Rockclimbing

I finished my intensive language course on Friday, the audio on the listening section was severely distorted and played from tiny laptop speakers, during my oral exam my professor reavealed she drank two bottles of hard liquor a day and asked for advice, and I ended my written portion with the line “¡Ojalá que tu novio se ahoge en el río!” roughly translated to “I hope your boyfriend drowns in the river!” The appropriateness of my dialogue for the school setting was doubtful, but at least it was memorable. Regardless of these setbacks I managed to graduate to the next level of Spanish competency.

As a celebration for completing the exam my classmate Erik and I were planning on going out for sushi, but after walking around for on hour with rumbly stomachs and only seeing one Asian restaurant squeezed in between a sex shop and a dumpster in a dark alleyway, we decided to change our plans. We headed toward a less sketchy part of town, came across a sign suggesting Indian food, and our stomachs agreed. We entered the advertised establishment and after inhaling a steaming feast of chana masala, sweet and sour shrimp, basmati rice, and garlic naan we wobbled home stuffed and contented. Later, piled on my bed with our friend Katelyn like litter of warm kittens, we ate my fresh-baked zucchini bread smeared with butter and drizzled with honey. Penelope Cruz sang Volver to us from my computer and lulled us into a sleepy daze.

I woke up six hours later, doing my usual morning tiptoe dance on the ice-cold floor, and pulled on some athletic clothes. I toasted an old baguette and slopped some peach marmalade onto it and munched it as I rushed out the door. We drove for about twenty minutes around curvy narrow roads up mountainsides; our activity guide Paco was driving so fast it made me a bit car-sick, but I trusted his insane manual driving style because it is similar to mine. We stopped at a café for some coffee, and having forgotten to pack a lunch I ordered a Bocadilla with cheese and tomatoes. These are basically baguettes cut lengthwise, filled with cured ham. Bocadilla is the Spanish word for giant-ass sandwich. They wrapped it up for me in tin foil, like they knew I was going on an adventure…

  

 Unpacking

 

Backsides

 

 Paco doesn't speak English, so I helped the girls find the correct shoes, adjust harnesses, and teach the figure eight follow through. Aaron would be proud!

 David laying out the route.

 Mi amiga Katelyn

 

"Rocking" it

Paco and David set up three routes for us, I couldn’t wait to get on the wall and was the first one up. It was over too quickly. I belayed a couple of other climbers, and completed the second route with a bit more difficulty but quite fluidly. I heard the girls asking my friend Katelyn below, “Where did you say she worked? Oh, that makes sense.”… “How much does she run?” My relatives always used to call me a monkey, climbing up legs and clinching onto waists. I would hardly call myself an experienced climber, but I suppose those years of rock-climbing club in high school must have paid off! Being in good shape and working at a store surrounded by exceptionally helpful and knowledgeable employees doesn’t hurt, either.

David offered to buy me a beer if I could make it up the most difficult route without falling. I had already done two successfully, and I took his challenge but made sure to tell him I was doing it because I liked to climb- not because I liked him. The route was primarily a corner crack and required you to wedge your hands into the crevice with your legs spread wide on either side, slowly shimmying upwards. I made it to the top without falling, and tried to be humble about my triumph. He mapped out another route and finally got me, my arms were trembling and tired, and my searching bloody fingers could no longer grip the minute holds on the virtually smooth rock face. I completed the route but without the same grand sense of accomplishment as the previous ones.

I must admit that I was too hard on my body this particular day. Once we returned from climbing, I went for my long run along a riverbed hoping to cover fifteen miles. It was cut short to thirteen because I reached a solid concrete dam and had to turn around. When I got back I could hardly walk, and limped around my apartment the rest of the evening.