Back in France.
Going to Fontainebleau was exciting, and I climbed and climbed and climbed, for two whole days, but when it started to rain, I felt like bailing out and going to the Island. Over time, stranded in cafes and shitty bars to wait out the storms, I spoke more and more with the Ile-de-France natives. It became more and more obvious, they were hostile, and hated us like a cat hates a bird, and wants to catch it and kill it. By now, Chad and I had rejoined forces. He was transported by plane as well, and seemed confused by the sounds made by the people, French; and was quiet and somber.

While it rained, we talked about the Island, our off and on spiritual journey, and discussed our options. Vowing to step it up a notch, again, and to stay calm around the crazy unfriendly viscous local folk, we climbed in the rare moments we were given. I tried ascending many hard problems, but was hindered by a common condition I apparently had acquired in Arkansas, and underestimated as a severe disability. A pulley in your finger apparently holds your tendon tight to your finger, tight like a glove, and is impossible to fix from the outside, i.e. no simple magic or sorcery can resolve the lack of power. Extremely powerful techniques as crimping, are off limits, and that’s lame because its quite hard to find boulder problems anywhere in the world which are difficult without left hand crimps. This was hand I was dealt, and I would play it.

Out of the game I was when it came to closed handgrips, I reorganized my list of goals, and climbed only compression. Only squeezing, lessening the pressure on my malfunctioning inner-finger, circuits, enabled climbing to be a go, so I snatched up and settled into my trench, preparing for the long war. Beyond all, we became more and more bummed no one was nice to us. Our five friends were great, they liked us and were kind, but seeing them was rare, and we were left to the "wolfs" as we dubbed them. We not only didn’t care about much but the Island, but we became depressed by the complete absence of women in our lives. We felt like total losers. The energy was bad outside the Forest, so it was hard to just hang out there. Way too many male and female prostitutes hang out near the parking lots we used to park in for climbing, so waiting out the rain was never an option and we were disgusted that the police did nothing.

Since there are over two billion asshole-cops in France, we got more bummed, and tried not to think in general, because as idealists we risked having extreme meltdowns. We became even more discouraged, and the staggeringly cold looks we got all day every day from the French natives was withering. Deafening were their French words, “CA VA CHEF??? TU VEUX MA PHOTO!” passers would yell at us, we stared at the ground in fear, and shed our gypsy tears like children. We didn't like being called "boss", and even more so it sucked they thought we wanted their photo. They should've wanted our photo, cuz' we're fuckin' famous! That’s my word. We decided this was bullshit, climbed our projects on the only good day of weather in the last week and left, with middle fingers upheld. We felt O.G. because we climbed our boulders, and left at the key moment, but were severely phased, desperate for a re-up on happiness.

Side notes like "Wait till I ever see one of those bastards somewhere outside their little castle of hell ever again. Ha! I will be cold, and unfriendly and pretend not to understand their stupid French English when they talk!" ensued, and we released lots of pent up thoughts on the drive. Pay back would be impossible. We were changed Men. Ile-de-France means Island of France ironically, and as I put two and two together, I've got to get this out there. The Island is much friendlier, and easier for foreigners and non-locals. Your nationality or race is of no importance, and the breeze is sweet and the girls are pretty. The return here to Valais was immaculate. Immediately upon arriving, we felt stronger, and our friends were way too kind. The energy was great, and we each grew three inches taller. The colors of our eyes shifted from grey back to their natural tones, and glowed in the dark like cats. Chad dyed his hair blond, as some kind of an artistic non-punk-rock-like statement, and now three people thought he was Ben Moon from 96, back from the past.