Day Four

Koji Fukada maintains a simmering tension from start to finish in his Un Certain Regard entry "Harmonium."  The tension is initially when will the wife of the owner of a small manufacturing firm learn that the man he has just hired and invited to live with them is an ex-con.  Her first reaction is not happy at all with the arrangement, but then she takes a liking to him, especially when he develops a strong relationship with her young daughter.  The tension escalates when the ex-con reveals himself not to be the docile, reformed murderer that he appears to be.  All the intricate plot twists and nuances of this story are perfectly credible, as if it were recounting actual events.  This was the most riveting of the twenty-six films I have seen so far.  Ralph agreed that it stood above everything he has seen so far as well.  

"At Your Doorstep," a Spanish film about the mortgage crisis, is packed with legitimate tension as well.  Since 2008 there have been more than 500,000 evictions in Spain, an average of 170 a day.  This is the story of a young family dealing with the issue.  They have two days to come up with their latest payment or the parent's of the wife, who they have been forced to live with, will lose their home as well.  With such a deadline, which the Loach film lacked, this film had a genuine sense of urgency, and in some ways was a better film, though it won't be recognized as such since it has a smaller platform.  Yesterday's Loach film received only a mixed reaction, with an average score of 2.4 on a four point scale from "Screen" magazine's panel of twelve critics.  One of the two French critics thought it so contrived he gave it zero stars.  The lone four-star review came from the British critic Nick James of "Sight and Sound."

There was some tension in my day's lone Competition film, the lusciously stylistic "The Handmaiden" by Park Chan-wook.  It is the first South Korean film in Competition in four years.  His "Old Boy," which Spike Lee did a remake of, won the Grand Prix in 2003. The tension would have been more palpable if the con being perpetrated had been more evident.  It is only fully revealed in subsequent retellings of the story of a young woman enlisted by a con man to be the servant of a wealthy woman he's seducing.  The con goes awry when the women fall in love.  Their couplings are more graphic and luscious than those of the Palm d'Or winner "Blue is the Warmest Color."  The sex scenes are the dominant feature of the film, earning it the label of an "erotic thriller."

I allowed the casting of Mathieu Amalric, who has been a big draw in France since "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" won the best director award at Cannes in 2007, to lure me to see "Struggle for Life," a French farce about building an indoor ski resort in French Guinana.  Amalric is a bureacrat in Guinana and only has a small role in the film.  The lead is a young man who is hired as an intern to assist with the project. He has way more authority than he can handle and is a bungling fool, getting lost in the jungle.  He's 27, the same age as the average age of Napolean's generals, but in the present age, much too young for such responsibility.  

"Welcome to Norway" transported me from the tropics to the arctic.  A guy with a run-down hotel decides to convert it into a home for fifty refugees.  The state subsidies can make him a wealthy man.  The refugees arrive before he has made it fully habitable.  The refugees from all over Africa and the Middle East range from being helpful to being demanding.  One has been a refugee for over ten years and has high expectations on how he ought to be treated, as do most of them. This less than fully-realized effort was more of a comedy than a portrayal of real issues.

I thought I might see Milos of Facets at "The Green Fairy," a documentary on absinthe, as Vincent Van Gogh was mentioned in the program blurb as a character in the film.  Milos had recently given a presentation at Chicago's Art Institute on the portrayal of Van Gogh in cinema, culminating with a twenty-minute short by Alain Resnais.  Janina had attended the talk and said it was excellent--"a triumph."  If Milos had attended this film he would have been perturbed by the overbearing sound track.  I had seen him earlier in the festival after he had seen the documentary "The First Monday in May" and he had complained how documentaries so often fail with their sound tracks.  

Absinthe was created in he late 1700s but it's period of fame came a century later when it became popular as a cheap and inspiring drink among the artistic set.  The film includes reinactments of Van Gogh and Gaughin using it and Oscar Wilde as well singing its praises.  It was at one time banned in the US but is now regaining popularity.

"X" is a Japanese heavy metal band that has been a phenomenon in its country since the '80s, "the greatest band you have never heard of" according to the program.  Gene Simmons of Kiss maintains that if it were an Americsn or British band it would be recognized as one of the best in the world.  "We Are X" traces their history and includes a climatic performance at Madison Square Garden.

Day Three

Today's menu of films included substantial fare from three pre-eminent filmmakers with films in Competiton that left Ralph and I plenty of fodder to digest and discuss.  Ken Loach's "I, Daniel Blake" is an unrestrained indictment of England's social service system.  Blake, a cantankerous but warm-hearted older working man, has a heart ailment that has him out of work.  His personal doctor disagrees with the government's doctors on whether he should go back to work or not.  His attempts at arbitration cause him no end of frustration between his lack of computer skills and dealing with the bureaucracy.  He erupts with fury multiple times at the social service office.

On one occasion he defends a young single mother with two young children resulting in all of them being evicted from the offices.  They strike up a friendship and he becomes their guardian angel fixing up their flat, helping them get food and drawing the young boy from his shell.  When the young woman is caught shoplifting and is drawn into work that upsets Blake their friendship ends and Blake spirals downward.  He has to sell his furniture and commits an act of protest that gets him arrested.  

The film maintains a fine balance of the struggling and downtrodden looking after one another and offering hope  and the desperation they find themselves in.  Loach says this is his last film, the thirteenth time he has been in Competiton.  Some of the plot twists may be a bit facile and not fully earned diminishing the full power the film could have had, but it is an excellent effort to go out on.

The three-hour long Romanian "Sieranevada" by Cristi Puiu, whose first film "The Death of Mr. Lazaruscu" was the art film of the year in 2005, making more Top Ten lists than any other, is much meatier fare.  It is a small gathering of friends and family in a modest apartment to commemorate the death of the patriarch of the family.  We don't learn much about him, but rather of the lives and torments of those gathered.  The conversation ranges from 9/11 conspiracy theories to how life had been under communism.  Some of it is well-reasoned but it can veer into explosiveness, especially an argument over a parking spot.   Secrets and old grievances are bared including a woman who devastates her husband with the knowledge of all his infidelities.  Each character is convincingly played and has more than a superficial veneer.  As Ralph predicted, this is an early favorite for best screen play. He is eager to see it again to fully appreciate its depth and many nuances.  Me too.

Not so with Bruno Dumont's outlandishly absurdly comedy "Ma Loute".  The setting along the rocky seashore of northeastern France is most beguiling but the story of cannibalism and levitation and a grotesquely obese detective continually falling appealed to a sense of humor I do not share.  Dumont's cinematic skills make it watchable, but the senseless shenanigans of the impoverished locals and effete airs of the wealthy on the bluffs, who have to be carried across the lagoons by those who want to make a meal of them, hardly even leant itself as an allegory.

The rest of my day was comprised of a strange mix of documentaries.  I didn't realize that "Cheer Up," a Finnish film about high school cheerleaders was going to be a documentary.  I had hopes of this being the wackiest film of the festival, but it was a dud, with not enough of the acrobatic, highly cinematic cheerleading routines and too much examination of the mundane lives of the cheerleaders.

I had hopes that "Peter and the Farm" about an idealistic counter-culture refuge of the '60s who had lived the last thirty-five years of his life maintaining a farm in Vermont could be an inspirational affirmation of my ideals.  Half way through the documentary we learn that he is an alcoholic who the filmmakers fear will kill himself and ruin their film. We do get a sense of life on the farm looking after sheep and bailing hay, but this was another example of a seemingly interesting person who on the surface seems worthy of a documentary, but needed more accomplished filmmakers to make him so. 

Sunny Leone, as the most googled person in India, is certainly worthy of a documentary. Hers is "Mostly Sunny."  She is a young woman of Indian heritage who grew up in Sarnia, Canada, moved to LA with her parents in her teens and by happenstance ended up in Penthouse and went on to be the Penthousue Pet of the year in 2003, which led to a career in pornography.  She married one of her fellow porn stars, who became her manager.  She was drawn to India to appear on a reality show and has become a megastar there, forsaking her porn career to become a Bollywood star.  She conveys an innocence and sincerity that has won her widespread popularity.  Her videos were found in Osama Bin Laden's lair.  The film includes an appearance on Howard Stern's show where she describes her porn antics. 

Day Two

The lone bicycling film had one of its two screenings today--"Blood Road," a documentary about ultra-endurance athlete Rebecca Rusch bicycling the Ho Chi Minh trail in search of the crash site of her father while serving in the Air Force during the Vietnam War in 1972 when she was three years old.  I had recently read her autobiography, "Queen of Pain," written before she undertook this ride.  

The screening was by invitation only, but that didn't scare me off, as I knew from past experience that if there were empty seats I could well be let in.  And so it was today.  Only four of the invitees showed up for the film, which was just a 36-minute rough cut.  It gave a good taste of her ride on paved and dirt roads and single track through mountainous terrain.  I could fully appreciate the early part of her ride on paved roads with all manner of traffic, having ridden Vietnam's Highway One myself from Hanoi to Saigon, the opposite direction which she was riding.  

She was joined by the premier Vietnam female cyclist, whose father also served in the war and was still alive.  They rode mountain bikes and only carried small packs on their backs as they had a support crew, which included Rusch's fire-fighter husband.  Their budget also was adequate to provide for aerial shots of their ride.  The producer who introduced the film said it ought to be completed by November.  

This was the fourth of a string of documentaries I packed my schedule with today, sandwiched between the first Competition film on the schedule and two Un Certain Regard films at the end of the day.  My first two docs were about legendary soccer players--Bobby Moore of England and the Ukranian Valerie Vasilievich Lobanovskyi.

Bobby Moore was the captain of England's lone World Cup champion in 1966.  The film, simply entitled "Bobby," could well have simply focused on the fiftieth anniversary of that momentous event for England.  The Cup was held in England and included footage of a young Queen Elizabeth opening the tournament and also attending the championship game in Wembley Stadium against Germany with the team marching up to her after the win.  It was just twenty years after the war, adding to the intensity of the game and magnitude of the victory.

Moore was a most dignified and elegant leader as well as a great talent on the field, respected by all.  Pele called him the best defender he played against.  Not only did he score and assist on goals, he made extraordinary steals from opponents.  He was an iconic figure at the time, ranking with rock and movie stars.  His post playing career though was an extreme let-down.  He was not enlisted to coach higher profile or the national team, despite his high standing.  He divorced his wife and died from cancer at the age of 51 in 1993.  His second wife campaigned for a statue of him in front of Wembley.  Both wifes speak glowingly of him in the film as do ex-teammates as well as football officials, some of whom regret how he was neglected in his post-playing career, especially that he was never knighted.

Lobanovskyi, in contrast, was both an extraordinary player as well as coach, reflected in the title of the documentary--"Lobanovskyi Forever."  It too portrayed the game as transcending the world of sport.  He was the star of the Ukraine team Dynamo Kiev that was considered the best team in the world in 1975.  Football was the lone area where it was permissible to manifest nationalism during the Soviet era.  After his playing career he became a highly driven coach who was rarely known to smile but brought out the best of his players.

Every year there seems to be at least one documentary by someone traveling around France showing the beauty of its countryside and talking to locals.  This year's version by Raymond Depardon was simply entitled "Les Habitants," though translated to "France" for the English version.  The French title was more appropriate, as the film is conversations between two locals that the filmmaker happens upon sitting at a table in the caravan that he is pulling around with him with a window in the background looking out upon a town square.  The conversations are all about everyday matters--boy friends and girl friends and personal relationships and the anticipation of having a baby and where to vacation.  There are about twenty of them in sixteen different towns.  It included road footage traveling between towns through the magnificent scenery I know so well.  This didn't have a transcendent quality I was hoping for.

The three feature films of the day, all selected by the festival organizers for the two top competitive categories, transcended the mediocrity of the market, exemplifing cinema as an art form. "Staying Vertical" by Alain Guiraudie of France was arty from the start, with the top of the head of the lead character, a screen writer, cut off as he talks to a young man standing along a country road asking him if he'd like to be an actor.  It is the first of a series of strange encounters with outsiders that have a sexual, mostly homoerotic, bent.  The encounters grow stranger and more implausible as if the film is intent on being original and outrageous, culminating with an act of sodomy.  

The opening film for Un Certain Regard was likewise very artfully filmed, but it had a genuine sense of reality and purpose and importance.  "Clash" takes place virtually inside a police truck full of demonstrators arrested in Cairo in 2013 protesting the military coup of the Islamic president.  This Egyptian film fully captures the chaos and claustrophobia of the experience.  The twenty or so people crammed into the truck range in age from children to the elderly, men and women. They don't all get along initially, but then they have to band together as they are shot at and stoned and need water and need to urinate.  It's only ninety minutes long, but seemed to go on interminably, both for those in the truck and those in the audience.

The day concluded with the Israeli/Palestinian film "Personal Affairs."  This took the time to develop personal relationships, mostly the bickering of an older couple and also their children with their spouses and girl friend.  The older couple have three grown children.  One lives in Sweden and has been trying to get his parents to visit.  His father would very much like to but the mother adamantly refuses.  The two other children try to convince her to go.  But that plot line is almost incidental to the discord in all the relationships, including a writer son and his girl friend of three months.  The writer's sister is encouraging them to marry, claiming she's happily married, though it certainly seems otherwise.  The director and writer of the film was a woman.  It left one wondering about her regard for male/female relations.

Cannes Day One

Unlike years past this year's program did not specify a film's genre, which had allowed me to quickly skim those identified as horror or animation just to see if they had a bicycle element. That slowed my process of wading through all the blurbs on the better than thousand films being screened over the next twelve days that I have yet to complete it.  I did read up on all 110 films shown today to make sure nothing important slipped past me.  Many films only play once.  I would have been very disappointed to have missed "S Is for Stanley," a documentary on Kubrick, though it does have a second screening and was worthwhile enough that it could turn up at Telluride in the theatre it devotes to films on cinema.   

It was an Italian production focused on Emilio D'Alessandro, an Italian who worked with Kubrick for thirty years up until Kubrick's death in 1999, initially as his driver, then as an all round factotum and confidante. He wrote a book in 2012 about their time together "Stanley Kubrick and Me."  Much of the movie is an interview with him sitting in his garage surrounded by boxes of Kubrick memorabilia.  It was a perfect setting for this still very simple and unpretentious guy who moved to London as a young man and married an English woman.  

He was an aspiring race car driver who worked part-time as a cab driver. He won Kubrick's favor when he delivered a large prop for "Clockwork Orange" in a snowstorm--the large penis that barely fit into his cab.  He called upon him for more work and then hired him full time.  Even though D'Allessandro was around for the filming of his movies and worked with all the cast, he never watched a completed movie until he briefly retired from working for Kubrick and moved back to Italy in 1991 at the age of fifty.  When he did watch them, he recognized that Kubrick was a genius.  Kubrick asked him which was his favorite.  He told him "Spartacus," which made Kubrick groan, as it was his least favorite.

Kubrick came to rely on him so much that he put aside his work on "Eyes Wide Shut" when he left him.  Only only resumed it when D'Allassandro missed Kubrick so much that he retired from his retirement.  Kubrick named a cafe for him in the movie and gave him a role as a magazine stand seller and gave his equally unpretentious and down-to-earth wife a role as an extra in the movie as well.  The rest of the cast thought she must have been someone important when Kubrick treated her so well on the set.  

D'Allesandro had no idea what the white powder was that Jack Nicholson sniffed when he drove him around during "The Shining."  He was equally mystified that such a rich man would roll his own cigarettes.  He'd never breathed such fumes before and they stunk up his cab and made his head explode.  He was most distraught that Nicholson would make him slow down when he spotted a pretty girl and invite her into his cab.  He told Kubrick he didn't like him and didn't want to have anything to do with him.  Kubrick obliged him. 

There are at least three other documentaries on filmmakers playing in the market.  The others are on Ken Loach, who has a film in Competition, which he says is his last film, and Richard Linklater and Johnny To. No subject seems too trivial for a documentary.   There is one from Denmark called "Bugs" on insects as food and another on the six back-up dancers in Madonna's "Truth or Dare" from twenty-five years ago.  The oddest on today's schedule was "The Founders," about the thirteen amateur women golfers who founded the LPGA (Ladies Professional Golf Association) in 1950.  Only four are still alive.  Babe Didrickson, the most prominent of them, died long ago of cancer at the age of 42, but she featured prominently in the ample archival footage. The LPGA fully acknowledges the Founders with an annual tournament in their honor. It was a fascinating history lesson following the LPGA to the present.  Althea Gibson, a two-time Wimbledon winner, joined the LPGA, breaking the color barrier at many tournaments.  There wasn't much interest in this, as there is in the sport in general.  There was only one other person in the audience and he left before it was even half over.

Brie Larson, recent Oscar winner for "Room" and Donald Sutherland, on their year's jury, star in "Basmati Blues," an American version of a Bollywood film with song and danc.  It largely takes place in India after opening in Manhattan. Larson is a brilliant scientist who has designed a strain of rice (Rice 9 in a seeming homage to Vonnuegut's Ice 9) that produces 22 per cent more per acre.  She is sent to India by the evil CEO of her company, Sutherland, to promote it, not knowing that when farmers sign up to use it they will be indentured to buying it for five years, as it will not serve as a seed for the following year's crop.  Staying true to its Bollywood nature, it is also a love story, as two Indians vie for Larson's heart, one who wears a suit and works for Larson's company and the other an idealistic son of a farmer who had to drop out of college due to lack of funds.  There are occasional board room scenes back in Manhattan. In one Sutherland sings a song about the "greater good" with the lyrics "got to loosen up the child labor laws and get the kiddies off the street" and "the lion takes the lion's share."

This was my first movie of the day and I might not have gotten to see it if the staff hadn't bungled it's starting time, moving it up to 9:30 rather than the posted 9:45 in the schedule in the 63-seat Leirins One screening room as it could well have filled with buyers and people with priority badges.  People streamed in after it started and filled the aisles. 

The Dutch film "Hope" taking place in Manhattan also indicted the corporate world.  An iealistic forty-year old Dutch woman banker decides to move to New York to try to reform the greedy banking system.  She is fired from her job and then tries to change the ways of a high profile banker who heads one of the largest banks in the world and also happens to be Dutch.  She seduces him and is given a special project at his bank to make it more socially responsible and profitable.  Her proposals, including pay cuts for the executives, are not well accepted.  Her affair spirals out of control.  When she gives the story to a reporter the object of her desire has her arrested for stalking him.

"Good Luck Sam" is also a commentary on our economic times.  A small French factory that makes skis is on the brink of bankruptcy when the Swedish skier it was sponsoring for the Olympics is forced by his federation to use skis from another company.  The company tries to save itself by sponsoring the first ever Algerian to ski in the Winter Olympics and that skier is one of the company's owners, well played by Sami Bouajila, who shared a best actor award at Cannes in 2006 for "Days of Glory."  He is of Algerian heritage but he has never lived there and doesn't speak Arabic and has never been a competitive skier.  Qualification from smaller countries isn't as strict as from larger countries so he has a chance to do it.  He can also earn a $20,000 stipend from the international Olympic committee for his efforts, which his company desperately needs.  When he goes to Algeria to collect it, the national committee only gives him $2,000 of it.  When he begins training he doesn't tell his wife what he is doing.  She is appalled when she learns.  There are many other obstacles to overcome.  The winter scenery is spectacular and the skiing cinematic.

The only film I saw with Ralph, who once again is letting me put my sleeping bag down in his accommodation, was the last screening of the night, a Japanese thriller, "Himitsu, The Top Secret."  Its plot was a secret as well, as the program had nothing to say about it.  There was only one other film in the final time slot of the day, other than Woody Allen's Opening Night film which I couldn't consider as it required formal attire, a horror film that neither of us had any desire to see.  

Ralph lived in Tokyo for over ten years and I spent a couple months bicycling it, so we are always drawn to Japanese films. We weren't sure if we would stick with it as it was 149 minutes long and we didn't care to fall into sleep deprivation too soon into the festival, but this police thriller held us and most of the audience until the very end even though it's multiple story lines weren't fully resolved.  It was a sci-if police thriller with a special unit solving crimes by searching the memories of corpses.  The science hasn't been perfected, so the evidence it produces can't be used in court, but it greatly assists the police in solving crimes.  This was stylishly directed and acted and a somewhat satisfying final dose of cinema for the day before the meatier fare begins on Day Two.

Provence

I

The further south I venture into France, the greener the vegetation and the more sumptuous the countryside.  There is no lull in its splendors.  The rugged gorges and mountain peaks and fields of grains have been replaced by arcades of plane trees and meticulously nurtured vineyards.  The roundabouts have an extra flair with sculptures and flower beds in heavily touristed Provence.

Before I began my home stretch run to Cannes, where I will spend the next two weeks, I had a nice dose of Chicago, thanks to a visit with Craig and Onni in Notre Dame de la Rouviere, the small village where they now spend seven months of the year two hundred miles west of Cannes in the Cevannes.  It seemed so natural to drop in on them, it was almost as if I were stopping by their Chicago home just a mile from my former apartment in Wicker Park.  Their blue-shuttered three-story home just a block from the town's small cathedral and monument to the WWI dead was a warm and familiar site.

Usually I visit them after Cannes so I'm in no rush to be on my way.  Only twice before have I swung by  for a brief stop on my way to Cannes, though once Craig accompanied me the rest of the way, one of three bicycling ventures we have done together in France.  The longest was up to Mont St. Michel, the Grand Départ for this year's Tour.  This was just the second time that I have descended upon them from the north over the 4,000 foot Col de la Serreyrede.  I couldn't appreciate the views on that first ride as I was caught in a snow storm and swallowed up by the clouds.  The snow alternated between heavy wet flakes and sleet.  It was a brutal ride, especially the fifteen-mile descent, squeezing the brakes hard all the way down and shivering to the brink of hypothermia.   

This time I had clear skies and could take in the vast panoramas. The only challenge was trying to make it to the summit by eight p.m. so I could reach Craig and Onni before the next day. It was still a chilly ride, especially the long descent. I warmed up on the final mile climb to Notre Dame.  Before that warm-up I was hoping I'd arrive to a fire, as I did that first time.  Craig said they'd had fires every night in their old stone house without a furnace up until the past couple of days, but it had finally started warming up.

I arrived right at dark, 9:15.  I had been alerting them all afternoon on my progress, not sure if I would make it that evening, not remembering how steep the climb was to the 4,000 foot summit just below the weather station on Mont Aigoual, the highest peak in the region.  Fortunately it didn't exceed five or six per cent and I reached the summit shortly before eight allowing me just enough time to make it to Craig and Onni that night.  I was stopping to eat a few bites of my dinner of couscous and raisins every half hour or so to keep me fueled. The couscous were the last of a two-pound bag Janina had sent me off with. Usually I mixed them with cassoulet or ravioli, but it was a holiday and I hadn't come upon any open supermarkets. I still had half a bowl left when I arrived, which I supplemented with Onni's fixings of lentils and potatoes and lettuce from their garden.

Craig and Onni had acquired a terraced garden a quarter of a mile from their home since my last visit.  It hadn't been maintained for over thirty years.  It's walls had crumbled and was overgrown with all manner of bushes and trees and weeds.  It had been a major project restoring it.  Craig had enlisted the help of friends in the village and had been joined by a retired psychiatrist as a full-fledged collaborator.  It was looking magnificent.  Craig had become most proficient at reconstructing the stone walls.

He was most excited though of having just discovered a small spring after digging out a collapsed pile of rocks.  He was uncertain though if it would produce water through the summer.  In the meantime he has water from another source that he stores in large plastic cisterns.  The gardening has been so satisfying he recently acquired an adjoining plot that he can likewise develop.  The views from his terraces out over the mountainous terrain make tending to the work all the more fulfilling. I was sorry I had no time to spare and couldn't help with the day's bean planting or help haul a swing set he'd just scavenged up onto one of his terraces above the road.

I was able to take advantage of Craig's bike stand and his mechanical expertise to adjust my rear derailleur.  It had been throwing my chain over the largest ring into the wheel.  Unfortunately it wasn't simply a matter of adjusting a screw, but of bending the drop out.  It had evidently been jarred in transit.  Craig also has zipper expertise.  He was able to figure out how to operate the zipper on my sleeping bag that the pull had jerked off on.  We couldn't reattach it, nor thread a paper clip or piece of wire through it.  It wasn't so difficult to pull the zipper closed, but it took some manipulation to open it.

I needed to leave by noon so I could reach Nimes, fifty miles away, before its tourist office closed.  My first stop though was at a supermarket in Ganges, ten miles down the road, for a bottle of mint syrup. The big climbing was behind me, so I could afford to take on the three-pound liter glass bottle that would please my taste buds no end with every sip of the mint-flavored water that would now fill my water bottle. It would give energy along with great pleasure.  

It was mostly downhill to Nimes on a fairly busy highway.  I was drawn to its tourist office with hopes of finding out where Hannibal crossed the Rhone with his elephants in 213 BC.  I had gone in search of the spot a year ago, having read in a Peter Mayle book that there was a plaque at the spot.  I couldn't find it and had been told at the Avignon tourist office that Nimes had a museum devoted to Hannibal that ought to know.  Nimes has some significant Roman ruins, but no such museum.  An older gentleman at the tourist office knew nothing about a plaque but after several minutes on the internet could tell me Hannibal made his crossing at Pont St. Esprit where an island divided the river.  I had no time to search it out immediately, but maybe after Cannes.

From Nimes I headed to Cavaillon, south of Avignon, to search out a bakery that was the subject of Mayle's book, "Confessions of a French Baker."  It was one of several artisan bakeries in the city.  The book was not on display nor was the baker on duty.

Then it was on to Vauvenargues, ten miles east of Aix-en-Provence, where Picssso lived from 1958 until 1962 and was buried on the grounds of the chateau where he resided after his death in 1973.  The chateau is still owned by the Picssso family and is not open to the public.  It was still worth seeking out.  There was a billboard along the small road above the village and chateau advertising homes for sale with a view of the chateau.

I continued on the small rural road with more Sunday cyclists than motorists for ten miles before returning to the busy main highway through the region.  After Brignoles I turned off onto another small road to Cabassa to pay homage to a square named for the cyclist Jean Dotto.  He wasn't a Tour de France winner, though he competed in it thirteen times between 1952 and 1964 with his best finish a fourth in 1954 while winning the 19th stage. The following year he became the first French rider to win the Tour of Spain.  He also twice won the Dauphinè-Libere.  The square named for him was in front of the post office and a block from the large main square Place de la Libertad in front of the church.  After asking two people, an older guy sitting on a bench just a block from the square and a young man on a bike, neither of whom had heard of the Place de Jean Dotto, I consulted my GPS device and lo and behold it turned up.  I had actually been in the square, but hadn't looked high up enough to notice the plaque.  All the other street and place signs had been lower down, two-thirds the way up the first floor level.

From Cabassa it was four miles back to the main highway and then fifty miles to Cannes, where I will spend the next two weeks being transported all over the world thanks to the marvels of cinema.

Pas de Peyrol/Puy Marie

My route to Cannes this year has been more demanding than usual.  As always it has been dictated by intersecting with the route of the impending Tour de France so I can acquaint myself with some of its Ville Ètapes.  It just so happened that this year instead of being able to take a relatively flat route through the center of the country and linking up with the Rhone Valley leading into Provence and on to Cannes, I have been drawn up on to the Massif Central and ended up crossing its highest pass, the Pas de Peyrol, at over 5,000 feet, to take a look at the Puy Marie, a stunning extinct volcano that is on the list of "Grand Sites of France." The Tour de France occasionally includes it on its route.  The last time was in 2011.

Instead of being able to dwell on all the cinematic riches that await me at Cannes and reflecting on my wealth of twelve years of Cannes memories, my thought has been preoccupied with the rugged climbs ahead and how far down the road I must get each day to arrive at Cannes in time for all its festivities.  This has turned into more of an adventure rather than a mere commute to the festival.  I've been riding until beyond eight p.m. nearly every night and taking only short breaks, limiting my reading time.  No complaints, as any time spent on the bike is time well-spent.  I'm happy to be in semi-Tour mode putting in long days and poring over my map knowing I need to get a certain distance each day to arrive at Cannes in time to meet Ralph and also to have the time to stop off and visit Craig and Onni.  I end my days with an extra sense of accomplishment and well-being.  It's eat and then to sleep.

I was under pressure to get up and over the Pas de Peyrol before dark, as it was too cold for my sleeping bag to camp among the snow fields at its summit.  I wasn't even sure if it was going to be possible to cross it at all, as for miles road signs warned it was closed and a barrier blocked the road four miles from the summit.

I had already gone over a 4,000 foot pass with patches of snow along the road.  I trusted that there couldn't be that much more one thousand feet higher, and what there might be I ought to be able to push my bike through.  I have learned over the years not to trust the road closed signs in France.  They usually apply to road construction that bicyclists can get through.  I had already successfully ignored such signs twice on this trip, sparing me long detours. I had known for miles I would have another opportunity.  I was in Puy country with volcanic cones dotting the Massif.

When I passed the barrier the suspense truly began to mount, as well as the thrill of having a road surrounded by great beauty all to myself.  About a mile later I heard the approach of motorcycle from behind me.  My heart plunged that a gendarme was after me, but it was only a teen who zipped by without acknowledging me in any way. That was s promising sign.  Hopefully he knew what he was doing and I wouldn't see him again in a few minutes. 

After another mile the grade steepened to a ramp for the final two miles.  I stood up on the pedals thrusting my legs downward with all my might.  I was soon gasping from the effort.  I kept at it, heartened that there still wasn't much snow and what small banks of snow there were along the road showed signs of plow cuts, indicating that the road hadn't been totally closed down for the winter.  As I strained, I fought off the urge to resort to my 24 inch (as in two feet) gear and get off and walk. It was a gear I had only just learned about from Léo Woodland's comprehensive and witty primer on touring archived at the crazyguyonabike website.  Léo is Les Woodland's French pseudonym.  He has lived in France more than fifteen years.  He goes by Léo in France as Les as the plural for "the" causes confusion. He has also adopted Léo as his byline for his writings on touring which includies a delightful book about bicycling across the US, "Sticky Buns Across America." He has also contributed diaries of several of his tours in France to crazyguy as well.

Though I didn't use my 24 inch gear, I did pause to let the pounding in my chest subside.  I couldn't delay as night was imminent.  I pushed on to reach the summit by eight with the light brilliantly illuminating the scenery all around.  The road remained clear, though it continued along a ridge below the Puy Marie and turned a bend before making its plunge.  I couldn't tell if it were swallowed by snow at the bend.  Thankfully not.  It was clear sailing.  I put on a sweater and wind-breaker and exchanged my cycling gloves for real gloves and then began a frigid ten-mile descent to the valley where I found a perfect place to pitch my tent beside a brook in a clump of trees.

Another steep climb, but of only three miles, awaited me.  It took me over a ridge into another valley that led to the ski resort La Lioran, the Ville Arrivée for stage five of The Tour.  It was up and over another pass in the opposite direction from Cannes.  I did not have the time to give it a preview, but instead headed down valley to Arpajon-sur-Cère, one of sixteen first time Ville Ètapes in this year's Tour, perhaps the most ever.  It is a suburb of Aurillac.  It did not have a tourist office and had yet to mount any signs or banners or bike sculptures to celebrate its status as a Ville Ètape.  It was down off the Massif Central, but I still had some hard riding ahead of me through the Cevannes and over a better than 4,000 foot pass by Mont Aigoual to reach Craig and Onni 125 miles east of Aurillac.I feared that if the climbing were too strenuous and time-consuming I might have to head south to flatter terrain and miss them.  There was no time to dally or let my legs recover.  Fortunately my winter training in Taiwan had them in good stead.

Limoges, France

An electronic message board across from the grand City Hall in the large city of Limoges was already counting down the days until The Tour de France would make its arrival at that very corner come July.  It read 64. It may be more than two months before that highly anticipated event, but the Hotel de Ville (City Hall) was already festooned with banners celebrating The Tour.  Four second floor windows were blocked out with the colors of the jerseys the riders in the peloton will be vying for--yellow, green, red polka dot and white.  

It was a spectacular sight and fully justified taking a less than direct route to Cannes.  It will be even more spectacular when I'm back in July, but it is an image I will be happy to hold in the weeks to come.  Right beside the Hotel de Ville on Avenue Georges Dumas stood a marker identifying the finish line of that fourth stage of the 103rd Tour.  Millions of eyes from all over the world will be upon it. 

Happily this is one of the rare stages without a transfer for the start of the next stage, but no one at the tourist office knew where in the city the start would be, nor what route the peloton would follow to Le Lorian the Ville Arrivée for the fifth stage, so I just had to find my own way, denying me my mission of scouting out places where I might be able to fill my water bottles or get food or make a short cut.  It won't be an easy stage, as it will be a sucession of climbs up on to the Massif Central, a lightly settled, thickly forested region which The Tour doesn't always visit. 

The hilly terrain began leading in to Limoges.  It allowed me to play with my new toy with even more zest than I had the previous four days since arriving in Paris--my 38 and 46 tooth chain rings replacing the 42/52 that my Trek came with.  For twelve years since I added it to my arsenal of bikes I had rarely used that 52.  The biggest advantage of the 38 was that it made the shift down to my 26 much easier. Before it had been not much more than a 50-50 proposition, which discouraged me from using it.  Now it was a positive joy to drop inito my "granny."  

A further bonus to my new configuration was that the smaller circumference of my middle chain ring allowed me to use four rings on my freewheel, rather than three when I was on my 26, as the angle of the chain no longer rubbed on it.  It was fantastic to have that extra gear and not have to make a double shift to achieve it and then dread dropping back down to the 26.  I had Joe of Quick Release to thank for acquiring the rings and have been cheering him with each joyous shift into the 26.  

It is less strain on the legs not having to stay in the middle chain ring longer than I'd care to and a great time safer and hygienic advantage as well, not having to stop and get my hands all greasy putting the chain back on.  I used to accept it as an opportunity to rest my legs, as it only happened when I was climbing, but it was an embarrassment when the roads were lined with fans during The Tour.  The only equipment-related stopping I had to do was to administer some oil to my chain to pacify its squeaking after the wet roads of the day before.

The hilly stretch inito Limoges slowed me down and had me worrying that I wouldn't reach its tourist office before 12:30 when it closed for lunch.  I made it with fifteen minutes to spare, but it hardly mattere, as the tourist office had no information on The Tour other than the good news that the various Ville Ètapes will be hosting a Fête du Tour once again on June 4 with a ride of a portion  of The Tour route leading into or out of their town.  My rush wasn't necessary even more so as Limoges was large enough and so well staffed that it remained open during the ninety minutes that most close, allowing me more time to charge my iPad.  I had to settle for a mere electrical outlet, unlike at the tourist office in Blois, a popular tourist chateau town on the Loire.  It provided a charging station with multiple attachments that one could plug into phones or tablets.  

I shared this marvelous device with a Belgian cyclist following the pilgrim's route to Compestella.  He'd been on the road for nine days and was a bit she'll-shocked by the cold weather.  He'd endured snow, sleet and hail.  He was making this trip partially because he could no longer endure the harsh weather of Belgium.  He'd worked for a spell in the Canary Islands and appreciated the Spanish culture and climate so much, he was making this trip to Spain to relocate there.  He'd stopped at the Blois Tourist office to have his Compostella passport stamped as verification that he'd travelled the entire route.  He hadn't encountered any fellow pilgrims.  He wasn't surprised, as he won't reach the main route until he crosses into Spain in a couple of weeks for the final few hundred mile stretch across the top of Spain to Compestella.  Then it will be thick with pilgrims, most on foot, but the occasional cyclist as well.  From Blois he was following the Loire west, while I was heading due south, so we couldn't ride together.

I've been in France five days and have yet to indulge in two of my favorite treats--madeleines and menthe à l'eau.  It's been so chilly I haven't needed the mint syrup to flavor my water to make it more drinkable, plus I didn't care to add the weight of a one-liter bottle to my gear just yet.  And I've had no need the of the madeleines as I brought a stock of fig and breakfast bars that I have yet to exhaust.  But my taste buds know I am in France and are asking what's going on.  Otherwise it is France as I know it.  The only shock to my system was at DeGaulle airport when directions on the monorail  connecting terminals were given in Chinese as well as French and English.