I was conditioned as a child to sit silently beside a moving window. I grew up 40km from the nearest town. For 18 years, I rode a school bus, a back seat or gripped a steering wheel for at least an hour, often two. Silent reverie became a pastime. Thinking has become an art.

Right now I’m on a train, heading south in Germany. The deeper I go into Bavaria, the more I like it. Perhaps it’s my complexion. I’m headed for Austria. I’ve been in one place for the past two weeks. Two weeks anywhere, unless I’m getting paid, is too much — glaciers and action-oriented locales excluded.

I’ve spent the last two weeks re-learning how to rock climb. Most importantly, I’ve re-learned — despite irrational fear and negative self-doubt — that falling is acceptable, bolts won’t rip out, and giving 110% is not only advisable, but also the point of it all.

Twelve hours ago, alpine conditions in the Dolomites improved and my original host was compelled to travel immediately. (This is often hard for the recreationally-minded to understand, but conditions are conditions and vary with the weather. When it’s good, you go. “Condition-dependent” is the fine print of many a climber’s date-making.) Thus my detour past Berchtesgaden and into Austria. This morning I left the 5.12s of southwest Germany, postponed the 5.13s of the southeast, and I am now headed for Castle Krankenstein. The routes of either area are irrelevant — they’re all beyond me at the moment. The bell has rung; class is about to start. I’ll redpoint the warm-ups and take some photos. Mostly, I expect to belay a lot.

Which brings me back to the thinking thing. Why would I go to these places when the physical demands are so great? As the orientation of this train seat is reminding me, I dislike the sensation of moving backward. The world moves perpetually, so standing still quickly becomes an equivalent sensation. While “why?” is often a good question, in this case, “why not?” is a better one.

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