Bouldering and Canada

It's been my birthday today. It began at a local bouldering gym, where my siblings go every Saturday or Sunday. The past weeks I haven't gone because it's important to get enough sleep, and waking up before 9 a.m. didn't fit into my sleep schedule.

But, albeit an hour late, this morning I ambled in with the climbing shoes that T. kindly bought for me.

It was sunny, but cool breezes wafted through the air (~19°C or warmer) and at that hour of the morning, the shadows were deep. It was entertaining to watch what was going on in the streets on the way to the gym. A girl was crouching with a piece of chalk, writing 'Hofflohmarkt' (courtyard flea market) on the pavement under the direction of her mother. A marijuana plant in a street side planting was apparently long gone, but sunflowers and a flowering corn plant throve there. The hawthorn berries and rose hips are very red, another sign of autumn. And the black pen scrawls on a local political office were still there, after appearing in the Berlin evening news: they were apparently graffiti'd by a very drunk woman who was arrested after the deed.

My siblings were all taking a break, either to drink water or to replenish the chalk on their hands.

And after I switched out my shoes, we walked onto the springy mat area underneath the bouldering walls, and they began to tackle the courses one by one. Of the 8 levels of difficulty, my siblings have worked their way into levels 3 and 4. They can even hang like monkeys, on rough, pumice-like grips that are parallel to the floor, which is a level of arm strength far mightier than mine.

Then, at their urging, I climbed, at least partway, a few level 1 and 2 courses. The thin finger and hand calluses I once had have all peeled away because of not going to the gym regularly; so at times holding the grips felt like trying to open a stubborn jam jar long after the skin begins to hurt from the friction.

But aside from watching siblings, it is also fun to watch climbers who attempt the level 5 and 6 courses: madly leaping from one slippery hold to another, teetering in a precarious balance as they try to reach a hold that is just out of reach, etc.

By the end, the gym was crowded and — to be brutally frank, I am not fond of this practice — a host of people who didn't seem to be interested in climbing, rather in looking on, seemed to be sitting all along the benches with cubby holes ... blocking access to the spots where we had stored our belongings and wanted to change our shoes. A well-behaved dog, the size of a fox and very slender of limb, was lying on the ground beside the cubby holes. I wonder what it is like for the sensitive noses of dogs to be exposed to all the chalk, sweat, people smell, and above all foot odour of a climbing gym. The music, I guess, wouldn't bother them.

And a toddler, around two years old, and perhaps no longer knee-high to a grasshopper but certainly not much higher than my knees, was exploring the general area with small steps but staying well away from the climbing walls.

During a past visit to the gym, another mother had illustrated its bohemian vibe by sitting down cross-legged on the presumably dirty mat, near people tumbling off of walls, to breastfeed her baby. But although I was too Prussian to find it a great idea, I concluded 'to each their own' and forbore from staring.

Generally there's a mixture of languages spoken: German and English are common. But I've also heard French, Russian or Ukrainian, and possibly Chinese (if it was Cantonese, I'm not educated enough to know the difference), for example.

It's possible at this gym that former colleagues — especially data scientists — may pop by, and then we often hang out together for a while. A few of them watched the Olympics bouldering and lead climbing events, live, together. But today they weren't there.

What's also fascinating to me is the Crossfit gym beside the bouldering gym. Kettlebells, two huge black truck tires, bars hung high in the air, people lugging around medicine balls or other heavy items back and forth on the asphalt in the sunshine while appearing to be slowly dying on the inside, etc. ... It's not quite my sports philosophy, but there's satisfaction in seeing others (semi-voluntarily) perform feats that I would never intend to perform myself.

And, as an effete academic by inclination, in both gyms I very much enjoy watching the mixture of self-confident competence and preening in the true sports aficionados. And the siblings' 'Fachsimpeln' as they throw around bouldering terminology like 'flash' (to successfully climb a course from bottom to top at the first try), 'volume,' and 'dynamic' versus 'static' hold, is engrossing.

***

After that, my siblings stopped by a German-Turkish bakery for croissants, pumpkin seed buns, a pretzel stick, pain au chocolat, and Schrippen (regular bread buns). Unbeknownst to me, my brothers also bought a piece of regular brownie and a piece of walnut brownie in honour of my birthday. And we ate a late breakfast, and then our mother came back from babysitting.

Then we hung out for a few hours at home, two of my brothers playing the piano and cello: Schumann, Beethoven, Schubert, ...

In the late afternoon, Uncle Pu dropped by. Intensely busy the last few days, he had also contracted a cold. But he seemed in reasonably good spirits. After eating slender slices of the four-layer chocolate birthday cake – orange and apricot jam in the centre and a chocolate ganache at the top – that my two youngest brothers had baked together, we set off to a Chinese restaurant.

There we ate a generous meal with chopsticks, rotating a Lazy Susan full of dishes, and we drank mineral water and jasmine tea, and we chatted. The tables on the sidewalk were full of people. Inside it was less crowded, but so warm due to the 32°C weather that we were perspiring as we ate, and had to wipe our foreheads repeatedly. (Conditions in the kitchen itself may well have been worse!) But the waitstaff were friendly and seemed patient with the bustle and the heat.

Finally we went back home, too satiated and overheated to even think of eating more of the birthday cake – except for T., of whom we were in awe. We chatted about the upcoming holiday in Canada – in two days' time we are set to fly, then do a road trip along the interior of British Columbia, winding up staying in a hotel on Vancouver Island – and then T., Gi., and Uncle Pu took their leave.

After that, we started packing for the travel, in earnest.

I am looking forward to the cleaner air, the Douglas fir forests, the hills and the ocean, the exchange rate (I think 1 Euro = ~70 Canadian cents), the arbutus trees and the pumpkin patches, the Thanksgiving food and at least the sight of the Halloween candy on grocery store shelves... and hopefully seeing old friends, acquaintances, and family again.

But I was so exhausted in 2018, the last time we travelled to Canada, that this time I'm trying not to over schedule meetings, but to relax and try to make the most of the encounters we do have. Next time we can see anyone we miss this time.

In general I'm telling myself to relax and take it easy and go with the flow, instead of trying to control things. It will help me feel better ... but, above all, it will make me less of a nightmare to be around for my siblings.

A Summer Fairy Tale Writing Project

After yesterday's 5-hour German examination, another attempt to prove to the satisfaction of the University to which I have already been accepted that I can in fact write, speak, and read German at a student level, today has been less active.

It was 34°C hot yesterday, and today perhaps only 1 degree cooler, and I decided not to go out of doors at all.

*

For over a week I have been working on an old story, which I wrote out at great length on an old desktop computer that we don't use any more, in my twenties. It was a fairy tale vaguely set in a version of Italy. But I haven't seen it for ages, and I doubt I'd find it good if I did.

So I am writing it again, with new characters, character names, kingdoms, scenery, and plotlines.

Ideally I'd finish it, rather than getting lost in another meandering writing journey that ends up nowhere. These failures tend to diminish my confidence that I'd someday be able to complete a writing project that is important.

Either way, once or twice hours passed before I looked at the clock and saw that it is, say, 5 a.m.. It's also a luxury I can more or less afford before the university semester begins. Or, if the university admissions go to pot, before I commit myself to full-time work. That said, I still need to be careful to get enough sleep because of the lurking risk of anaemia.

*

One problem with the story is that I become too caught up in the details, or perhaps the wrong details. So it begins to read like a paragraph of a Wikipedia article has slipped into the text.

It's as if I were to write a pirate story like this:

As the sky grew mottled in bruised reds, greens, yellows and blues in the evening sun, and in the foreground of his galleon's deck the small craft that were at anchor in the remote Caribbean harbour began to turn into mere shadowy sketches of skinny masts and spindly jibs, Pirate Jack felt foreboding about the journey ahead. He looked up from the pipe that he was filling with twisted black tobacco, to yell at his cook.

"Are you certain that we have enough lard for this journey?" he asked skeptically.

"Aye, aye, captain!" the cook shouted back, optimistically. "Twenty-five barrels we have! It'll last us until we ship into Madeira."

"I seem to remember that when we were last on a journey of that length, we bought five pounds of inferior butter off a peasant in Portugal because our lard stock was insufficient. Shall we not buy another barrel?"

"Nay, it will be fine! That said, I have been looking at the flour and I've spotted many a weevil. We needn't toss all of this, but I'd say we get another 25 pounds."

"25 pounds of flour? Here? I think that will cost us 12 shillings and fivepence! What will the purser think?"

"Would ye rather be gnawing at mouldy carrots?"

"Speaking of mouldy carrots," Jack returned, conceding the argument, "are we carrying carrots or parsnips on this journey?" 

"Carrots! I don't never want to see another parsnip again." 

But at that point, an enraged navy officer ran pounding up the pier toward the ship, in riding boots and flying coattails, his wig bouncing behind him in the breeze. "I know you are that blackguard, Pirate Jack!" he bellowed, waving a musket frantically. "You shall never leave this island alive!"

Pirate Jack turned to his first mate. 'How many bullets do we have? If it's more than 157, which I hope it is, I will trouble you for two ounces of gunpowder, so that I can be rid of this fellow.'

And, recalling that the wind was gusting from the landward in a 53° south-southeasterly direction, he began to calculate the angle at which to hold his gun barrel so that he could best hit the minion of the law.

He laid his tobacco aside with a sigh, reaching for his notebook and pencil to do the math. 

Then he thanked his first mate as the latter brought him a pewter tin full of ammunition and a bag of gunpowder. A moment later, however, he realized that before loading his gun, he still needed to clean the barrel. 

The pirate shouted for his cabin boy. "Bring me a rag and gun-oil, lad! I must clean this pistol."

...And so on and so forth.