcheur ; le lac version born on the bayou...

Elles nous ont proposé (les amies, pas les coïncidences fortuites) d'aller s'en jeter une ou deux derrière la cravate (des bières, pas des coïncidences fortuites) - sans faux-cols et sur pilotis - au bar-guitoune à son pépère, dont la terrasse panachée de locaux comme de touristes, se déploie audacieusement sur un ponton branlant dont les fondements (d'où "pilotis") fouillent la vase comme autant de becs d'autant de canards sans faux-cols (verts).
On a chanté les vermuts et siphon font font, les patates marionnettes et autres quelques olives. Ils sont tous passés comme une lettre aux apôtres - manquaient que les raisins corinthiens , tiens! -, la conversation a rompu des bâtons de chaise et le temps a passé comme ça, attablés, comme dans un sommeil que charmait ton image (hein?).

un look tout en basiques rétro: le lac porte une cabane/cabine vintage, des herbes folles à franges et trois canards Hermès.

Puis à un moment, on a même carrément commencé à rêver le bonheur - ardent mira-a-a-a-age - de pâte à pizza maison et d'ingrédients frais de l'hort. Certains ont prononcé le mot bledes et on s'est levés en silence comme au début d'un clip de hip-hop. Les chaines en or en moins, quand même. Soudain, il a fait nuit. Ou pas tout à fait, mais presque. Disons qu'au niveau du ressenti du point de vue de la lumière du soleil et en terme de retour d'expérience sur le plan thermique, en tout cas (hein?). On a vite remis le cap sur l'appart où nous attendaient nues (!!): splendeurs inconnues et lueurs divines entrevues. Le four vite allumé, on a mis des fûts en perce et sorti les jeux de vilains:

il ne faut pas confondre: joueur de katana à colon irritable et joueur irritable aux colons de Catane!

Et s'il se peut qu'au gré des vents pointe l'orage, si nos chemins s'avouent soudain qu'ils tournent en rond sans lendemain (même Kahban y est passé: personne n'aura été épargné cette fois-ci! Arnaud si tu nous lis, on t'avais promis et dédié cette chanson y'a longtemps déjà...), on saura bien etc. Mais non, l'orage n'a pas pointé, les chemins ne se sont rien avoué du tout et puis le seul truc qui s'est avoué quelque chose c'est ce matin là qui a reconnu que c'était un dimanche et que voilà, gars, j'crois qu'on a fait l'tour: va falloir penser au r'tour.

ça parle tout seul et ça se passe de commentaires.

Donc là, on est allés tous ensemble jusque-z-al hort urbà où ce qu'à côté duquel, justement et comme de bien entendu par hasard, on avait garé notre fidèle destrier! On a parlé choux et aromatiques ; on a taillé le bout de gras ; on a tapoté le grillage aux poules pour leur faire un peu lever le cloaque de leurs œufs tièdes et nacrés de fiente bio ; on a ri au soleil en se disant qu'il faudrait un peu de pluie, quand même, pour les salades. Et finalement, on a sauté en croupe de notre vaillant 2c15 et on s'est mis en route au petit trot tandis que le comité des fêtes local nous présentait une nouvelle chorégraphie éphémère dont il a, définitivement, le secret. En résumé: l'amitié au soleil c'est bien, l'amitié au bord de l'eau, c'est mieux et quand les canards s'en mêlent, ça nous fait des vacances. À bon entendeur, santé!

Voilà. On, on dit ça, on dit rien. Et joyeuses non-Pâques à tous et à toutes.

___________________________

* À propos des corps célestes et des âmes terrestres... Sous les jupons de certaines phrases toutes faites, s'il prend la peine de s'y arrêter et qu'il n'est pas capitaine: il peut trouver de bien jolis paradoxes et peut se les garder (dans un coin de la tête, en jurant ses zunpeutars que l'on ne l'y reprendra plus)...

** Reprenons les bonnes habitudes: une carte postale exclusive au premier qui nous donnera quelques-uns des noms de chanteurs (à textes!) ou de pouètes (envers ou endroit) à qui l'on doit ce classique des années 80 et ces pièces de musée éparpillées à l'entour!

in the sun and on the rocks...

...to celebrate the centième Un(t)raveling!*

the sign that said it all: both where you are and where you're headed.

On that sunny Saturday morning, after an early walk to the market to buy the legendary fougasse fraîche from le baker man with a moustache (not the Georges Brassens, hein: another man with a moustache, also very famous and admirable in the commitment to his own fine art/craft), we met dear J. shortly before eleven, as she parked her car in the garden devant la cuisine. We checked our gear and chatted a little bit before getting in the c15 with votre serviteur in the back, among the bags and ropes, ballotté dans les curves like a poor boarder collie... Awoooof! Enfin, about 3 miles later, we parked at the end of the chemin de derrière le chateau, in picturesque Contrac, took the stuff and started the pleasant half-an-hour approach to the foot of the route. Although we are aware of our issues with digression, we believe it would be convenient to squeeze in here a short anecdote about the rare privilege we had then: to witness a unicorn mare grazing in the sun with her unicorn fowl. Both were proud, strong yet elegant members of the local breed of unicorn called the brune des montagnes ariégeoise à corne bleue. A surprisingly good picture was shot and we are happy to humbly contribute through these columns to the progress of mythozoology. Or was it zoomythology?

the Roche ronde in all its splendeur ; the close encounter of the troisième type ; the steep approach to the pied de voie.

For obvious reasons - which would be ridiculous to reveal here, though we'll sure enough do it anyway through an opportune rhetoric figure such as la prétérition -, we had agreed to go and climb Pénélope. This short multipitch named after Ulysses' wife offers about 110 m and four pitches of very easy (V, V+), homogeneous climbing on generally good rock, with  nice views all the way up to the small but impressive summit (the Roche ronde herself) with a 360º panorama from the top. It seems unnecessary to highlight here that Pénélope became famous by waiting for her sailor man Ulysses who went to war and came back by the chemin des écoliers or maybe doing l'école buissonnière, as you prefer... While she waited for him, Pénélope had to stand in the middle of a truly odious tempête politique and keep sitting at her loom at the same time - which is quite un morceau de bravoure, if you think about it: to keep standing while remaining seated.

the ground from the first belay ; the iris overlooking the vallée de la Courbière ; the promising second pitch ahead.

Pénélope then went viral among Ithaca's main social networks when she committed to weave a seemingly endless shroud during many days and over 1001 nights (this last bit of data may not be absolutely accurate: Wikipedia could ask for some references here). Once you know all this, you quite easily can figure out by yourselves how the absence of the sailor man out a sea, the rock face of the Roche ronde hoisted to the wind and the curly metaphor of climbing ropes threading themselves along the pitches under a sun presque méditerranéen... how all these - well - convinced us to pick this particular climbing on that particular day with that particular friend (see that prétérition thing? told ya!)... Anyway, there we got, after thirty minutes of steep hiking and perfect warming-up: the pied de voie, flat and comfortable between the bushes of boxwood and the jeunes chênes encore tendres et souples, like in a novel by Jean Giono. We started sometime close to 12:30 and cruised along the first three pitches of nice and fine V. The Futuna took the lead, then the J. and the Wallis climbed second in la foulée.

the comfy-ish second belay ; the promising third pitch ahead ; the beautiful view of the Loulou de Poméranie high in the sky!

No big surprise here, even though the rock regularly appeared to be less compact than expected, requiring a bit more time and prudence before grabbing, pulling or stepping up. All this "knock-knock! who's that?" game around each single dubious flake or chunk along the way didn't seem to disturb the lizards catching tan, but it sure made our progression slower. And talking about tan: due to the above-mentioned slow progression, our shoulders, elbows, noses and all other pieces of skin exposed to the sun got burnt in quite a guiri-gamba-sangria fashion. The soleil brille, the imprudence brûle! said an old Fwench ad. We reached the third belay before 14:00. The place was extremely comfortable, with a fantastic view, a lovely petit tapis de gazon to nurture the bare feet and some bushes to hide behind.

Wallis out of the third pitch, just on time for the photo shoot ; blue steel Futuna ; the well-deserved picnic on the way down.

Almost too good to be true, we paused and enjoyed the power of now**! Took the time to drink and take pictures before attacking the most-expected piece of meat: the short and final fourth pitch with its mighty overhanging V+ crux! Oooooh! It was even less than it sounds, just an awkward, counter-intuitive left hand hold with the correct (excellent) foot, and one could reach a beautiful right hand before pulling one's ass - and crawling one's way - up the hump to a welcoming slab, then onto a short petit dièdre. One would then suddenly be landing on a grassy slope ten meters below the summit and picture oneself as a groundhog taking a nap entre les rhodos en fleurs...

the West panorama from the summit of la Roche ronde, with the col de Port and the picturesque Saurat dans le fond.

Oh, the places you'll go! Oh, the lovely trail back home! Oh, the nice view from below the shade of the pines! and, of course: Ooooh, the rôti de porc tranché and the Saint-Nectaire fermier in the fougasse fraîche from the market, soft and farinée with the petit goût de four à bois! Carrying a bottle or flask of red wine on multipitch climbs is something we've been willing to do for a long time and we'd like to solemnly swear here that we shall eventually implement it someday! Time: now; place: here; signed: us.

sweet J. mastering the final crux of pitch four: with quite some style and few doubts!

Et voilà. The way back and down was easy and chatty, the drive back and down home, short. We recommend Pénélope to all enthusiast climbers who do not look down (nor get bored) on low grades, even though the plethora of routes in the area doesn't make this one a major local climb. An important point, though, is the possibility to walk back down to the sector in about fifteen minutes, instead of engaging in a long and pointless abseiling down; especially if you consider the presence of loose rock and fragile flakes that wouldn't need more than that to set free from material attachment and try to levitate like enlightened yogis...

the valley de la Courbière, feat. Rabat-les-trois-seigneurs and Surba.

This route is still a good option if you've climbed most "equivalent" Calamès' routes (Pilier des Cathares, Rio, Rioby and such...) or need an introduction to multipitch climbing with easy grades, generous equipment and low engagement. If you're looking for a good warm-up before going to Sinsat or the Dent d'Orlu, consider climbing Zigzag (90m, 6b) and the other few around, just further right: you'll appreciate (need?) an appetizer a bit more vertical, physical and technical, with no long run-outs yet but with more air between bolt and bolt. Avis à la copulation (90m, 6b), at Calamès, is just superb and rewarding!

Finally, we also warmly recommend Pénélope - of course - à tous les Ulysses de banlieue, to whom we wholeheartedly wish to enjoy this spécial' cace-dédi´!

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* it's almost unbelievable, but it's true: without much noise, with a spoonful of sticking-to-it-like-two-modafackaz and a good dose of everyday life, we just completed Un(t)raveling's 100th blog post, about two weeks before Un(t)raveling's two-and-a-half un-birthday... So let's face it: the end of 2015 and beginning of 2016 have been some sort of a blogging no man's land, but we promise (ooh, twice in the same post! risky risky...) to get our writing-shit together and settle back into a decent Un(t)raveling routine at once... You're warned, so stay tuned!


** my apologies to Eckhart Tolle, for I did it again: I re-re-mocked the Power of now. In my defense, at least this time I didn't made fun of the eagle's answer, high in the sky, to the "what time is it?" question... Ooops! See? It's just done that same thing as it did before! Wicked paralipsis trick!

Zen and the art of getting older in the CouchSurfing-Sphere

Act I: the yak, the tick and the climber

So, two months ago, this 20-year-old dude contacted us on Couchsurfing, asking for information about climbing in our area, "because he's planning a trip with his girlfriend in spring or summer to France and Spain and it would be cool to meet and we can host them and go climbing together and such!". We answered the day after, sending him links and beta (including the fantastic CAFMA webpage, the local online climbing Bible) about the main crags, the stuff to do and to see, our best locations and tips...

one of our latest all-times fav' local crags: the La roche ronde, in Contrac-upon-horses.

The average mail (let's face it: you see the kind of posts we write on this blog, you can imagine the length of an email of ours...) that took a good hour to write: what kind of rock, what kind of climbing, the weather, where to sleep, park and camp, how to make it to other must-climbs of the Pyrenees (Catalunya and Aragón) from here and “Blah blah blah, tell me more, tell more, like do you have a car? A-ha, a-ha, so on. Keep us posted, dude, we can help with logistics and if we're available when you’re around it'll be a pleasure to meet and such...” Two months passed: dude was silent as a trout. So the other day, as I checked our CS mailbox, I wrote to him this two-line message “How’s it going, bro? How’s the plan doing? Take care, etc”. In MY language - which less and less people seem to speak, I reckon - this is a coded message meaning: “Fuck you, man! You ask for info, I provide first class info, you ask for a couch and some climbing fellas, I say okay! Now what’s wrong with you? Is it so fucking hard to answer: “Thanks for your time, I’ll be checking that and I’ll write back soon!”, within -say- a week? Or am I too old-fashioned? Would have taken something like 43 seconds to write that. Well, I am - definitely - too old-fashioned. After sending my coded message, I went back to normal life and then again, it was Oh, so quiet.

the goats take you down to their place near the river ; the trees show you the way and the owls are not what they seem...

The whole thing became hilarious when the dude answered after two days. He wrote this (exact quote): “Hey. Sorry for late text back. I don't yet know what I am going to do. What kind of equipment you have that I could use together with you? :-)"

Excuse-me-I-beg-your-pardon-What-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-the-kindergarten-teachers-on-your-home-planet? Ok, let me get this clear: not only didn’t you answer nor said the magic word (the one with T, h, n, k and s), nor the other magic word (the one with P, l and s), not even one damn sentence in 2 months... But now, while you still don’t know what your plans are, you want to know what climbing gear WE have that you’ll have a chance to use when you’re around? What for? To save on checking-in your luggage? Or because your car is too small for a rope and 15 quickdraws? Or you’re planning a climbing trip but you don’t have your own gear yet? Don’t get me wrong here: we’re okay to share stuff, we’re happy to help and we’re willing to meet visitors and introduce them to our beloved, beautiful Ariège. But “bro”, in my opinion, you gotta serious issue with defining priorities when it comes to dealing with people you don’t know and you intend to get favors from... The climbing gear is not only a matter of sharing and being generous, it is also a pretty damn fucking bloody matter of SAFETY and it’s your life insurance when you’re climbing. How come the first thing you want to know about us is how much life-saving gear you can borrow from us?

the long way up to one of the best kept secret crags and the buccolique pure and fresh petite spring along the trail...

Picture the scene: “Maan, I wanna go fishing from your place. You gotta boat? Got fishing rods? Can I borrow your worms? You provide sandwiches for me lunch? What about your wife? Think she can row upstream?” So, I personally know I sure wouldn’t rely on an absolute stranger’s gear to lead climb a route. Plus, what's gonna happen after the dude stopped at our place? He is going climbing with somebody else’s gear in Rodellar? Then with another one’s in Montserrat? Terradets? Margalef? Couchsurfing: making the world a better place, one belay device at a time! Now, that’s a hell of a badass climbing trip: a promiscuous climbing-gear party! If we’re lucky, broda freeloady will do the same with our CS toothbrushes (the ones in the bathrooms, not the ones to cleans the holds)... Look, I know, I know! Been there before: when you depend on people’s generosity, things can get complicated, really. No need to send you (re)watch Dogville to make my point.

the yaks (dris) the butter allegedly came from (pic courtesy of us, 2007).

(like this time in Ladakh when a yak shepherd invited me and friend Ber' for tea and - great treasure, priceless treat! - put a little bit of rancid yak butter (actually, yak's cows are called dris) he kept on his heart in a tiny metal box under his shirt, right in our cups. The dense flavor of the extremely sour, (halfway-to-rotten) clotted yak cream haunted me for days. There’s still a hole in my stomach where it landed: some sort of a meteor crater-looking fibrous scar. I obviously tried hard not to let my whole body shout out loud "disgusting!” in silent non-verbal language, but I might have failed. And I probably offended a couple of other Ladakhi people later on when I politely refused their dri butter in tea...)

It's true: you can't always decide beforehand your degree of involvement in adventures whose level of unaddressed risk is higher than you generally would accept. I’ve done hitch-hiking every now and then. And some drivers who gave me a lift scared the crap out of me, true story! Like I thought I would never get off the car alive. And was lucky to, believe me... I’ve seen guys at the climbing gym or at a crag clipping all quickdraws backwards, abseiling down without a back-up friction hitch, not tying the handy fisherman at the other end of their rope and so on... I’ve even gently mounted an ATC onto the rope slack between a climber (on a overhang 10 meters high at that moment) and his dreadful belayer who used the grigri upside-down: would he have fallen, the slack and improper use of the grigri would have taken him to the ground at about 100% of probability. Ended up belaying the climber safely while he went all the way up to the anchor, then down to the ground in one piece, telling the belayer why they should always double check their safety settings before climbing and why they should consider taking a 2 hour climbing course...

hitch-hiking Quebec: I wouldn't give that Me a lift! (pic courtesy of us, 2010)

Either through CSing or just in real life, I’ve used some strangers’ microwaves or teapots that almost killed me. Needless to mention those bikes I borrowed which had no brakes at all (no Kim, as far as I remember, yours worked just fine and I never thought my life was in danger: thanks for that!)...

So yes, to get to the point quickly: I can take you to the crag in my car, fair enough. You can sleep on my couch, eat my food, use my wifi, use my bathroom and pat my cat: be my guest! You can use my tips and check my climbing books, you’re welcome! And of course, we can climb together and you can use my rope and draws, fellow climber! But:

Is that really the whole point of Couchsurfing?
Saving YOUR money at MY expenses?
Is that about YOU using others’ stuff like a hungry tick landing on a dog after too long a winter?
Is the concept of sharing THAT fucked already? Do you only care about how cheaper you trip is gonna be thanks to random strangers?

Sadly, this is only one of several similar CS experiences we’ve had in the past few years, with some equally young and cool, easy-going CSers whose mission is to “live life to the fullest, wooo!”. And it’s - somehow - disappointing. Yeah, I know what you must be thinking by now: I’m an old fart and I’m not as cool as I used to be. And obviously, this is not the community, nor human kind. It's two individuals and their circumstances. I know! Nevermind... I’ll be outline for a while now, on a long walk in the woods, mumbling the Dharma bums’ mantra again and again until my mind is at peace: “CouchSurfer #247, equally empty, equally lovable, equally a coming Buddha; CouchSurfer #248, equally empty, equally lovable, equally a coming Buddha; CouchSurfer #249, equally empty, equally lovable, equally a coming Buddha; CouchSurfer #250, equally empty, equally lovable, equally a coming Buddha”...

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Act II: the re-return (to sender)

The Roche ronde, with its je-ne-sais-quoi of Piccolo Dain...

After several readings of his message about not knowing what he'd do, not acknowledging anything he received and asking to borrow OUR gear, I tried to calm down. It generally takes nothing but time. I then answered, as politely and sincerely as I could, in order to transmit the general ideas expressed above: about answering, even with three words, about getting his shit together and knowing what he wanted instead of asking for things with no apparent consciousness of anything nor anyone but himself and such. All this, without any sarcasm, harsh judgement nor wtf? reaction, and concluding with an enthusiastic "and let us know when you got clearer plans as we'll be happy to meet and help anyway!". I may have dropped a little irony here and there, though. Interestingly enough, what the dude didn't bother doing in 2 months (answering a damn email!), took him less than 15 minutes this time:

"I feel quite bad that you think this way. But probably you're right.
You just took things so serious.

I don't know my plans yet.
I'd have contacted you in the future and told you how, when...

I just don't even know what to say now.
I'm sorry. I feel real bad. But yeah okay.

P.S: I'm not the person who feels awkward.
Probably we just look to things different."

Wallis om fire and on the tips of the feet!

So, yes, the conclusion is: he feels sorry BECAUSE I think this way. Not because he behaved like an a-hole! And I took things so serious. What does that even mean? That I should have assumed he was asking for tips just to make me waste my time? That he usually contacts random people on CS to ask for things, as a hobby? That I should have gone on being the enthusiastic idiot who accepts everything and is cool with anything, instead of being honest and putting a limit to his pointless asking? Well, dude here is just not acknowledging at all what is at stake: his asking and asking and asking for more instead of putting in even one single thing! No kind words, no interest whatsoever, no plans, no good vibe... Just asking for his damn vague interest. Then, finally, comes the hilarious PS: I'm not the person who feels awkward. (!!!!) Well, you definitely are the person who SHOULD feel awkward, sweet heart! Like the problem is mine? To conclude on a tolerant and empathetic note, he added we probably looked at things differently. Yeah, so you're also implying that I am being disrespectful of YOUR culture by asking for any basic sign of a little bit of education? Like I should have felt honored to even receive your email in the first place?

Progressively, I started to remember situations and understand how the same kind of subjective, selective perception of things, brought us to conflicts. I mean, I sure enough just re-invented warm water*, but I understood something. I'm sorry I made him feel bad and I reckon it was not a big deal for me, I just felt pissed and said it. But it's not gonna be a big deal for him either. He'll survive it, he'll live long and prosper. But what if we both learnt something? He decided to ignore giving me any news nor feedbacks about my first message, stuffed with positive feelings, enthusiasm, good will and a decent pile of tips and ideas... He chose not to acknowledge it for over 2 months. My second message, nevertheless, much shorter but expressing reproaches and sharing negative feelings, was read and answered to in about 10 minutes! How amazing is that?

steeper than it seems? yes, indeed...

The relative weight and consequent response we - unconsciously I hope and want to believe - decide to give to a negative stimulus, seem to be much heavier than that we tend to give to a positive one. Not as a rule, but probably at some moments or in some states of mood, of tiredness, of stress, while experiencing anger or frustration and such. So, that would be my own little re-invention of warm water over these last few days, and an exercise for next few weeks: to focus on reacting and giving feedback to more positive stimuli than negative ones. And definitely, yes: the dude and I sure enough look to things different. Maybe even, let's say it's cultural. Or maybe, possibly, he's 20 years old and I probably was somewhere close to being like that seventeen years ago (holy crap, seventeen years ago!). But it's not a tragic thing and it's certainly not "too serious": it's an opportunity for us to grow as we go through life! Meeting people who look to things different, hearing them and sharing points of view is a gift. I was not angry, I merely expressed myself and I'm happy I did: I learned something and he might have learned something too... I may have used "a-hole" at some point in this article, though. But I never said it to him and don't actually think he is. It was more of a comic resource than judgmental. I just believe he's young, not very aware of how his decisions and attitude impact others... Needless to say he never ever answered that last message I sent back, with an excerpt of my recent paper on "the selective response to negative stimuli, the mood-loop feedback and their consequences on social interactions in human societies at large: an introduction" (it's supposed to be a joke along the warm water thread, second-degree, ha ha! and "joke along the warn water" dangerously sounds like something Jimi sang. My dear Nico B., this one is for you!). And how we should all focus more on what's good than on what's bad, everyday of our lives, in order to eventually generate a better, healthier mental and emotional environment for all of us, fragile beings, to move around and strive into...

next time you fail to onsight a route, take the opportunity to witness how amazing the view is from just below the crux...

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* I'd be thankful if somebody could tell me the proper saying for that in English: a kind of self-derision when you suddenly realize something that has probably been around for ages but is an absolute revelation for you at that moment. Literally speaking: "a small step for man kind, a giant leap for me!". We also call that "to re-invent the wheel" and I could look for it myself, but it's more fun to have somebody telling it to me. And no, it's not laziness...