Adios Espage, Salut Shortcut

La Hi-Diddly-Hey, Neighburritos-

Well, we're back in La France, land of the AZERTY keyboards, slightly higher bulk food prices, and powerful baguette+cheese combo. Seems like it's been forever since our last shower, and the friendly gentilhomme at the hotel desk we checked into seemed to agree. He encouraged us to use the elevator to reach our 3rd floor room, and for once in my short lifetime, I enthusiastically obliged. And so, we're comfortably checked in to a place above the post office in the town of Tarascon-Sur-Ariege, and our laundry is hanging all over the jury-rigged clothesline in the room. This free computer in the lobby has no port for our camera, so if you're still reading, you'll have to make due with whatever editorial we add to the random recollections of the past week.

For the past few days, we've been taking a patented Ryan_Bell shortcut, the Port de Ciel, which means, we decided, something like "The Window to the Sky." It was described by a very nice National Parks employee as beautiful but difficult. She was right in that it was particularly gorgeous although we were held hostage in our tent by tiny bugs for an entire evening the first night on the trail. They were like flying fleas. I wore Julie's high-school rain jacket with the hood cinched tight so only my eyeballs were exposed while I cooked dinner; they still got me somehow. The next day, though, we got on top of the ridge and we had some gorgeous 360 degree views for days. There wasn't a single place to look that wasn't mountains, azure lakes, etc. And, honestly, it did't feel all that dificult. Our last hike was pretty much straight up, and people kept telling us, "You'll need cramp_ons for the hike down." (In Sanish, though--"Necessitan crampones en el otro lado.") But they were so wrong, although Ryan did use tent-spikes combined with duct tape attached with string to his boots. (He's so MacGyver.) Now he's a little bummed we're out of the High Pyrenees, but I'm sure that there's still all sorts of trouble for us to get into. Especially now that we're back to the land where Ryan gets to do all the talking/interpretting.

Felice decided to forego mentioning that since we left Vielha in Spain we've been hiking on the GR11, the Spanish coast-to-coast equivalent of the GR10. At first, I'm pretty struck by her oversight, because this particular section of the GR11 visited the National Parc des Aguistortes, a truly incredible Spanish national park only recently created in 1995. The scenery was absolutely astounding, even though our itinerary only nipped but a corner of it (my mind was constantly thinking of excuses for lengthy detours deeper into the Parc). However, my co-hostess' dismissal is very forgivable in respects to the demanding terrain that was covered within the region (pretty much the equivalent of hiking the roller-coaster tracks at Busch Gardens--though very pretty) , including some truly demanding ascents and accompanying arguments that justified our fans' suspicion of this trip qualifying under the pretext of "honeymoon." However, even Felice has now admitted that we have found a distinctive rhythm to the hiking, and that our daily grind, however disinheartening aforehand, usually ends up manageable and enjoyable.

We actually got to play a little pick-up soccer in the town of La Guingetta de Aneu (my first soccer--and running, even, in a month and a half). It was at a little field next to a camp ground, and the players were mostly around the age of ten, though there were about five or six "grown-ups" playing, too. It meant a very late start on the hike, and it meant playing barefoot for Ryan and in heavy hiking boots for me--but anything for soccer, though they call it futbol here, er, rather, everywhere but America. We also enjoyed a swimming pool in the town of Tavascan, the kayak capitol of Spain (not to be confued with Tarascon, where we are right now), which was glorious. I enjoyed it as much for grime-removal as for the cooling qualities. The attendant grilled us about life in the US vs. in Spain, then a 16-year-old came to practice her English on us: Then we got ice cream for only 1€. The end.

Well, we've loaded up on bulk foods at the local supermarché and our wallets really prefer our tent to the fresh digs here, so we'll be moseying eastwards sometime tomorrow from the town of Merens-les-Vals (it's Googleable). So let me close by annoucing a giant screwup on my part. I've been asking friends and family to send us nice things to Goulier, France around this time. Guess what? Turns out there's no Post Office in Goulier. Isn't that (In Felice's mid-climbing sarcastic voice) "Hee-larious??" So, I do apologize profusely if you took the time and money and love to send us something that gets sent back to you in North America. Believe me, we really appreciate the thought, and I'm kicking myself all over; someone else is kicking me too, for good reason. Ryan has been working to rectify this mistake by visiting nearby post offices and asking for packages that arrive there for us to be forwarded to Arles Sur Tech, but I think it's hit-or-miss. I'm sorry, too.

Next stop: Arles-Sur-Tech around the 30th; less than 2 weeks to the sea!