Ok I made it to France. But first, here’s the thing about England: The food is terrible, it’s always cold, and no matter what you do, leaving the sofa costs $50 (one way). I did go to this crazy gym in London with my new London-based friend Ryan.
Weird, right? When you get to the top you can see people in their cars. Of course I was getting so whooped by the British plastic crag that I only got to the top once and friends, it was not a triumph. Also, under that highway there are horse stables. It’s pretty much the best highway ever.
But today I got to France and set up Ian’s awesome tent (thanks bro!) at this very nice campground in Gorg du Tarn. This place is kind of like Potrero. There are French people with kayaks everywhere, and tons of campgrounds and a chain of little towns. It’s like the hidalgo/monterrey/mina/virgin canyon etc deal at Potrero, but French and more moneyed and with way WAY fewer donkeys, which I consider quite a loss.
My campground has a pool, and wifi, which is great because I am totally not sure how to find someone to climb with now and might need to pass some time before I give up on France and head to Spain, where I have a few contacts and suspect there will be more donkeys.
And I also have a cold, and am very, very tired, and I can’t figure out how to get my french CampingGaz stove to work. I am in some pretty tremendous self pity about the whole thing. I think it all started when I was driving through this amazing French mountain countryside, and all I could think about was all this mean stuff douchebag men have said about my driving. You guys all need to shut up and let me drive. I work the clutch how I want, and the gas how I want, and just pass out or something already. Made me so mad, and made me start thinking about all the mean things that guys have said to me this year, and that made me upset. Then the stove thing, and this headcold, it’s a sic sad spiral. I hope I get to climb tomorrow.
Andy suggested putting my harness on and sitting under the climb I want to do with my thumb out and clown makeup on. I’m giving it two days of concerted effort, then moving on to Spain to pester my friend pepe’s friend, and capt bastard’s friend who is in the circus. My plan, worst comes to worst, is to lay on the beach in southern france and sleep for three weeks then meet Gustavo in Mallorca. MALLORCA!!