Via Ferrata -- Nice, France

We must always tell what we see. Above all, and this is more difficult, we must always see what we see.

~Charles Peguy 

One of my favorite writing exercises is to watch. To sit, watch, and write sans suspension or filter. Regardless of how judgmental, cliche, boring or flat-out ridiculous my observations are, I write them down. 

I try to remove the filter between my brain and my hands. My motto is to write what I think and to say the things about which I've thought. 

Perhaps it's a mistake. Perhaps I ought to write professionally, filtering out the first, second, and third drafts, settling on the fourth and posting the concise, precise, bits of refined information. 

But I don't have time to refine. And refining is almost as boring as stale white bread or plain tofu. 

Here are a few observations from yesterday: 

Flap, flap, flap go the flags overhead. 

Women strut slowly here. It is not a city of bold, clacking heels, but smooth gliding, sliding stilettos. 

Mothers hold hands of sour looking boys. Clearly they do not appreciate the fact that they are in the French Riviera.

Old women try to glide, slide in elevated sandals and playful polka dot skirts and "I hope that this matches" handbags. Trying to reclaim the joys of youth looks like hard work for pencil legs.

Some tourists hide cameras under arms. 

Other tourists flaunt cameras the size of arms. 

Yellow corduroy pants, Hawaiian pants, checkered pants, vibrant fluorescent striped skirts, pants that could easily double as pajamas, slacks, khakis, frilly white skirts...

The only thing I don't see are the pants so short the pockets peep through. 

I am thankful for this. 

 

Tuesday was fun. Tuesday was loads and loads and loads of fun (yes, I realize that I use the word "loads" nearly often as I use the word "delightful". I will spend next month reading Oscar Wilde to expand my vocabulary).

The morning was spent tying together loose ends of a blog post, googling "teach english south korea" and designing a yoga routine for postnatal women (a present for my sister-in-law). At 10:40, I filled my flowery blue water bottle, placed my ray bans atop my unruly hair, and slipped my arms into the sleeves of the motorcycle jacket Baris had bought for his backseat riders (after removing the uncomfortable back padding that makes me look (and feel) like a turtle) and headed out the door. 

I was meeting with Patrick for our final adventure. 

It had been over a week since I'd seen my "rock star" friend. Our tentative three day trip to the Alps hadn't worked out because he'd found a boat sailing for the Caribbean and needed to spend his time preparing for his own epic enterprise. 

While I was tickled for him, I was more than a little disappointed that our excursion had been canceled. Things change and I completley understand and respect people pursuing their own aspirations whenever possible, but I had hoped for at least one more outing with my outdoorsy friend. 

And I got it. 

My goodness, I got it. We didn't just go rock climbing. We went Via Ferrata-ing.

I'm sure many of you are well acquainted with the "Via Ferrata", but this newbie had never even heard of such a thing before Tuesday. So for those of you who are as ill-acquainted as myself, allow me to expound upon the "Iron Road". 

Via Ferratas are protected climbing routes found primarily in the Alps. These courses are characterized by iron cables that run along the entirety of each route, fixing themselves to the cliff face every 3-10 meters. While these cables serve to limit potential falls, they certainly don't rule out injury. When Patrick hooked me up to the cable he said, "Do not fall. When we climb, I can catch you if you fall. Here, I can do nosing. When we climb, you fall a foot and zere is nosing but za mountain. Here, you hit za iron on za way down, boom, boom, boom, boom," my friend kicked his head back to demonstrate getting knocked on the chin. 

I nodded with grim, happy determination. I would not fall. 

Today's Via Ferratas were built by soldiers in the First World War to aid the movement of Italian troops. These routes were later improved and refurbished by the SAT and the CAI and have become major destinations for outdoor enthusiasts in their multiple locations throughout Southern France.

There are:

400 Via Ferratas in Italy

550 in Austria (called Klettersteig there)

200 in France

150 in Switzerland

180 in Germany

40 in Spain

and several in Slovenia, Poland, Sweden, Norway, and the UK. To name a few. 

These outrageously fun adventure opportunities are everywhere. 

So find one and go do it. Now. Enjoy the adrenaline rush, garner a few victory bruises, scrape up your hands, and feel like you're flying. 

Feel the moment or fall. Be present or lose your footing. 

Those are your choices. Like Eddie Izzard's "cake or death".

It costs three euros to do this course. THREE euros. I develop more and more appreciation every day for how much France encourages people to be active and get outside to enjoy the weather and the scenery. If you have a car/motorcycle your opportunities are endless.

The rope was my favorite part of the Via Ferrata. I liked wrapping my barefoot shoes around the iron cable and feeling just how important the placement of each toe was. I liked looking down and seeing how far I'd climbed. I liked softening my eyes, softening my ears and focusing on the delicate sensations of touch and balance.

And then it got windy. And I loved it even more. I wasn't just playing with my own weight when the wind picked up -- I had to factor in the force of the breeze. Like acro yoga, the inclusion of a partner turns the exercise into a kind of social dance, but a dance wherein neither partner is the leader.

There were moments spent on these rungs wherein I was truly frightened. My hands were slick with sweat and my shoes didn't have quite as much grip as I would have liked. There was a particularly difficult transition that involved me hanging (nearly upside down) from my left arm and reaching out with my right hand to move the clips further up the cable. I could feel the strength going out of my left arm as my right hand fumbled, bumbled, why isn't this working?? with the clip. My sweaty fingers started to slide and exhilarating adrenaline took the taste of acidic panic. "Are you okay?" Patrick called down to me. I swallowed the acid, gripped harder, and shouted up, "I'll be fine! Just fine."

Thank-you for the final adventure, Patrick. I hope we'll meet again.

Baris had arrived home earlier than usual and was not at all amused that I'd removed the back protection from the jacket. I found the damning evidence propped up on the couch with the ibuprofen he'd bought for my low back pain.

"In Turkey, we call people who have been acting like children "donkeys". You have been a donkey."

I sheepishly hung my donkey head and promised not to remove the back protection in the future.  Even though it makes this sheepish donkey look and feel like a turtle.

Preconceptions: None today

Challenges: Nope. Although the Via Ferrata was a wonderful challenge in and of itself.