My Last Stand

So it ends with the Mediterranean Sea out my window on the right and empty countryside all around. Spain was and shall always be for me a place of ease and enjoyment. And why should there not be such a place? Why should there be such depravity in my own country and relative happiness in the rest of the world? Well I know the answer and the answer is in me, in fact it is me.

But there's no sense in speaking in abstract banalities, better to recount some details I’ve learned here in the present. For example, in the seat next to me on this Euromed Express from Valencia to Barcelona happens to be sitting a Spanish high school teacher, the first one I’ve met since I’ve been here. Not only that but she works with the inner city, 95% immigrant population of Barcelona. She’s young, inspired, and intelligent. A bit cynical, disillusioned after two years of course, but realistic and positive about her own future if not that of her students. What’s more is that I’m quite sure I’m sitting here not only because this is my assigned seat, but to learn something about the society in which I’ve indulged over the past month. An enormous tension around immigration and assimilation, domestic violence, and a poverty of education, these are the problems she speaks of directly to me. In her school Colombian teenagers are breeding a new culture of street violence, Chinese shop owners not allowing their children to assimilate, and there´s economic crisis for all but especially for the immigrant poor. It may sound familiar to those of us Americans accustomed to the challenges of cultural pluralism and economic opportunism, but one difference is that here in Spain public school teachers are highly valued for their competitiveness and competency. They’re not necessarily paid more than their American counterparts but valued enormously in terms of respect for the profession and higher expectations on the job. This is true of Europe in general where the education system continues to function effectively, to create a final product that is focused, specialized, and in service of the economy at large. Whereas in America, I’d say the functionality of our public school system is doubtful to say the least and the economy is most certainly in a state of serious disrepair.

But I’m tired of talking about disfunctionality in societies. I am tried of living in one based on entitlement. I am tired of cities of garbage, where quality of life is sacrificed to no end. I am tired of being progressive in a society that retards my progress. And finally I am tired of having leadership that doesn’t lead. Not to bring up the question of leadership, because it is secondary to the state of the population, but I have to ask are WE actually ready to fix OUR problems? And how will we even know what the solution looks like if all we see is crisis, namely the blinding snowball effect of the 40 years of mismanagement since Eisenhower. To put it simply, the partisan era will end or else. Fortunately the legacy of George W could very well be the dawn the post partisan era, the new functional politic, an apolitical government, desirable or not depending on how one defines or desires the future.

I have hope, vision, and a plan, but none of that matters. What matters is what you have. You as in we. Leadership is a two way street. We’ve reached the point of near oblivion, crowned by the ultimate obliviousness in leadership, the mentality of an adolescent at the helm of the universe. But why now at this point is it finally so glaringly apparent? It could only be the result of that which we’ve tolerated ourselves for just so long. And what happens if we continue to tolerate and accept it, that which undermines the inherent individual intelligence and intellect of each and every person to think and act, the culture of materialism and fear? What happens if we remain ignorant of the uneconomic nature of our economy and the impact of this impossible abstraction on the lives of five billion poor people in other countries? What happens if we continue to believe that we can shape the world through marketing schemes and militarism alone, the belief in infinite expansionism, growth and guns? Perhaps if we continue to puff up and look big just a little longer, maybe the terrorists won’t notice that our economy and as such our entire society have collapsed.

These questions are more rhetorical than realistic, but unfortunately it’s a day late and a dollar short to be asking questions for the sake of changing old habits. It´s time to start thinking for ourselves, individually and critically. The terrorists are on our side now, they´re shouting at us to wake up, that the war is over, and that we never had a chance of obtaining victory over evil. But we’re just starting to realize something much worse than simple defeat: it is that we no longer own the future -- literally, it’s held by the Chinese in the form of US government securities. This is not as miserable as it sounds for they still trust in the core of the American economy and have not chosen to cash in yet. But they will if enough of us do not stand up to reclaim our education, intellect, and the will to work. Realistically I don’t expect anything to be drastically different under President Obama or McCain. But what I do expect is what everyone expects, that somehow we´ll manage. The only question is how long will it take to come to terms with the fallibility that caused this mess in the first place. And will we finally get it right this time around? Anyone´s guess is as good as mine.

How brilliantly ironic! I sit typing in the living room of a sunny apartment in the heart of Barcelona, simultaneously watching the rooftops of my neighbors and listening to Barack Obama's speech about the change stirring in America. It is that I am both here and there, my mind firmly attached to home in the immediate and the big picture. The attachment to the immediate, as in Spain and my particular living situation in Barcelona, is not hard to understand.

To begin with, the temperament of this country and especially it's most lively city is exactly suited to my needs, or maybe it's the other way around. Regardless, it is to say that my overall comfort, ahhh simple pleasures of life, dare I say happiness of the past three days is off the charts. It's not that my time here has been wildly adventurous nor in any way dull. It's just an extraordinarily happy medium to which I have aspired for a very long time and have arrived at finally for this final month of my trip.

Of course I hesitate to predict the future, but that reluctance seems to be overcome by the fact that I am here, it is sunny every day, and that every person I meet is interesting, friendly, and able to communicate (I with them!). I am thinking about where to go next- most likely south to Valencia and then a bit further to my friend Liza's house on the coast- but there is no urgency in the planning. I have a full month to circumnavigate the peninsula, from Valencia to Gibraltar, Madrid to the Pyrenees, and Galicia back to the United States via some nearby airport. Plenty of time, no rush, and no agenda except that which happens to inspire. At this point in my 30th year after some rough and tumbling around the planet, I figure why not be a bit selfish. Let my whole skinny self hang loose, get fat, so to speak. Perhaps strut a little with an air of confidence like never before. I mean why the ---- not!?! It's a damn good way to be and I really can't figure out why it never occurred to me before. Not only is it good to enjoy life and one's own way in the world for selfish reasons, but I would also venture to say that it makes the whole world a better place for everyone. Well actually I am only making that statement in regards to me and how I feel at this particular moment. Unfortunately, that's probably also the same way that George Bush and serial killers justify their existences and pursuit of happiness... Needing to be free to be one's self... But ---- that, obviously I am talking about sane people with brain cells to spare. People who can afford and deserve to be their true self; easy going, honest, open, relaxed, highly impassioned when necessary, comfortable with the craziness, accepting, humble, and extremely grateful.

Which brings me to exactly why people like Barack Obama are so essentially appealing to their fellow human beings. The man exudes this poise of true self. He comes not from the most dire of circumstances, he has not personally experienced the abject poverty, extreme physical suffering or total despair that is characteristic of some of the world's poor. But through his own relatively unique, and not excessively easy background, the man has experienced life through the eyes of the world. It is primarily this empathy and deeply personal understanding of the globe, and secondarily his ability to connect with the American people that gives Barack his super cultivated equipoise. His is confident in both his own experience and the very nature of humanity. He is confident in the direction that he is taking as it is a real reflection and response to the world in which he has lived. From Kenyan birth to Indonesian primary schooling to Harvard Law, this could very well be the embodiment of the ideal, rounded, modern education. This as opposed to an over-privileged, under-able Yale frat boy who had never traveled let alone discussed the world outside of North America before taking the office of presidency of the United States. It really does seem then, that wow all signs do point to a very new and different era on the horizon for those of us who care to participate.

I am only writing this this morning because I can't help but relate right now, in my own strange way, from own unique vantage point, to this conceptual 'new' era. But of course, let me be the first to say it, and remember it again and again, that it is no more than that. Pure concept. These ideas we discuss, the grand speeches we hear, the words which inspire and make us applaud, this is no more than the initial guidance, the version 1.0 users' manual, hopefully providing useful points of reference for later refinement, and in the ideal a contract to which we can adhere later on. But of course the real groundwork for the project itself has yet to come. The moment the first stone is laid, seemingly opposing ideas will emerge rapidly, new so called pioneers will gain the reins, potentially the old concept will be discarded or forgotten, and eventually this movement toward a new era shall once again be converted by the societal pressures and physical constraints that never ceased to exist throughout the time of heady planning. But this common tendency, surely a reoccurring theme in my own life and perhaps a larger trend of humanity, is by the same token not inevitable. Of course there is proof: The world is built by the labor of those that were not perpetually constrained by conceptual tail chasing, nor status quo limitations. That is to say, those who have achieved success in creating, augmenting, and evolving this place have done so from a place of balance, combining both practical flexibility and unrelenting mindfulness and retention of the original concept. This original conceptual force, the all powerful seed ideas, the foundational thinking, the structure, the logical framework of a constructive movement, this obviously is not to be discarded with yesterday's rotten apples. Somehow it ought to be vigilantly kept at the forefront of everybody's mind throughout the long potentially arduous road to come.

Alas, any tourist who has been to Barcelona with the slightest coherence should know exactly what object is driving the analogy I am trying to construct. Ain't no two ways about it, the 120 plus-year ongoing construction of Gaudi's Sagrada Familia is by all means one of the most powerful reminders I have ever seen of the human ability to conjure up and sustain greatness in action. It is an Obra in the highest sense of the word, a work of art and a physical manifestation of ultra refined human ingenuity. The embodiment of universally applicable laws and geometric form. The very reason for its existence is conceptual; it is an offering to the world of something new, inherently valuable, and fundamentally needed. And the concept itself is highly structured, centered around a reproducible system of geometry and a specific ascetic. It is only nebulous and sentimental to the degree that one fails to notice the inherent framework linking and guiding all continued efforts to construct the whole system. As a result of the unrelenting reincorporation of this conceptual framework as well as the practical accomplishments of the epic-spanning stone and steel engineering, the church is more appealing and attractive today than ever before. For me it is a simple testament to the fact that for any revolutionary movement to sustain itself and fulfill its destiny to truly evolve the world in a permanent fashion, there needs to be a clear accord upheld absolutely amongst all of its members, workers, and supporters.

There is no denying that Gaudi's Sagrada Familia and Barack Obama's program for change both utilize universally compelling concepts. When in the presence of both, the reaction on people's faces is the proof in the pudding. With Gaudi's church, there is little controversy and great support for its continued conceptual preservation and physical construction. The underlying concept in this case, the multi-nodal capital pillars and overall geometric design, is in no danger of being compromised or subsumed by new leaders. However in the case of Barack's movement as it rapidly gains traction towards securing the presidency, it seems the potentials for backsliding or complete hypocrisy are dramatically much more apparent, to say the least. The movement is in its infancy, in fact yet to be born, but the conceptual strength of both the individual candidate and the candidacy's ideas are undeniable. So as such, all I'm saying is damn we'd be better take some leads from the few cutting edge projects out there that have managed to survive and avoid the crumpling effects of status quo tendencies. I for one need to do the same thing on a very personal level, because of course my new era is also in its infancy and god knows the last thing I want to do is look back on this time and say oh how naive and misled, if only I had known how to maintain and persevere.

With that in mind, I have to venture out immediately as the morning stretches into the middle of the day, voy por the city of Barcelona, to check the Contemporary Art Museum and its surroundings, and hopefully to return empty handed triumphantly once again, god willing so to speak.

Requiem for a T-Shirt

I must get this off my chest, as it has been already three days since a helicopter sucked my most valuable piece of clothing into oblivion. This is a requiem not for the death of the t-shirt itself (normal people know that inanimate objects can neither die nor live), though initially that was exactly how I thought about it. No, now I mourn memories not things.

See I have few possessions in this year, and those which I do hold onto in my ragged rucksack are innately valuable for many reasons and obviously quite useful for why else would they be in there if I were not using them regularly. I do not hoard souvenirs, collectibles, or trinkets. I limit my load to that which is absolutely essential, including tent, sleeping bag and pad, clothing, minimal toiletries, minimal gadgetries, and a few writing implements including this laptop upon which I now peck out my thoughts.

I guess I have to admit that normally I am quite materialistic and attached to possessions. Anyone who has seen me get violently upset when I’ve lost or misplaced something knows that I don’t tend to take THINGS lightly. At first what makes me angry is the loss of an object as a simple waste, such as yesterday when after nearly one year with the same pair of nice quality Julbo sunglasses, I was suddenly aware that those sunglasses with which I had been bicycling all day were no longer attached to my head. My only guess now is that they simply bounced off during a particularly rough descent and I was too engaged in braking to notice. Like the t-shirt, the sunglasses had sentimental value, not nearly as much, but they had also traveled with me across three continents, up many mountains, through deserts, rivers, and lakes. They were worn down in many places but for the most part completely unscathed after so much use. For me it is this embodied use, the love in the thing so to speak, that creates the value, much more so than the original price paid.

Speaking of lost objects, I have purposely cast off my mountaineering implements, left them in Chamonix with a crazy American climber woman from New Jersey to kindly import to her parents’ house in Millbrook, I think. The point is that I am now traveling light and fast. This European backpacking gig is as they say generally easy on the soul and obviously wretched on the wallet considering today’s American dollar. No screeching dissonance in the streets, the European citizenry appear to be very well fed, and the bottoms of my shoes are so clean I could eat off them if need be. What this means is that out here on the open road of Europe, with sleek white computer at my fingertips, it should be very easy to be tranquil and write my thoughts how I please.

There are other uplifting factors. One is the use of couchsurfing.com. For all who are unfamiliar with the website and/or the practice, suffice to say that it is working very effectively on a global scale to reduce and one day end the dependence on hostels and strange hotels. At the same time, it is allowing me to meet and chill with utterly amazing people from all over the world, stay at their homes, go out on their towns, and generally, gain perspectives that would otherwise be completely inaccessible to regular old tourists. It ain’t perfect, but it definitely should be acknowledged that without it, the world would be a much less evolved place. So yeah for modern evolutions, keep em coming!

Anyways, one last note on the t-shirt. I mentioned it was whisked away by a helicopter, but really I have no conclusive evidence to that end. Fact is the t-shirt was a gift from a friend in Ethiopia, it had no price, it was vibrantly yellow and had a funny, eye-catching design. It was indeed the only cotton t-shirt in my wardrobe. The last thing I did with it was place it neatly over the pillow of the bed I had reserved in the mountain hut of L’envers. For some strange reason though, the hut manager decided (so she says) to make my bed and hang the shirt on the open window. Other Czech guests sharing the same room confirmed that indeed it was hanging there in the morning. Alas, when I returned from climbing in the evening, it was certainly nowhere to be found and the only explanation I was given was that the re-supply helicopter had come in the afternoon and it is distinctly known for sucking away loose objects. So now they would have me believe the existence of my yellow t-shirt is no more; shredded and scattered upon those many mountain crags, stuck in the gullet of some greedy marmot, or perhaps being worn elegantly by an Alpine Ibex. Hopefully it is some combination of the three and not stuffed in another dark corner somewhere.

In honor of Ethiopia, the t-shirt, and the trip itself, I have placed a reminder of the coffee ceremony lady at the top of this entry. A reminder to remember! It is very important for me to remember. Not the t-shirt itself but to encapsulate ALL of the memories, all of the possessions and their connotations, all of the places I’ve been this year, and most importantly to be able to always reconnect and feel again the absolutely brilliant relationships with so many extraordinary human beings that I have met along the way. I cannot say this enough. That now in looking back on this year as it begins to wind up and gasp as I begin to think about returning HOME, there is one thing that keeps reappearing in my synapses and that is simply to REMEMBER. Memories are the thread that creates the Fabric. Mine are raw and intense right now, which is all the more reason to dwell on them. This clothing that I spin upon myself is a mysterious combination of sadness, pain, anger, and joy. It could only be called aliveness. It is a massive geography of the mind; people, places, and interactions; three continents, thirteen countries, a few lost possessions and countless gained. The pot has been set to simmer and I am sitting by to savor.

Oh the glamor of the Alps...

The Rising and Falling of Late

It’s raining this morning, now this afternoon. The whole of the valley is enveloped in a cool grey mist, which obscures the peaks and walls hovering above. I’ve spent the past 10 days or so here in Chamonix, alternatively climbing and thinking about climbing while waiting to climb. My head is generally screwed on tight. Climbing encourages my focus of mind. Even while it drizzles and drenches the walls of my mind’s eye, I wait relaxed and with a light heart.

The irony is that much has gone awry since I arrived. The truth however is that none of these mild mishaps have been within my sphere of control, nor really of my own initiation except perhaps in the broadest sense of karma and ultimate destiny. In a strange way, I have come to appreciate these twists of (ill) fate, the least concern of which is the sloppy weather of late. In order to better understand this nouvelle state of mind of mine, I should attempt to at least begin to recount the progression of events and the nature of the changes.

The drama begins with the failure of my climbing partner Steve, to well, climb. Before this week in the Alps, I had not actually climbed with Steve but for one day back home in the Shawangunks. Undoubtedly though, Steve is a climber (and a human being) of the highest caliber - extremely committed, knowledgeable, safe and strong on the sharp end of the rope. I first met him during my last day of Northeast climbing before I left for Africa last October. I was looking for a partner that fine Monday morning when I came across Steve sitting on a boulder aside the carriage road waiting for his climbing buddies to show up. Within minutes of talking, we realized uncannily that both of us would be in Ethiopia and perhaps Europe at the same times during the coming year. By the end of the afternoon, we had tentatively agreed to meet up in Addis Ababa for a meal and to discuss putting together climbing trips to Jordan in November and Chamonix in August.

Sure enough, I arrived in Addis Ababa in early November and made a beeline for the National History Museum where I found Steve and his boss in a ground floor office at around 4PM, working away diligently – both are archeologists with a specialization in stone tools – to identify and catalogue copious piles of Ethiopian made stone chips. Steve has the rare combination of being an extremely hard working, easy going yet focused, dynamically talkative and innately intelligent guy from Long Island. Being myself, of a similar inclination except from the Jersey side of the JAP belt, I felt particularly equipped to make these judgments and get psyched about organizing together for some far flung climbing trips.

Alas, when Steve informed me three weeks later that he would not after all be able to meet in Wadi Rum Jordan for a week of sandstone climbing in the desert, I thought little of it. I had no prior knowledge of Wadi Rum and therefore no major climbing expectations, so it made little difference to me whether Steve would show up with the climbing rack or not. In the end I decided to go regardless of lacking a partner and gear, and sure enough by the grace of the Hebrew god, I found myself climbing with an outstanding young Israeli who had all the gear and more local beta than perhaps anyone but the Bedouins themselves. But little did I know, the foreshadowing had begun. An outstanding week of climbing and desert solitaire produced by Steve’s lack of commitment and my desire to go forward regardless of the adversity. Indeed there is gold at the end of the rainbow, which is as it turns out a lesson not as easily applicable to women as to trips into the mountains.

The Chamonix plan was different though, mainly because Steve was already set to be in France for the summer working on a dig in the Southwest. In addition, he had extensive prior experience in this sector of the Alps, having spent a part of the past seven summers in the Chamonix Valley. For him it was essentially normal and seemingly natural to commit yet another chunk of his summer to climbing on and around the Mount Blanc Massif. For me however, it was the opportunity of a lifetime; a 20 day stint in the alpine climbing capital of the world with an experienced and somewhat stronger climber as a partner who could lead the stiffest pitches. There it was, too good to be true, unseen but so it went. In late June, we agreed the arrival date would be August 4th. On July 31st, Steve told me he wanted to push it back to August 5th which I was more than happy to do since it gave me additional time with Irene who was visiting in Switzerland that week. Then two days later on August 2nd , Steve informed me that the earliest train he could catch from the Southwest would have him arriving in Chamonix on the morning of the 6th. I was disappointed for a moment but still eager and excited to meet up and start climbing.

When the morning of the 6th finally rolled around, I was as the Spaniards would say mildly rabid to climb. Steve strolled into the hostel around 10:30AM, dropped his bags and within two hours we were walking toward the town crag. I led every pitch that morning as Steve expressed no desire to climb, but only to relax and get some rest after a long overnight train ride. That was fine with me, though in my eagerness I was quick to overextend and pump out on routes that would not otherwise have been overly strenuous for me. We finished up at the Gailland Crag around six and headed over to the Micro Basserie de Chamonix for the best (and only) local beer in town. Over beer and burgers we discussed Steve’s general state of lethargy, physical ailments, and mental limitations. Very shortly it became clear that Steve’s head was not screwed on with climbing threads. The beach was more where he was at, having just completed a grueling summer’s unpaid archeology grunt work and having found a girlfriend who was occupying the remainder of his free time and energy. It was apparent that this was not the committed Gunks climber I had met last October but an overworked, physically suffering and emotionally dispatched guy who was far more eager to get back stateside than to get up high on any Chamonix alpine rock. By no means am I implicating that Steve or I were to blame for this unfortunate situation, predicated by a lack of clear communication. The fact is he has good reason not to be present. One cannot help but think about the fact that he starts a PHD program at UC Davis in two weeks, moves his life to California and on the way stops through Florida to see his new girl and confirm indeed that she IS the one. With these distractions plus a whole set of chronic health problems, Steve is obviously not the climbing partner I was expecting. Unfortunately it took an additional six days of back and forth for Steve to admit this to me completely.

I took off with another climber for three days to a remote glacier hut, expecting to come back and find Steve refreshed and ready to get out on some easy to moderate routes. It seemed this was indeed a possibility three days ago. The storm that raged for a day cleared out that evening and left crisp sunny skies with 30-40KM winds on the high ridges. We waited out the winds and the next morning at 7AM headed down to the gondola to ride up to the base of an easy 8-pitch climb that Steve had selected for its lack of commitment and ascetic ridges. Upon arriving at the gondola station, I went straight to the ticket counter while Steve studied the latest weather forecast print out. I walked over to get on line but Steve quickly informed me that he was not comfortable with the forecast. Though it was certain to be a bluebird day with zero risk of precipitation, Steve was convinced that the forecasted winds, 40-80KM/hr at 3500 meters, would adversely affect our route topping out at 2800 meters. In other words, he was simply not willing to climb if there was even the slightest risk of being uncomfortable. Steve was the first to tell me that this was unlike him and in any past season he would have had the same drive and vigor that caused the other 100 or so climbers who had also read the morning’s report to get on line and take the ride up to 3800 meters regardless of the potential to encounter a breeze. But today, this week, this summer, Steve was in no mood to suffer, and this was the end of a long week of heal dragging and reluctance to be forthright. After an hour of me attempting to convince him otherwise, I threw in the towel and accepted that my climbing partner was not going to be climbing this summer in Chamonix. I don’t blame him, I don’t blame myself, I only realize the need for better communication around these projects in the future.

After parting ways with Stevo, I headed straight for the Mountain Guides Office of Chamonix, which serves as information and reconnaissance base for all Alpine endeavors and potential climbers in the Valley. On the map table in the office, one can find the famous green covered Climbers Message Book, which contains all sorts of notes on route conditions, hazards, gear for sale, lost items, and most importantly for my sake messages from climbers looking for partners. I jotted down four names and numbers of potential partners, all of who mentioned having full gear racks and climbing comfortably at similar grades. When I returned to the hostel with numbers in hand, Steve the ever encouraging always forgiving former partner, generously offered me the use of his French mobile.

After several fruitless voice messages, I was fortunate enough to link up quickly with two Spanish climbers named Jose Maria and Oscar. We met yesterday morning to sus out our abilities on a moderate and extremely beautiful six pitch crack climb located on the Red Pillar of Blatierre, one of Mt Blanc’s many northerly satellite spires. It proved to be a brilliant experience, my first all Spanish speaking multi pitch endeavor, providing a much needed jump start before setting off for Barcelona in ten days. The climbing was strenuous but not exhausting. The views of Chamonix town, 2000 meters below, were spectacular. The weather was impeccable right up until the descent walk back to the cable car station during which in began to sprinkle lightly. Jose Maria and Oscar were both hilarious dudes, full of the classic Andulucian humor and laidback-ness that goes a long way to tame and amuse the typical rabid American.

We landed back on the Valley floor around 6:30 yesterday evening. Immediately I darted over to the nearest pay phone and once again began calling the list of potential climbing partners I had gathered the day before. The first guy I got on the line was Stefan, a very mellow, even-tempered, yet quirky and potentially hilarious Kiwi who has been living in France for the past year. He’s wanting to climb long rock routes, leading at a maximum of 6b+, and especially in and around the beautifully remote L’Envers Refuge, a mountain hut at which I spent my first three days of alpine climbing. This is essentially the perfect partner for me - bilingual, balancing temperament, and climbing just slightly harder than me. But of course, as it’s been written, twas too good to be true. He has no lead gear, nor ropes, and neither do I. So once again we both begin the search on our own.

After I reluctantly parted ways with Stefan, I went briefly to the supermarket for provisions (an easy 30 euros for one bag of groceries, ouch!) then marched back up the hill to the hostel where I stay when not at the L’envers hut. The ‘Ski Station’ hostel is located at the top of the hill on the south facing/north side of the Valley, directly adjacent to the Brevent Gondola, hence the name. It’s a long walk up the hill – especially the fifth time in a day after a few beers - but very straight up and good for catching a nice rhythm. In the middle of the hill yesterday evening, I came up behind a woman walking very pointedly, and fast. From what I could tell, she had blond hair, surf shorts, a tank top, and was nice to look at from the downhill perspective. Of course I was compelled to say something that would cause her to slow down and look back in my direction. I think my particular comment was something like “thanks for setting such a good pace.” Turns out I was right on with the compliment idea as she allowed herself to let up the pace enough for a conversation to develop while we walked up the rest of the hill. She told me she was actually in a hurry – that she was not normally a speed walker of the Rue de Moillard – to meet her two other blond Swedish friends who were waiting to go for a sunset hike in the hills. I kept walking with her to the top of the hill where one of the two friends was already waiting. There I said goodbye casually and started walking toward the hostel door, but quickly reason and good judgment caught hold and I turned around in mid stride.

When I returned to the corner, the third and final member of the team was approaching. When she arrived, I learned that all three are long time friends and have been living in the Valley for seven years, having fallen in love with the mountains and the vibe. Two of the three own Chamonix’s most successful language learning (English and French) school. The other, the speed walker Martina manages a local guide service and climbs on her days off. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised and extremely happy to find a team of three ahem Swedish team members, two of which who could potentially be my future bosses and one who was willing to go climb with me on her next day off. The day ended on a decidedly high note for this and other less tangible reasons. And today, now nearly transpired, has continued to uplift, though the rain continues to fall steadily.

Tomorrow I climb with a mellow Korean-American dude originally from L.A., now permanently relocated to Chamonix. We’ll head up at 8AM to the less committing south side of the Valley for some shorter sport climbs. Forecast is for zero precipitation. Should be well. The next day is another story. I have no idea what it shall bring. For the moment though, I am grateful for this simple and encouraging day-to-day program. This of course will also end, but for now I must let out a loud sigh as I do and pursue exactly what makes me happy, and I can only wish that everyone else can take a moment to do the same. Okay.

It’s come to this. I finally sit down to write. My state of mind is quite serene, but the state of Bali is deliriously hectic. I have been on vacation from India for nearly three weeks and I look forward to going back, even if for only a day to Kolkata en route to Europe. Before I head back up and over the equator, I thought I would attempt to rekindle the blog and thereby encapsulate yet another strange world. I dare say that by now I have learned about two worlds within the one mishmash of nations and economies that we call the globe.

Bali and to a lesser degree, the other Islands in the Indonesian archipelago is a foreign tourist haven. Better yet, a hive. At times perhaps, a maggots nest. Without wanting to drudge up derision and create the perception that somehow I am different or better than the rest of the foreign pleasure shoppers, I’d simply say that I have learned a lot here about the relationship between the tourist development paradigm and the response of the local economy and culture to outside influence. The theme sounds familiar, no, like some far off Himalayan kingdom I once knew. Fortunately for me I can now permanently cross off Bali and for that matter Australia from my list of possible future destinations.

Noah and I made the absolute best of this place, though at every turn there was unexpected pitfall and accompanying hilarity. Let’s see, our first day together here in the party central conglomerate of Kuta began with Noah losing his ATM card out of a hole in the pocket of his newly purchased surfer dude shorts. Next, I spent twenty dollars on calling my own bank’s office to attempt to get the block taken off my ATM which I had incurred by stopping for two hours in the Malaysia airport where I bought a coffee with my card. The following day, we took off on our rented motor scooters and headed down for the famous surf break called Uluwatu on the southern tip of the Island. Upon first glance at the six foot peeling waves and the relatively small crowd, I thought to myself hell I’ll paddle out and give it a whirl. Low and behold a whirl is what I got, along with an ass kicking (foot gouging actually) along the reef lying four feet below the inside of the near break. After twenty minutes of waveless misery and a steadily bleeding right foot, I exited the water only to find a large chunk had been mashed out of the rear of my rented surfboard.

And so the curse of Kuta began. Hobbled and without access to cash, we spent the next day attempting to move ourselves out of Kuta into mellower surroundings and gentler reef breaks. I managed to get the block removed from my card, and strangely enough Noah happened to find his card had been returned to a random hotel near where it had slipped out.

On the third day of our island adventure, we packed our bags, fled the Kuta sprawl, and sped (at a safe speed on fine paved roads) up the coastal highway to the roadside community of Medewi with its famed long left perfect for beginners. The journey was peaceful and so were the three days spent surfing eating and sleeping in the Mai Malu hotel. Sufficiently bored by the fourth day of small and sloppy waves, we sped off again, this time bound for Java, determined to make the impossible crossing with our motorbikes.

Upon arriving at the ferry landing on the far western tip of Bali, it was confirmed what we had already been told that our scooters’ registrations forbid us to remove the bikes from Bali. Alas, it was back to two-footed walking with clumsy clunky board slung under one arm. It took us an additional four hours to reach our destination, the remote jungle outpost dubbed G-Land by the illiterate surfing community.

Noah and I then spent another three days laughing hysterically to ourselves, having more brilliant conversation between ourselves and generally getting pummeled by waves we could neither catch nor ride. The surf camp scene down in this jungle outpost was just that: summer camp for boys. We made the best out of the futile company, bonding mostly with the local staff and passing the between time recapping the highlights of our lives in Brooklyn and gazing upon the glowing horizon of our upcoming decades.

I turned 30 one night amidst this east Java chaos of throbbing wounds, a gourmet dinner of ramen noodles and local mussels, warm beer, and a full moon over one of the most pristine stretches of beach in the world. At the time I thought nothing of it. In fact I could think of little else besides my shallow skin abrasions, swollen lymph in my groin and the impending systemic infection and fever that was to be my birthday present from gawd. But this piece is neither about my personal pain and suffering – which for some reason was far more serene than mentally disturbing – nor the physical details of the trip itself. Sure enough, Bali and Java are some of the loveliest places one can conjure up – full of rich culture, traditional agriculture, pristine landscapes, and relative harmony between the tourist and the local economy.

But today I do not wish to write yet another experience narrative. I know that stories of intriguing interactions are crucial for the readers’ delight and I certainly wish to entertain to the highest degree possible. But truth be told, since leaving India, the experience narrative has been fairly monotonous, mostly involving the pursuit of outrageously good and cheap local pleasures – selfishly hedonistic and quite relaxing. I achieved great success in this but the tales shall remain untold at least for the time being in this particular medium.

What I did come across though - this afternoon at about three while lounging about the poolside in front of my hotel room door – is something less tangible to the outside world but possibly worth telling. It seemed to settle over me like a fine mist rolling through an arid desert. It was the first moment in two weeks that I was alone to fully comprehend the gravity, or rather the lack thereof, in my life of late. I'd been saying throughout the week how much 30 feels like the youngest and most innocent I’ve been since perhaps I was five. Perhaps it is some kind of early mid-life rebirth, compounded by the fact that I am officially a free agent, gaily wandering the planet, for another month or so at least. Sitting by that pool watching the breeze stir the palm leaves there were moments of what could be called perfect composure. Blissful repose, unhindered by responsibility to do more than what was being done. I merely attempted to jot it down in my journal before it was gone.

Unfortunately, the details are again disappointingly sparse in the eyes of the outside world. It is nothing more than finally being able to say that I am happy and I know what I want. That’s that and it deserves only acknowledgment and of course further pursuit.

What I'd like to think my life consists of...