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EUROPEAN TRILOGY
All great works come in threes, all epic myths or timeless sagas. Climbers lso like to unite their ultimate challenges into bold trilogies, Christophe Profit's success in 1987 being a fine example. Christophe defeated the Grandes Jorasses, the Matterhorn and the Eiger, the three superstars of the Alps. Christophe was not the first to climb what has become known as 'The Trilogy', but he was the first man to enchain them, that is, complete these mighty mountains in a single outing without returning to base camp. He climbed these three arduous peaks in a total time of just 42 hours. To enchain these three inaccessible faces back-to-back, in winter, alone and very fast... that was the archetypal dream of the 1980s climber.
After my aerial tour of Paris, I decided I had to realise my personal trilogy, set my own targets. After Christophe Profit's feat, climbing lost its way somewhat for several years; it floundered in an identity crisis, lacking new direction, new challenges. Effectively, having realised the inconceivable, climbed every cliff there is to climb in just about every conceivable way, there is little left to dream of. However I was to fly off on an unexpected tangent and my climbing evolved in a brave new world.
With my discovery of this new aspect of climbing in France and America I found myself alone in a totally new and uncharted domain, so I for one had plenty to dream about. Buildings were so flat and so vertical, the challenges and terrain so utterly divergent. It added a totally new dimension to climbing and there was so much to learn about. I had to learn about precise geometry, about engineering, architecture and construction, and apply my lessons from the natural world to the modern cityscape. Indeed I was forced to learn about aspects that for many had no place in the sport: security, policing and the judiciary. It was quite a revelation for a seasoned rock climber and great fun to tread an untrodden path. Luckily even now, years later, I still do not feel my scope for dreaming has narrowed, such is the infinity of high rise escalations.
I deliberated on what I should do and decided to branch out of France and take on my native Europe. My trilogy was decided. Frankfurt, Milan and Barcelona; three great cities with wonderful possibilities, and each conveniently reached by car in a reasonable timeframe from France.
After my Parisian tour Paris Match wants a piece from me again. The editor hears my idea and is taken by it, and so he elects to send a photographer with me for my trip around Western Europe. Not one to pay for free holidays, the editor of the magazine sets a deadline — we must achieve the story in no more than a dozen days. We also have a tight budget. Twenty thousand francs must cover everything: travel, accommodation, food and — a little optimistically — fines. We will have to watch our pennies and hope that any arrests or fines do not devour large chunks of our time or budget.
But it sounds like another good challenge and superbly entertaining. The team is reduced to an efficient core: Alexis the photographer, my brother Thierry as cameraman, and Bambi for the security details. Thierry and Bambi enjoyed their roles in Paris. Since the experience at the TF1 Tower, the reassuring presence of a strapping lad like Bambi allows me to approach the escalation with a little more serenity.
Late in the afternoon, our full car departs from Paris and moves off slowly towards Germany, its pretzels, its Black Forest and its grey sky. As the physical part of the trip is my business, the other three take turns at the steering wheel of my nice Golf. It makes sense to split the chauffeur role. With more than 4000 kilometres of highway to be traversed, mainly by night to save francs, it would have been easy to nod off and leave the road.
The city fades behind us and the flat interior of France opens up. I love travelling. I had few chances to travel when I was young and the sight of a border delights me. That finite division between cultures, languages, peoples, that stamp in your scrapbook of life experiences. But since we set out from Paris, I have not stopped humming an entire catalogue of my favourite songs, much to the despair of my friends. My singing and humming is actually pretty good, but the three other lads squashed into a noisy car are not so enamoured with it. The atmosphere swings wildly around after three hours on the road. But it doesn't matter much, I am happy, happy to be on my first large-scale project, my first big expedition. Within a few hours the German landscape sails by and we are heading into new territory.
We cross the city limits and drive into Frankfurt by night. I am very gratified with what I see. Sparkling in the night air, modern Frankfurt looks like a paradise of skyscrapers. It is sad to think that this is in large part due to the Allied raids of the Second World War, the destruction, the reconstruction and so on. We head to our hotel but first, we travel down several avenues to make a quick visit to my goal. Germany's banking centre represents a concentration of towers more imposing and significant than La Défense. For me it is exactly like downtown America. Clambering around on the back seat of the car, I am bouncing like a kid in front of an enormous Christmas tree. On my spruce, no festoons nor trail of tinsel, but a steady stream of glittering floors. This is a veritable forest of buildings, each measuring in the region of 200 metres in height, possibility after possibility.
Around the corner from a crossroads a familiar facade entices me — the Dresdner Bank. A rock climber, harnessed in with plenty of safety equipment, had suspended himself from the first few metres of this building for an advertisement, the image being published worldwide in various magazines a dozen years ago. Regardless of the advert, I would have been drawn to this admirable and particularly photogenic silver tower with its edges smoothed off. The lack of sharpness lends it a placid juvenile charm. I know it sounds a little weird but I want to go up to it and hug it. So, a while back, a rock climber had pretended to climb it? I decide that I shall do the job properly tomorrow.
The next morning, we have a little problem. No more car. It is gone, whisked away and sent directly to the pound. A handful of Deutschmarks and a good two hours later, the car is recovered. But precious time has been lost, one of our twelve days. Our plans and preparation are scuppered since I need an early start, making it impossible to hope to achieve the climb today. No matter, I shall use the day to peruse the location and try out some movements, because in actual fact, I have not confirmed the feasibility of climbing this famous bank. On closer inspection the likelihood of the completion of my ascent can be speculated at, but an optimist would tend to regard it as achievable. The structure is similar to that of the Elf
Tower but with more inherent complexity. We surreptitiously survey the activity around the building. The security services here do not worry me that much, as by now I have decided to leave much of the worrying to my trusty assistants. Having said that, a bank remains a bank. Security can't be that lax. Will I outwit the guards of one of the top banks in the country? Will tomorrow see me breaking in and stealing this platinum ingot?
Alexis and my brother Thierry are both ready, incognito, cameras casually concealed. They can whip these out at a moment's notice and get the images we have to nail for Paris Match. Bulky professional cameras are easily noticed as out of the ordinary by any security guard worth his salt, so we have to follow particularly precise timing. Bambi's part in our mission is to drive me to the foot of the tower where I will have just seconds to attack the building and get out of reach. In the mundane traffic, he takes the wrong turn and embarks on a tourist circuit of Frankfurt's grey streets. This is a time of crucial mental preparation so this setback irritates me a lot, especially as I am now on unfamiliar ground. We are both pissed off and yell at each other. It is done with a grin and isn't really serious, just a few fireworks to let us both blow off a little steam. But still, we are both aware that with losing the car yesterday we cannot afford to lose another day today.
At the bank the others watch the minutes tick past with growing agitation. What is going on? And for me the disruption of my concentration starts an unwelcome internal domino effect; the stress rises and doubt gets the upper hand.
Finally, we spot the Dresdner Bank beyond an endless trail of red lights approximately two kilometres away. After a good quarter of an hour shuffling along, I bound out of the car, hunting down my two pals. They have left their hideout to mingle with the crowd and casually sit on a bench situated in a public garden near the building. Behind a group of anonymous faces, they wave at me. I get twitchy and frown; my partners will need to rehearse a little when it comes to discretion. It is time for them to return to the preselected place for photo shots, and to unpack the equipment, but I can't hang about and they are going to miss the first part of the ascent. Too bad, but I have no other choice than to attack at once. I fear that security has probably already spotted me, and I have to commit immediately or abandon the climb. If we lose this ascent then the whole project is threatened.
I spring over to the Achilles heel at the foot of this bar of silver and launch myself up its side. Quickly I am out of danger and can focus on the climb rather than the security guards. Years later, when I look back, I realise that this fear of being recognised and grabbed at the prelude of a climb is a little paranoid, but leaks do happen. And of course being a guard is usually mind-numbingly boring, so if there is even a hint of anything to do, any excitement, they do tend to jolt themselves awake ready to pounce. This possibility is at the forefront of my mind on all escalations. On occasions, to my bewilderment, the authorities have indeed known I was coming and intercepted me at the starting pistol. In Houston, for example, I was arrested even though I had yet to commit a crime. Houston. After all that planning and travel, to be collared before I can even get one foot on the building is a bitter pill to swallow.
But climbing the Dresdner is proceeding okay. It soon becomes clear that this escalation is difficult and has to be achieved as quickly as possible. The bank is a sapping obstacle and speed is my only way to reach the summit. For the first time I glance below to check out the authorities. Yes, as expected, there's a lot of activity down there, lots of uniforms running back and forth. The German fire brigade have reacted in a way I would have expected in America. They have resorted to drastic measures and have even taken out — and I have never seen this before — an immense inflatable mattress as used by stuntmen. The mattress can save people from falls of up to 50 metres. But from where I am, it would be necessary to use three of them!
I am surprised by this little show below and turn my gaze upwards with a smile. As I push onwards the fafades around me fall away and dwindle in number with my progress. Little by little, Frankfurt sinks below my feet. And it's a long way down! When climbing a building, the feeling of height is multiplied tenfold by the optical effects of your surroundings. The size of a human being or a car below can be reminiscent of being in a plane. But the effect of height is particularly enhanced by the vertical and flat nature of a building. Buildings are almost universally a collection of right angles and parallel lines. When in contact with a building, say looking out of a window or escalating it, these lines tighten and narrow to a distant point and give a dramatic sense of perspective. Such an impression is much more obvious than when climbing a cliff face. And of course there is no balcony, banister or terrace to hold your eye, and this can explain the sensation of dizziness one gets when reaching significant elevations. A stable visual reference works with the internal ear to enable balance. The dizziness and vertigo up here is very real and I need to steady myself on several occasions.
The structure is making physical demands on me as well as causing me disorientation, but I find my rhythm and make it to the summit of the bank where a multitude of smart uniforms welcome me professionally and politely. I experience a mixture of German rigour and courtesy. And a baffling surprise — some of them even show me copies of my picture postcards! They are mine alright, I can recognise the pictures of myself on solo rock climbs even from here. I am incredulous. I have just climbed in Germany for the first time, only to discover that news of my Parisian escalation has spread across this part of Europe. Am I becoming internationally famous? Right now I don't really want to know about it, and half-heartedly sign autographs owing to the flood of lactic acid in my leaden forearms.
After a while I am led away to the exit. On the flight of steps outside, inquisitive onlookers applaud 'the French serial climber' warmly. It's so heartening to see. Amongst a small motorcade of emergency vehicles, my police car awaits on the other side of the public garden. On the street, I pass innocently in front of Alexis and my brother. A simple smile and nod is enough to inform me that the photos went marvellously well. Reassured, I enter the rear of the police car and the interior becomes a virtual discotheque of revolving lights. And a second surprise — Bambi has also been stuffed in the back! With an embarrassed smile and an inappropriate booming voice, he explains that he was picked up while distributing my promotional picture postcards just outside the bank's entrance! Okay, I understand things a little better now. When the convoy moves off, the last of the observers savour the final spectacle — two idiots in handcuffs, heading for the police station in fits of laughter.
His cell adjacent to mine, Bambi asks me what may happen. Born in a poor Parisian suburb, this guy has never been arrested but has heard many rumours and tales, a lot of them urban myths of course. I tell him of my arrests to date and hazard a guess at the hours ahead. The interrogation is courteous but as soon as the cops learn about the two others, a patrol is sent to pay them a special visit at the hotel. I can imagine Alexis and Thierry's faces when the cops knock on the door!
The inspector, who speaks French perfectly, explains to me that they have to follow these procedures and then, lighting a cigarette, tells me about a stream of possible escalations in Frankfurt. My European tour project makes him smile and apparently there is no problem for him if I want to do another one.
"A little advice though, just wait a little before trying to climb here again!"
Given the measures implemented for my arrest, I could have expected a much worse reception. We are soon released and happily there is no legal action and no fine and we are sent on our way without hassle or drama. The journey can continue! It's gone very well so far and we can tackle the second summit of my trilogy. Italy is waiting for us.
Almost as soon as we exit the German police station, we set sail for Milan in my little Golf. We drive down through Germany and travel via hilly Switzerland by night. The car undulates through this scenic land, though sadly there is little to see by starlight. We are all haggard and bloodshot after the exertions of the day and night. Eventually we arrive in Milan, a city absolutely berserk about football. Even though it is not that far from the Alps, virtually no one knows anything about climbing here, so I am not quite sure how an escalation will be received. But before all that, it is necessary to locate a bed and sleep. We are all shattered and have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.
At midday, we finally manage to drag ourselves away from the soft pillows and duvets, refreshed and refuelled. Milan is clearly not a tall city, and nothing had jumped out at me on the way towards the hotel last night. We will have to hunt down my dream building, so we set about wandering this noisy metropolis. Three hours later we have seen a lot of unspectacular structures down the main avenues, and countless narrow alleys draped in the bunting of drying linen. Our purse seems to be shrinking quickly and only two buildings appear worthy of the visit: the Pirelli Tower, 120 metres of ageing and commonplace architecture, or the Banca di Milano, 110 metres of, well, pretty much the same. The contrast with lofty Frankfurt is striking. Our research is thorough and our conclusion inescapable — there are few high rise structures in Milan and nothing outstanding in terms of height to climb. It's a dilemma we toss to and fro over alfresco coffees.Soon it occurs to us that although lacking in the skyscraper department, there is however a wealth of historic or religious buildings. Why not climb a beautiful church rather than an ordinary taller building? We decide to head out a second time for another two hours of scouting.
Duomo di Milano is a spectacular find. It is a glorious marble cathedral surmounted by a gigantic dome, built between the 14th and 16th centuries. The highly ornate exterior, interior and powerful spiritual presence draws thousands of tourists and devotees every day. The four of us approach the cathedral from the square and stand before its lively Napoleonic fafade, topped off with countless decorative spires. From below, the structure seems complex yet accessible, but it remains to be seen how the summit looks. Behaving like nice tourists, we begin a cultural tour with a slightly different interest in the architectural exploits of the cathedral's builders. I imagine myself as Quasimodo up there. My unkind friends say I resemble him. With a bit of luck, tomorrow we may see the hunchback of Duomo di Milano.
Alexis is far happier with the photographic opportunities here and decides to enter. We quietly follow and stroll around this hushed and holy site. In the nave, hundreds of little wax candles flicker silently, continuously renewed by the pious believers of Catholic Italy. Alexis suggests lighting one as an act of faith. It sounds like a nice idea! I pick one, light it, carefully place it in the middle of the others and then, with my most beautiful wrinkled smile, I say a little prayer for my objective. A glow penetrating my eyelids alerts me to a miniature fire and my wide eyes reveal a disaster — my wax candle has keeled over with a flamboyant splutter and broken into a tiny blaze! The wrecked candle has split down its length and is self-destructing in a molten mess. Is this a divine sign, a bad omen, a warning of things to come? Is this disapproval from on high? Would I not be entitled to my small slice of paradise? I exchange glances with my aghast friends — the symbolism is not lost on them either. There are a few stifled guffaws which we desperately try to prevent from echoing around the cavernous interior. Pools of molten wax are all that is left of my candle, lumpy and irregular like the contours of my nose. We creep out but the comical self-immolation of the melodramatic candle stays with us for the rest of the day.
Saturday morning begins like a dream. The weather is magnificent, surprisingly agreeable for climbing cathedrals. It feels almost like a cool, brisk springtime, although it is actually close to Christmas. After a frugal breakfast, our team heads out in high spirits. The Duomo di Milano's white marble flight of steps, already transformed into a swarming ant hill of humanity, proudly reflects light onto the surrounding buildings as if to demonstrate its difference, its nobility. Away from the crowd, I innocently get geared up then quietly edge closer to the pillar by which I will make the escalation.
The ascent is complicated and will follow various miniature structures and pillars until I make the summit, only 50 metres off the ground. While there is no security to worry about, there are hundreds of people milling around. I plant my hands on the pillar, exploring it, establishing my relationship with it. The first contact with marble is always a strange sensation for a rock climber — the stone is cold, extremely smooth but paradoxically warm, princely. I give my bag of magnesia chalk a final check and then begin the escalation. I pull myself heavenwards with my hands and push with my feet against the pillars, hunting for the right balance. This is a bit of a test for me. Despite the clear sky and sunlight it is quite cold this morning and my body has not yet warmed up. One feels a little on edge when one's body isn't quite ready. I stutter, falter. It isn't a textbook start and I remind myself a shuffling approach is not on the programme today. I decide to commit. I raise another leg, then manoeuvre towards the top of the pillar, eyeing up a series of easier and smaller columns. I work to apply perfect adhesion to the marble pillar, gripping it like a gecko with my chalked fingers and slippered feet. Deliberately and without haste, I finally curl my right hand towards the top of the pillar for a firm grip...
My buttocks flat on the ground, I open my eyes. What happened? My hand, a blast of electricity, the pavement, all within a split second? All around, people pass by without even looking at me. At the foot of God they are used to this kind of extravagance. After all, everybody has the right to kneel, bow or prostrate themselves at such a place.
I sit there astonished and alarmed. Since my hospitalisations, I am really afraid of falls. But luckily, I fell vertically downwards without a shunt, spin or twist. My posterior took the impact of a three-metre fall. My weakened wrists were spared and as far as I am concerned the rest of me doesn't really matter. Regaining my senses and ignoring the throbbing sensation in my underpants, I look for an explanation for this improbable fall. I definitely took an electric shock. Was the irreverent rock climber struck by a divine bolt of lightning? Have I blasphemed and been sent back to earth by an act of God?
Strange thoughts race through my head as I dust myself down, my hand still tingling. I find Alexis and use his telephoto lens to re-examine the Duomo di Milano. Incredible! A very discreet network of exposed and potent electric wires covers any possible space which could serve as a place of repose for pigeons. I just took a severe blow of juice! My heart is still pounding. Yesterday's wax candle was indeed a bad premonition! The candle knew what was to happen! Offended, we return to the hotel, not sure whether we should be angry, afraid or if we should laugh at this unfathomable episode. Exit Duomo di Milano — there is no way I can climb it. It is necessary to immediately find another objective.
Days pass. Several of them. We find nothing and we have to be in Paris on Wednesday to submit the article to the editor. Reluctantly, I decide I must return to the Banca di Milano. The tower rises directly above the pedestal of a busy shopping centre so I obviously cannot practice any movements in advance. I study it carefully through my binoculars, keeping a keen eye out for any unexpected surprises. Everything seems fine, the escalation looks feasible although from here it is impossible to know the full story. For now I content myself with the knowledge I have. Time is pressing so the objective is set.
It is Sunday and more than a week has passed since I was electrocuted by the pigeon-proof pillars of Duomo di Milano. More than half of our time has been swallowed up and we have ticked off only one building. My brother has negotiated access to the roofofthe opposite building (something doable in Italy!) in order to obtain the best angle for photography. Unlike other urban centres around the world, where humanity tends to persist more steadily throughout the day, Italian cities and towns empty and fill with people like the tides. It is now an almost deserted city and time to ascertain the best ways to get off the ground and onto the roof of the shopping centre to cross towards the Banca di Milano.
I sniff around and spot something. A metal bar designed to support verandas remains inadvertently protruding, left down by a casual shop assistant. This fortunate oversight forms my entry point and will allow me to pull myself up. I look around, conscious as ever at the beginning of my escalations not to draw attention to myself. A few figures stroll around within a block or so. It is so quiet I can hear a discarded newspaper on a bench over the road rustle in the breeze. The coast seems clear. I jump and catch the bar which, with an infernal noise, breaks with my weight. This horrendous snapping, crashing, thumping and tearing metallic noise doubtless alarms the whole district. Dramatically, the veranda starts to unfold on one side. I cannot dwell now, no more hesitation! Action! I attack once more and pass the half-unfurled and lopsided veranda then quickly make the roof, and within seconds I cross the shops towards the tower.
At the real departure point of the escalation, a nasty surprise: the structure turns out to be a very dirty, slippery metal, obviously never cleaned properly by the building management and seldom cleansed by a good thunderstorm. The bank is coated in the greasy soot of years of Milanese traffic. What had appeared through binoculars to be a stroll in the park is immediately transformed into an errant and unforeseen war. I ascend with trepidation. My feet slide repeatedly, and my mental red alert panels ignite and flash. Physically, the effort bears no comparison with my most beautiful climbs — this game is particularly unpredictable and capricious. At no time do I feel safe, the movements I employ being tortuous, complex and messy. Halfway up, I am amazed to be still following this ill-considered adventure. The more a high building impresses visually, the more difficult it is supposed to be, according to logic or predisposition. Here however, on this average building, without style, without class, without height, the level of difficulty is immeasurably disproportionate. It just goes to show that unspectacular buildings, like people, can easily be underestimated. I slip and wobble once again. What a tricky concrete pile!
After 30 minutes of intense effort, I overcome this wriggling eel of a bank to reach the summit and clamber over the railing onto the roof, happy to escape this booby-trapped tower unhurt. I am pleased to have made it yet I feel as if a crucial and decorative element of the play was missing. There was little beauty in evidence today, either architecturally or in terms of my own choreography. I look over the handrail towards the ground. The Banca di Milano was a treacherous escalation, and there can be no descent. On the rail, I loosen the slippers which are torturing my feet. Where are the cops? In fact nobody is waiting for me on the rooftop. No one around to put me in handcuffs or lecture me. No one to wonder if I should be taken to the local mental institution rather than the police station. There is nothing up here at all but cooing pigeons bobbing their heads in sync with their jerky steps. The surroundings are still and silence hangs in the air above the city. Never mind, I tell myself sitting on the rail, I am sure they are on their way. The panoramic sight of the city contrasts with dew-laden Milanese cobwebs under yellowish clouds in a delectable play of light. Such a perfect day. Absolutely brilliant.
Later, my pondering starts to transform into more searching questions. I have been up here 20 minutes and there is not the slightest revolving light in sight! This is weird. Not that I am absolutely anxious to be arrested, to enrich my collection of police inspectors' visiting cards — but how am I going to get back down before Monday morning? I have to admit it, I had never imagined that this might happen. I peer around the streets below but still nothing. Well, I have a T-shirt, which could act as a light windbreak. No, it is impossible to spend the night here. The leniency of the day will give way to the briskness of the evening and the December night will be less kind still. After another half an hour of reflection, perplexed and a little worried, I repeatedly cross the rail, making a pretence of attempting to descend the façadeand abandoning it. I hope that my friends will understand the signal. Ten minutes later, I can hear far off the blaring of a siren. Hurrah! The cavalry!
Four racing fire engines and police cars stop outside the bank. Later I was to learn that my brother raised the alarm, even though he is incapable of speaking a single word of Italian. It is a miracle that they found the correct address. As in Frankfurt, they fuss around inflating an enormous mattress, then a guy tries to contact me by bellowing into a megaphone. I cannot catch a word of what he is saying and remain stonily indifferent to his efforts. Sitting on the rail, I watch them moving below like insects without really understanding what they are doing. I just want to take the elevator down and get arrested and then head off to Barcelona. Come on! I don't mind taking the stairs either, I just want to get off this roof. Climbers may be very keen to make the summit but they are just as keen to get off it. What is going on?
A few minutes later the metal access door cautiously creaks and then half-opens. A head hesitantly inches out. Two firemen approach gingerly and speak to me slowly and compassionately in Italian. For sure, it looks like they think I was about to commit suicide. Maybe they thought I was one of these golden boys or hot shots that blew everything on a risky flutter on the stock exchange. As I stand to address them they take a fearful step backwards with their hands outstretched in placating gestures. They seem to be begging me, reasoning with me, showing me how much they care. I try to tell them I don't want to die. With my passport and my postcards in hand, I try to transform my French into makeshift Italian, haphazardly adding an 'i' at the end of every word. It is a bizarre situation. I feel as if I am in a slapstick comedy.
Eventually, these two parallel worlds unite in a more coherent one, and I finally pay my long-awaited visit to the police station. On Sundays, it seems, Italy stops. Milan is empty, abandoned, a ghost city. Apparently, the cops do not want to waste their time with me either. They don't want a troublesome Frenchman interrupting their easy Sunday — they are too busy chatting with each other, reclining in their chairs with their feet up on the table. I am quickly released and the policeman who arrested me at the bank even takes me back to the hotel! It is very kind of him.
Covered in soot and grime, and resembling a maintenance worker, I am back in my room. I am safe after a slippery escalation, and avoiding prison cells and fines is great news for both our schedule and budget. The four of us are glad to be at the end of the second act of our journey even if, once again, I have to hunt my car down at the pound...
We waste little time and in the early hours my recovered car leaves Italy for the Iberian peninsula. Long hours pass as we cross southern France and drive over the Pyrenees. More tarmac blurs by until finally the outskirts of the Spanish city come into view.
For the visitor it is immediately clear that Barcelona is the victim of her own prosperous economy. Unchecked urban sprawl means the infrastructure is overwhelmed by dense traffic and we lose a couple of hours even once we make the city itself. Having swallowed almost a thousand kilometres of road at sometimes hair-raising speeds it is irritating to be stuck in traffic within a few miles of our goal. We impatiently stick our heads out the window to be greeted with honking horns, gridlock and fumes.
Getting around takes forever and we follow our routine of getting lost in the meanders of the city in search of beautiful architecture. By now we are getting tired and the conversation becomes less cordial. I have visited the heart of Barcelona before and it offers us a few interesting choices. A magnificent church near the city centre, Sagrada Familia, gets me excited but the unfortunate experience in Milan and the reputed fragility of the building discourage me a little.
In the suburbs of the city, quite close to the sea, stand two towers, each about 150 metres high. Before collapsing in our hotel we muster enough strength to forge up the coast and get a closer look at these two high rises. The towers are quite attractive and very different to each other in all but height. The traditional glass building, Torre Mapfre, is about a dozen metres from the metallic framed one, Hotel Arts, a juxtaposition which establishes an interesting spectacle. Apparently they are part of the Olympic village built for the 1992 Games. I weigh them up and select the one which possesses the more original architecture: the Hotel Arts. The 600-room luxury hotel is a unique glass box encased in a metal cage, looking almost like the engineers had forgotten to remove the scaffolding after it was completed.
The next day Gilles Loth, a journalist for Paris Match, lands to conduct the interview. He shakes my hand and we stretch out on the beach before enormous waves breaking on the pier. If the temperature had been a little warmer, I would have enjoyed being cleansed by the sea spray, but still it's not bad at all for December. I recount our hectic week to Gilles in the shadow of my next challenge; the successes, trials and tribulations plus my assessment of tomorrow's escalation. After a while Gilles departs with a full notebook and heads back to Paris to prepare the article. I look skywards and decide there is still ample time to check out my target. Light is fading and I take advantage of the dimness to try some movements, even though I risk a premature audience or the attention of the hotel security team. I climb up and down a few metres of the hotel a couple of times, seeking to understand it. The building seems relatively easy to climb but it is clear that I will need to put the first 25 metres quickly behind me as guards could easily grab me through the windows in this zone. Beyond this early exposure, however, the escalation looks highly achievable.
During the night, an ominous rumbling of thunder wakes me. Outside, the sky is split by flashes of lighting. Rain pounds my window pane as a violent thunderstorm envelops Barcelona. Brilliant... Rain on metal, there is nothing better to frighten a climber. In Formula 1 racing, the drivers have a choice of tyres, switching to wets for the rain so they don't fly off the track. I am however condemned to remain on slicks. My slippers rely on friction to be effective and are only designed for dry conditions. Put simply, when it rains you should not climb. But I must make this escalation as the magazine deadline imposes a return to Paris tomorrow. We can make it if the police are understanding and I don't get intercepted. To reduce the risk of losing a day at the police station, the ascent is scheduled for the early morning, only a few hours from now. Worried, I sit by the window and end the night by counting raindrops. One, two, three, twenty million...
Bambi wakes me up, slumped in my chair, my head pressed against the radiator in front of the window. Great parallel grooves are etched into my face. As I derail my cheek and lips I blearily recall my last conscious moments. Counting raindrops and sheep tends to have the same effect. But good news: the sky appears to have lost its cloud cover and regained its morning colours, as if nothing had taken place. I observe environmental cues. Outside, a breeze gives a cypress tree a shiver. Conditions look right for swift evaporation, and I am confident the building will quickly dry. We grant two more hours for the sun to carry out its work and the climb is fixed for ten o'clock.
At ten sharp, I leap out of the car and sprint towards the skyscraper, then springboard away from the pavement. I make it past the first five metres without incident. As I ascend I notice that zones of humidity remain, making the escalation possibly very problematic. I rapidly cross from the glass panes onto the metal structure to scatter the security team which has just turned up in force below. They yell their anger and despair from the square, to the great surprise of their fellow Spaniards passing by.
I could move diagonally and take advantage of the numerous struts of the lattice exoskeleton of the Hotel Arts, but to save time I climb straight up. The beams cross over each other a little clear of the tower. This nice grippable structure makes climbing relatively simple, although it is still essential to remind myself to respect the building. To the left, a beam forms a giant 'Z' and invites me to modify my route. I accept the invitation and push upwards. Then — my feet slip! Without any time to react, I fall and leave the structure. I tumble over a beam two metres below me. I flail out wildly and grab onto a support, and the fall ends there. My legs swing beneath me a good third of the way up the building. I clutch the pillar and wrap my legs around it, then take stock of the situation. My slippers had not stuck to the surface! The genius architect who had the idea to place this vertical beam right here saved my life. Awash in enthusiasm and excitement, I had not noticed this hidden wet zone. Cautiously I recover, chastising my lack of awareness. But today is my lucky day. With much more focus I ascend towards the top, wary of areas of damp which could bring the escalation to an end.
At the summit the police are waiting, none too amused, a dozen metres from me. They are on the roof and I am at the top of the cage. If I do not move, they will not approach. I hesitate. Do I take the risk of descending the building and hope to slip through the net? Or do I surrender right now and pray that my dinner date at the police station is as brief as in Frankfurt and Milan?
With the lattice free of the building, the beam I am holding onto is five or six metres from the rooftop, and connected to the awaiting cops only by a ten-centimetre-wide beam. To the right of the slender beam, a 150- metre drop. And to the left, just as much. I could and maybe should crawl across, but for the thrill of it, plus due to my pride — I have an audience up here and down there — I think it's nice to finish with a little flourish. I bring myself to my feet on the top strut, then walk the tightrope of the narrow beam above a sheer drop towards my jittery captors. I hop off and greet them with a smile.
"Hola! Nice to see you guys. Well, I took the long way up because I get claustrophobic in elevators." It looks like the policemen don't see the funny side. Their faces betray their collective thought that I am psychotic. They move in to arrest me, and as they slap the handcuffs on, they stare at me as if I was utterly insane.
There's a trip to the police station of course, but at the end of the day, everything is back to normal. Except for my car. Guess what? We have to go to the pound. Yet again. Is there some sort of telepathic link between me and my vehicle? When I get seized by the authorities and locked up, it does too. I go to rescue it as night falls. Barcelona is already shrouded in darkness by the time we start our long drive back to Paris. The three of us hit the road tired but in good spirits. In eleven days, despite several tricky issues, I climbed three towers in three different countries and we captured some nice images. It takes us all night and into the morning but we get to Paris with our mission accomplished.
I recuperate in a soft bed then head down to the offices. Paris Match plans to run a six-page article on my escalations, a real once-in-a-lifetime experience for a rock climber. I am very excited. The mainstream media does not usually report vertical odysseys, except perhaps during the July 'silly season'. Due to a general lack of domestic current events (politicians take a break in the summer) the media tend to fill airtime and page space with things like mountain accidents, forgetting that, statistically, swimming kills nearly ten times as many people as the mountains.
The magazine's deadlines are tight and I stay in the offices right through the night until the morning, assisting the graphic designer in selecting the best photos, juggling them around until we get it right. The article starts with a picture taken in the Milanese cathedral. The subject — me looking offended in front of my collapsed wax candle. Next follows a series of contrasting and provocative photos covering the cathedral, Dresdner Bank, Banco di Milano and Hotel Arts. The article is ready.
But then, tragedy. The famous television host Léon Zitrone dies, followed by a great film-maker, Louis Malle. Big tragedies, big news, big stories and my article is shunted out of the publishing schedule. And then the following week the former French President, Franfois Mitterrand, passes away too. And so does any hope of publishing my European tour.
A week or so later, Canal+ TV buys some of our images for their famous show Nulle Part Ailleurs. They feel it is a good story for the holiday season as it has something of a fairy tale about it. The audience reacts well and the experience is shared over the airwaves, so the project is not a total loss. Although we never got the article published in Paris Match as planned, this fortnight remains an unforgettable memory, like the frolics of the summer holidays when you were a carefree teenager.
That Christmas, a fire is lit within me. I have no doubt at all that more escalations will follow. I shall climb again, farther, higher, with more style, more daring. My passion has never been stronger. It is a beautiful world filled with beautiful challenges. It cannot wait any longer.