Friends: I spoke a little too soon in yesterday's report about the ease of getting into screenings. Twice yesterday I heard the dreaded "complet" (sold-out), and both times when I was within 15 people of getting in at the Director's Fortnight. It was Friday night, bringing with it an extra surge of attendees. The first time I heard that heart-plunging word was after I made the fatal mistake, that Helen had warned me about, of getting in the wrong line. One has three choices at the Director's Fortnight theater. I was in the line for people with market passes, as I have, but I missed the small print that it was only market pass holders who were buyers. I won't make that mistake again.
Fortunately, I had a back up and just walked three blocks over to the Critic's Weekly theater for a screening half an hour later at 5:30. It was the Mexican film "Duck Season" by Fernando Eimbcke. The man who introduced it said that "Amores Peros" had previously screened in the Critic's Weekly. If it bore any resemblance to a popular Mexican film it was the road movie "Y Tu Mama Tambien" of a pair of teen-aged boys who go off to the coast with an older woman. This too was a movie about a couple of teens, though it was anything but a road movie. It takes place in a middle class apartment. The teens are a couple of bored, somewhat rebellious 14-year olds who like to play video games. They order a pizza and refuse to pay for it because it was eleven seconds late. The 35-year old dufus of a delivery boy simply refuses to leave until he's paid. There's also a 16-year old girl from another apartment in the kitchen cooking, because the stove in her apartment is broken. She's the older woman of this film. She teaches one of the boys to kiss. Many in the audience gave up on the film before it had a chance to develop some poignancy, as the acting seems at first inept and the black-and-white stock seems cheap and shoddy. I was sorry to have to leave ten minutes before it ended to dash back to a Director's Fortnight screening at 7:30.
I was in line 20 minutes before it was to start, but once again was thwarted just short of gaining
admittance. That wasn't entirely bad, as it gave me the opportunity to see the only film in the festival with bicycle in its title--"Fish Without a Bicycle," an American feature by Brian Austin Green that had played at the Philadelphia, Phoenix, DIY and Palm Beach Film Festivals earlier this year. That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement, as none are particularly noteworthy festivals. I wasn't expecting another "Triplettes of Belleville," launched here last year, but one never knows. Nor was I heartened by its description of being a female "Swingers." There were about 25 of us in the 70-seat market theater at the Palais. The director and one of the female stars introduced it. It began with a narrative by the 25-year old woman lead lamenting her life just as "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" began. After an hour without a sign of any bicycling, just a woman learning that she didn't necessarily need a man in her life, I slipped out to make sure I got in to the ten p.m. Director's Fortnight screening. I could have opted for a ten p.m. screening of Benoit Jacquiot's latest in Un Certain Regard, but that theater requires having my bag searched and my body scanned, unlike the Director's Fortnight. Its no big deal, and its so perfunctory that no one has dug deep enough into my bag to discover my bike pump, but its still an intrusion that I prefer to avoid. There are quite a few enforcers present, guarding the theaters. It is a bit irksome, though I don't mind at all the packs of gendarmes on the street, as they are good insurance against anyone tampering with my bike.
I was first in line at 9:15 back at the Director's Fortnight, a little more than a half mile bike ride along the beach from the Palais. A divided four lane road runs along the beach, but two lanes of it are closed to motorized traffic during the festival. There are a few others besides Jesse and I pedaling from theater to theater with passes dangling from their necks, though I doubt any of them biked from Paris to the festival.
There was no need for me to arrive so early, as the theater wasn't even three-fourths full. I'm not sure if that was a commentary on the interest in the film or people opting for a Friday night party. The film was "Bitter Dream," the first film by a 30-year old Iranian mathematician, Mousen Armiryoussefi. I thought I saw Kirostami in the audience, or at least I hoped so, as he is partially to blame for all these Iranians thinking they can just point a camera at people being themselves and think they have a movie. The subjects of this yawner were those who wash
corpses before they are buried, and those who dig the graves. It was the first movie that sent my mind wandering, allowing me to reflect back on the ten-day, 800-mile ride Jesse and I had through rural France to get here, and also to start looking forward to our continued travels on to Italy and beyond after the festival ends in nine days. My interest in the film was perked when the elderly grave digger asked for someone's bike as payment, even though he didn't know how
to ride a bike. He said he could learn, but the client was too smart to give up his bike, offering his watch instead.
There was no hot water back at the campground when I returned after midnight, nor this morning either. The cold shower this morning wasn't as cold as some of the dips I took in the rivers of Finland on my ride from Helsinski up to the Midnight Sun Film Festival north of the Arctic Circle a few years ago, but still something I hope not to have to repeat during our stay here, although its a good way to wake up in the morning.
"Shrek 2" was the competition film playing at the Palais this morning, so we could opt for "Tarnation," an American film by Jonathan Caouette in the Director's Fortnight that was produced by Gus van Sant. We'd already heard good things about it, and they were merited. It was the first extraordinary, or at least, out of the ordinary, film, I have seen here, and
probably on the lowest of budgets of anything, including those in the Market. Word is that Caouette's initial out of pocket expense was $250. It is the narrative of a young man telling of his mother's tortured life and his own. It is a phenomenal weaving of snap shots and video footage, often in an experimental nature, that works. As with last night's Mexican film, I at first feared this was going to be a dud, but it turned into a near masterpiece.
We followed that up with the South Korean film "Old Boy" by Park Chan-Wook. It was another of those stylish films in Competition that was an attention-holder, but not a grabber. Jury President Tarantino will like the teeth being yanked out with the reverse end of a hammer and someone cutting off a tongue with a pair of scissors, but the gangster genre doesn't do much to enthuse me.
Back to the movies, George
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Friday, May 14, 2004
Cannes #2
Friends: This festival is surprisingly shaping up to be the most user-friendly and stress-free of the many festivals I've attended. Unlike other European festivals I can attest to (Berlin, Rotterdam, Midnight Sun and Thessaloniki) I don't have to be careful to make sure a screening has English subtitles, as there are English electronic subtitles below the screen along with the French subtitles superimposed on all the non-French films.
Despite the huge numbers of us here, I have be able to see everything I've wanted and without having to line up a long time ahead of time, as one must do at Sundance and often at Toronto. Most of the screenings have been near capacity, but I have yet to be in one with people scrounging for a place to sit. I've been relegated to the balcony more often then I'd prefer, but that's a minor quibble. It is also most pleasant not to have to go to a box office first thing in the
morning, as at Berlin, Rotterdam and Thessaloniki, to acquire tickets for the day. The weather is warm, with sun-bathers on the beach, but not in the water. And there's not much of a wait for the Internet.
Now I just need to see a great film or two. That will come, as the festival is just amping up. I've
seen eleven films so far in 48 hours and all but those first market screenings have been worthwhile. My first screening in the Un Certain Regard category was Abbas Kirostami's documentary "10 on 10." It was essentially a film essay, as he speaks to the camera for 74 minutes as he drives around Tehran, just like many of his characters in his feature films have done, visiting the sites of some of his movies. His commentary was only broken by occasional snippets from his films "ABC Africa" and "10." He spoke in Fahrsi. The film had an English voice over and French subtitles. It is essential viewing for those who appreciate this former Palm d'Or winner's work. Kirostami was introduced by Thierry Fremaux, the artistic director of the festival and occasional Telluride attendee. Kirostami didn't say anything other than thanks for coming. He received an ovation after the film, but there was no Q&A, as there would have been at most other festivals.
I followed this up with another documentary, "Salvador Allende" by Patricio Guzman, also introduced by Fremaux, the only films of those I've seen that have been introduced. He spoke in French and English with Kirostami, but only French here, other than one quick English aside. This too was a personal film with Guzman narrating the story of Allende, Chile's populist president who was overthrown by the CIA in the '70s. His key subject is the former U.S. ambassador to Chile at the time, who fully acknowledged that Nixon and Kissinger wanted to unseat Allende, but expresses no remorse for their meddling. That's how the world operates, the powerful looking out for their own interests at all costs, he implies. Nixon didn't even want Allende to take office, as he had clearly aligned himself with Castro and referred to the US as enemy number one. This film will go well with two other films here, "The Motorcycle Diaries," about Che, and Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 911." The film received a prolonged ovation, mostly over its message, not necessarily over how well done it was.
I ended my evening with the Swiss film "Bienvenue en Suisse" by Lea Fazer, a farce, much of whose humor an American audience would not get. This was European commercial fare. It was not quite lame-brained, but close to it. There was plenty of yodeling, but no lederhausen. It let out close to midnight. With the first screening the next day at 8:30, we high-tailed it back to the camp ground in less than 15 minutes. We had to use a special card to open the gate, which is closed from eight a.m. to eight p.m. So the gate was locked when we left this morning as well.
We tried a different bakery this morning on our way in, but it was no cheaper than yesterday's. The lady in front of us asked for, "Un baguette, s'il vous plait," just as if we were in France. As we zipped past the Palais to lock up our bikes I spotted Milos from Facets for the first time on his way to the same screening and exchanged a quick greeting.
Today's first screening, Emir Kusturica's "Life Is A Miracle," had a slightly earlier starting time as it was two-and-a-half hours long. This was a farce of a different sort than last night's light fare. This had the same rollicking energy but with more at stake than a two million Swiss franc inheritance. It takes place in Bosnia in 1992 as war spills over into a remote village. A lovesick donkey wants to commit suicide and a cat and dog flare up at each other. As usual, Kusturica is more bent on entertainment than enlightenment. Not even the loud um-pah-pah score could keep the woman next to me from continually nodding off.
The day's second film in the Palais, "Mondovino," a documentary on the wine industry by Joanthan Nossiter, was also two-and-a-half hours long, though it felt as if it were five hours long. People began dribbling out of it after half an hour, though for those who are devoted to the beverage, such as Jesse, it wasn't long enough. Nossitor interviews wine growers and conniusseurs from all over the world--France, Napa Valley, Italy, Brazil, Argentina and Chile. Two of his featured subjects are a French wine consultant and the American critic Robert Parker, who has been awarded the French Legion of Honor and whose nose is insured for one million dollars. The director didn't shy away from showing the egotism and smallness of his many subjects, catching them in various unguarded moments. He includes a farting dog and servants interrupting interviews and a husband sniping at a wife and all sorts of other extraneous detail, implying we are not to take these people all that seriously, and though at least one grower asserts that people who pay hundreds of dollars for a bottle of wine aren't snobs, maybe they and those who provide it for them are. The director's tone and message waver from giving these people respect and credence to occasional stabs in the back. He had many interesting subjects and could have made a very riveting documentary focusing on any one of them or seriously tightening the film. Jesse thinks its great, I thought it was an interesting failure.
That's my Internet break for the day. Now it's off to the nearby Director's Fortnight for my next three films.
Later, George
Despite the huge numbers of us here, I have be able to see everything I've wanted and without having to line up a long time ahead of time, as one must do at Sundance and often at Toronto. Most of the screenings have been near capacity, but I have yet to be in one with people scrounging for a place to sit. I've been relegated to the balcony more often then I'd prefer, but that's a minor quibble. It is also most pleasant not to have to go to a box office first thing in the
morning, as at Berlin, Rotterdam and Thessaloniki, to acquire tickets for the day. The weather is warm, with sun-bathers on the beach, but not in the water. And there's not much of a wait for the Internet.
Now I just need to see a great film or two. That will come, as the festival is just amping up. I've
seen eleven films so far in 48 hours and all but those first market screenings have been worthwhile. My first screening in the Un Certain Regard category was Abbas Kirostami's documentary "10 on 10." It was essentially a film essay, as he speaks to the camera for 74 minutes as he drives around Tehran, just like many of his characters in his feature films have done, visiting the sites of some of his movies. His commentary was only broken by occasional snippets from his films "ABC Africa" and "10." He spoke in Fahrsi. The film had an English voice over and French subtitles. It is essential viewing for those who appreciate this former Palm d'Or winner's work. Kirostami was introduced by Thierry Fremaux, the artistic director of the festival and occasional Telluride attendee. Kirostami didn't say anything other than thanks for coming. He received an ovation after the film, but there was no Q&A, as there would have been at most other festivals.
I followed this up with another documentary, "Salvador Allende" by Patricio Guzman, also introduced by Fremaux, the only films of those I've seen that have been introduced. He spoke in French and English with Kirostami, but only French here, other than one quick English aside. This too was a personal film with Guzman narrating the story of Allende, Chile's populist president who was overthrown by the CIA in the '70s. His key subject is the former U.S. ambassador to Chile at the time, who fully acknowledged that Nixon and Kissinger wanted to unseat Allende, but expresses no remorse for their meddling. That's how the world operates, the powerful looking out for their own interests at all costs, he implies. Nixon didn't even want Allende to take office, as he had clearly aligned himself with Castro and referred to the US as enemy number one. This film will go well with two other films here, "The Motorcycle Diaries," about Che, and Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 911." The film received a prolonged ovation, mostly over its message, not necessarily over how well done it was.
I ended my evening with the Swiss film "Bienvenue en Suisse" by Lea Fazer, a farce, much of whose humor an American audience would not get. This was European commercial fare. It was not quite lame-brained, but close to it. There was plenty of yodeling, but no lederhausen. It let out close to midnight. With the first screening the next day at 8:30, we high-tailed it back to the camp ground in less than 15 minutes. We had to use a special card to open the gate, which is closed from eight a.m. to eight p.m. So the gate was locked when we left this morning as well.
We tried a different bakery this morning on our way in, but it was no cheaper than yesterday's. The lady in front of us asked for, "Un baguette, s'il vous plait," just as if we were in France. As we zipped past the Palais to lock up our bikes I spotted Milos from Facets for the first time on his way to the same screening and exchanged a quick greeting.
Today's first screening, Emir Kusturica's "Life Is A Miracle," had a slightly earlier starting time as it was two-and-a-half hours long. This was a farce of a different sort than last night's light fare. This had the same rollicking energy but with more at stake than a two million Swiss franc inheritance. It takes place in Bosnia in 1992 as war spills over into a remote village. A lovesick donkey wants to commit suicide and a cat and dog flare up at each other. As usual, Kusturica is more bent on entertainment than enlightenment. Not even the loud um-pah-pah score could keep the woman next to me from continually nodding off.
The day's second film in the Palais, "Mondovino," a documentary on the wine industry by Joanthan Nossiter, was also two-and-a-half hours long, though it felt as if it were five hours long. People began dribbling out of it after half an hour, though for those who are devoted to the beverage, such as Jesse, it wasn't long enough. Nossitor interviews wine growers and conniusseurs from all over the world--France, Napa Valley, Italy, Brazil, Argentina and Chile. Two of his featured subjects are a French wine consultant and the American critic Robert Parker, who has been awarded the French Legion of Honor and whose nose is insured for one million dollars. The director didn't shy away from showing the egotism and smallness of his many subjects, catching them in various unguarded moments. He includes a farting dog and servants interrupting interviews and a husband sniping at a wife and all sorts of other extraneous detail, implying we are not to take these people all that seriously, and though at least one grower asserts that people who pay hundreds of dollars for a bottle of wine aren't snobs, maybe they and those who provide it for them are. The director's tone and message waver from giving these people respect and credence to occasional stabs in the back. He had many interesting subjects and could have made a very riveting documentary focusing on any one of them or seriously tightening the film. Jesse thinks its great, I thought it was an interesting failure.
That's my Internet break for the day. Now it's off to the nearby Director's Fortnight for my next three films.
Later, George
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Cannes #1
Friends: And the films have begun. They started off at a trickle yesterday with just 40 screenings, all market screenings that some film-maker has paid thousands of dollars for, hoping his film will gain some notice and distribution. Today we have some 300 films to choose from and tomorrow, Friday, there will be even more.
There are some 30,000 film professionals in attendance, 4,000 of which are press. There was a huge mob of us waiting to pick up our credentials yesterday morning. The process was well organized, and we had our passes within half an hour without any hassle. We had to go to a different building to redeem a certificate for an official Film Fest canvas messenger style bag with about 25 pounds of literature including schedules and a 10-pound 1,000 page book with all the attendees, including Jesse and I. I'm here representing My Sister's Cutting Room. There I
was, picture and all, sandwiched between MTV productions and Myriad Pictures. Myriad is representing the John Sayles movie, "Silver City," with Chris Cooper. It has two market screenings.
Jesse gave me a quick introduction to the various venues, which hadn't changed since he was here two years ago working as an intern at the American Pavilion. There was a huge maze of booths on several floors for the many distributors and film organizations conducting business. As we wandered past one booth, we heard someone pitching, "This picture could be a big hit all over the world," perhaps the mantra of the festival. There are nearly 50 theaters ranging in size from 40 seats to several hundred, devoted strictly to market screenings. And then there are a four large theaters for the 100 or so invited films in several different categories--the Official Competition, Out-of-Competition, Un Certain Regard, Director's Fortnight and Critic's Week. Our credentials let us in to most of the screenings without a ticket. We only need tickets, referred to as "invitations," for the 20 Competition films playing in the grand Palais Theater. We acquire our 'invitations" by requesting them a day in advance of each screening.
We began our smorgasbord yesterday at two p.m. with an Icelandic film, "A Revelation for Haines," by Hrafn Gunnlaugsson in a 40-seat venue that was half full. We knew nothing about the film, not even its crucial running time, as it wasn't listed in the catalog. Even if it were, we wouldn't have known much about it as none of the films in the market are given much more than a single sentence description along with its genre and the cast and director. It was a satire on Icelandic bureaucracy focusing on a 50-year old nebbish who lived with his mother and was enamored by his secretary's mammary glands. This may find an Icelandic audience, but nothing beyond. We were lucky it was only 75 minutes long. But if it had gone beyond 90 minutes we would have been spared the embarrassment of blundering in to a 3:30 screening of "The Prince and Me."
Neither of us recognized the title of this Julia Stiles comedy that played in the States this past winter. It was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the Icelandic film of what plays in the market--a big budget Hollywood production looking for more distribution world wide. The 90-seat theater was near capacity. We had no other choice of movies, so we endured it.. At least I could flash back to Stiles' brilliant performance in "Business of Strangers," while she wasted her talents in this trivial love story. I might have given the film a modicum of respect if the Danish prince Stiles falls in love with had mentioned Bjarne Riis, the only Dane to win the Tour de France and Tyler Hamilton's coach last year, or Lars Van Trier, the Danish film-maker who always causes a stir here at Cannes, as famous Danes, when he was asked by Julia's farm boy brothers if anyone from Denmark had ever done something significant. Instead he mentions a rock star and a super-model.
Jesse and I didn't bring formal attire with us on our bikes so we can't attend the evening screenings at the Palais. Last night was Opening Night debuting Pedro Almodovar's "Bad Education," the first time a Spanish film has been chosen as the Opening Night Film. We didn't even bother to join the throngs that had started amassing at nine a.m. to gawk at the celebrities as they strolled up the red carpet at the Palais as if this were the Oscars or the prologue for the Tour de France. Instead, we attended the six p.m. market screening of "We Don't Live Here Anymore" in a legitimate, several hundred seat theater a few blocks away from the hub of all activity. This was an American film directed by John Curran with Laura Dern, Mark Ruffalo, Naomi Watts and Paul Krause that had played at Sundance. Krause and Ruffalo are adulterous university literature professors in the Pacific Northwest and Dern and Watts are their wives who they end up having affairs with. The performances are all fine but the story plods and plods. The best part of the movie is that Ruffalo goes off on his cruiser bike to his assignations with Watts, and he thrills his two young children by asking them if they want to go off on bike rides. After the movie we finally encountered one of the many people we know attending the festival, Charles from Facets. He said he kept waiting for Ruffalo to scream "Stella." Charles was off to dinner with friends, unable to score a ticket to the Opening Night film, while Jesse and I hung around for the eight p.m. screening of "Buena Vida" in the same theater. This was an Argentinian film by Leonardo DiCesare that started out as a slight romance but threatened to turn into a Michael Haneke film. If only it had. There was a worthy performance from the conniving father of the young woman gas station attendant who seems to have fallen in love with her landlord/roommate until her mother, father and daughter move in without his permission and take over.
After that, we meandered over to the beach where "Hair" was being projected on a large screen on the beach. One had to have credentials to sit in one of the 200 canvas beach chairs facing the ocean, but anyone could watch and listen from the sidewalk. These nightly movies on the beach are the only screenings that the public is privy to. We watched for a few minutes before biking the three-and-a-half miles back to our campsite. It may be our only chance to get to bed before midnight in the next 12 days. We did stop at an Internet outlet on the way, but its computers were down, almost a relief enabling us to stock up on some shuteye. Most of our ride is along the Mediterranean on a narrow two lane road, but there was virtually no traffic. Cannes is much quieter than I anticipated. And this morning when we stopped at the local supermarket to stock up on food for the day on the way in to our first screening we were surprised to learn it didn't open until 8:30. So breakfast was quiche we picked up from a bakery.
We started today at nine a.m. at the 3,000 seat Palais with the first film in Competition to be screened, the Italian feature "The Consequences of Love," by second time director Paolo Sorrentino. It was the story of a respectable looking 60-year old man who is always dressed in a suit. He has spent the past eight years living in a hotel and no one knows why. His past is
gradually revealed. The director has an eye for pleasing detail from faces to the shooting spray of gigantic sprinklers. The lead conveys a beguiling mystique. This will most likely make the 250 film cut at Toronto's Film Festival, but not the 20 film cut of Telluride and just possibly Chicago's 75 film schedule.
Film number two for the day was the first film of the Director's Fortnight, half a mile up the beach from the Palais. Among all the great good advice that Helen of Chicago's Film Fest gave me, was that this would be among the easiest of screenings to get in to as not everyone wants to wander so far from the hub of things. As in all her advice, including recommending the free Internet at the Variety booth where I'm presently at, she was absolutely right. But we haven't had to sweat out getting into anything yet. That may change in an hour when we try to see Kiorstami's "10 on 10" at a mid-sized theater. Unlike at the Palais, we didn't have to have our bags checked or our bodies scanned by metal detectors at the Director's Fortnight. Nor were our passes scanned, nor were we asked for a business card, as is the custom at the market screenings, where the filmmakers want to know who is seeing their film so they can pursue them. I could see three movies a day hassle free in the Director's Fortnight sidebar if things heat up elsewhere.
"The Taste of Tea," a Japanese film by Ichii Katsuhito at 143 minutes was about an hour too long, especially with my legs still getting adjusted to the sedentary life. The film was a series of episodes in rural Japan ranging from hitting rocks with a baseball bat to playing Go and a very slight secretary beating the crap out of her boss. Most of the vignettes were meant to be comical. Some were mildly amusing and others less so. Still this is a director with a good eye for captivating images.
There are ten computers in this pavilion and I've more than taken up my time.
Later, George
There are some 30,000 film professionals in attendance, 4,000 of which are press. There was a huge mob of us waiting to pick up our credentials yesterday morning. The process was well organized, and we had our passes within half an hour without any hassle. We had to go to a different building to redeem a certificate for an official Film Fest canvas messenger style bag with about 25 pounds of literature including schedules and a 10-pound 1,000 page book with all the attendees, including Jesse and I. I'm here representing My Sister's Cutting Room. There I
was, picture and all, sandwiched between MTV productions and Myriad Pictures. Myriad is representing the John Sayles movie, "Silver City," with Chris Cooper. It has two market screenings.
Jesse gave me a quick introduction to the various venues, which hadn't changed since he was here two years ago working as an intern at the American Pavilion. There was a huge maze of booths on several floors for the many distributors and film organizations conducting business. As we wandered past one booth, we heard someone pitching, "This picture could be a big hit all over the world," perhaps the mantra of the festival. There are nearly 50 theaters ranging in size from 40 seats to several hundred, devoted strictly to market screenings. And then there are a four large theaters for the 100 or so invited films in several different categories--the Official Competition, Out-of-Competition, Un Certain Regard, Director's Fortnight and Critic's Week. Our credentials let us in to most of the screenings without a ticket. We only need tickets, referred to as "invitations," for the 20 Competition films playing in the grand Palais Theater. We acquire our 'invitations" by requesting them a day in advance of each screening.
We began our smorgasbord yesterday at two p.m. with an Icelandic film, "A Revelation for Haines," by Hrafn Gunnlaugsson in a 40-seat venue that was half full. We knew nothing about the film, not even its crucial running time, as it wasn't listed in the catalog. Even if it were, we wouldn't have known much about it as none of the films in the market are given much more than a single sentence description along with its genre and the cast and director. It was a satire on Icelandic bureaucracy focusing on a 50-year old nebbish who lived with his mother and was enamored by his secretary's mammary glands. This may find an Icelandic audience, but nothing beyond. We were lucky it was only 75 minutes long. But if it had gone beyond 90 minutes we would have been spared the embarrassment of blundering in to a 3:30 screening of "The Prince and Me."
Neither of us recognized the title of this Julia Stiles comedy that played in the States this past winter. It was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the Icelandic film of what plays in the market--a big budget Hollywood production looking for more distribution world wide. The 90-seat theater was near capacity. We had no other choice of movies, so we endured it.. At least I could flash back to Stiles' brilliant performance in "Business of Strangers," while she wasted her talents in this trivial love story. I might have given the film a modicum of respect if the Danish prince Stiles falls in love with had mentioned Bjarne Riis, the only Dane to win the Tour de France and Tyler Hamilton's coach last year, or Lars Van Trier, the Danish film-maker who always causes a stir here at Cannes, as famous Danes, when he was asked by Julia's farm boy brothers if anyone from Denmark had ever done something significant. Instead he mentions a rock star and a super-model.
Jesse and I didn't bring formal attire with us on our bikes so we can't attend the evening screenings at the Palais. Last night was Opening Night debuting Pedro Almodovar's "Bad Education," the first time a Spanish film has been chosen as the Opening Night Film. We didn't even bother to join the throngs that had started amassing at nine a.m. to gawk at the celebrities as they strolled up the red carpet at the Palais as if this were the Oscars or the prologue for the Tour de France. Instead, we attended the six p.m. market screening of "We Don't Live Here Anymore" in a legitimate, several hundred seat theater a few blocks away from the hub of all activity. This was an American film directed by John Curran with Laura Dern, Mark Ruffalo, Naomi Watts and Paul Krause that had played at Sundance. Krause and Ruffalo are adulterous university literature professors in the Pacific Northwest and Dern and Watts are their wives who they end up having affairs with. The performances are all fine but the story plods and plods. The best part of the movie is that Ruffalo goes off on his cruiser bike to his assignations with Watts, and he thrills his two young children by asking them if they want to go off on bike rides. After the movie we finally encountered one of the many people we know attending the festival, Charles from Facets. He said he kept waiting for Ruffalo to scream "Stella." Charles was off to dinner with friends, unable to score a ticket to the Opening Night film, while Jesse and I hung around for the eight p.m. screening of "Buena Vida" in the same theater. This was an Argentinian film by Leonardo DiCesare that started out as a slight romance but threatened to turn into a Michael Haneke film. If only it had. There was a worthy performance from the conniving father of the young woman gas station attendant who seems to have fallen in love with her landlord/roommate until her mother, father and daughter move in without his permission and take over.
After that, we meandered over to the beach where "Hair" was being projected on a large screen on the beach. One had to have credentials to sit in one of the 200 canvas beach chairs facing the ocean, but anyone could watch and listen from the sidewalk. These nightly movies on the beach are the only screenings that the public is privy to. We watched for a few minutes before biking the three-and-a-half miles back to our campsite. It may be our only chance to get to bed before midnight in the next 12 days. We did stop at an Internet outlet on the way, but its computers were down, almost a relief enabling us to stock up on some shuteye. Most of our ride is along the Mediterranean on a narrow two lane road, but there was virtually no traffic. Cannes is much quieter than I anticipated. And this morning when we stopped at the local supermarket to stock up on food for the day on the way in to our first screening we were surprised to learn it didn't open until 8:30. So breakfast was quiche we picked up from a bakery.
We started today at nine a.m. at the 3,000 seat Palais with the first film in Competition to be screened, the Italian feature "The Consequences of Love," by second time director Paolo Sorrentino. It was the story of a respectable looking 60-year old man who is always dressed in a suit. He has spent the past eight years living in a hotel and no one knows why. His past is
gradually revealed. The director has an eye for pleasing detail from faces to the shooting spray of gigantic sprinklers. The lead conveys a beguiling mystique. This will most likely make the 250 film cut at Toronto's Film Festival, but not the 20 film cut of Telluride and just possibly Chicago's 75 film schedule.
Film number two for the day was the first film of the Director's Fortnight, half a mile up the beach from the Palais. Among all the great good advice that Helen of Chicago's Film Fest gave me, was that this would be among the easiest of screenings to get in to as not everyone wants to wander so far from the hub of things. As in all her advice, including recommending the free Internet at the Variety booth where I'm presently at, she was absolutely right. But we haven't had to sweat out getting into anything yet. That may change in an hour when we try to see Kiorstami's "10 on 10" at a mid-sized theater. Unlike at the Palais, we didn't have to have our bags checked or our bodies scanned by metal detectors at the Director's Fortnight. Nor were our passes scanned, nor were we asked for a business card, as is the custom at the market screenings, where the filmmakers want to know who is seeing their film so they can pursue them. I could see three movies a day hassle free in the Director's Fortnight sidebar if things heat up elsewhere.
"The Taste of Tea," a Japanese film by Ichii Katsuhito at 143 minutes was about an hour too long, especially with my legs still getting adjusted to the sedentary life. The film was a series of episodes in rural Japan ranging from hitting rocks with a baseball bat to playing Go and a very slight secretary beating the crap out of her boss. Most of the vignettes were meant to be comical. Some were mildly amusing and others less so. Still this is a director with a good eye for captivating images.
There are ten computers in this pavilion and I've more than taken up my time.
Later, George
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Draguigan, France
Friends: I'm dealing with a French keyboard for the first time, so this could be a mess. Every other computer we've been at, we could press a button and switch the keyboard to English. The keys didn't change their surface identity, but now the "q" and "a" keys were switched as were the "z" and "w," and a few others including the "m" and comma, so that my fingers programmed to the "qwerty" system could go about their business without fault. There's not much I can complain about in France, but the French keyboard would be one of them.
We`re now one hundred miles into Provence, crossing into the departement shortly before Avignon, one of the few cities in France that retains the walls built in Roman times to keep out invaders. The walls are just one of several features that make this city a UNESCO World Heritage site. At one time it provided residence for the Popes. of Catholicism. As we biked in from the west we past the the best-preserved aqueduct in France built by the Romans. All along the 700 miles we have biked so far from Paris, we are continually emphatically reminded that this is not the New World. Centuries old castles and cathedrals and chateaus and other sites are as much a part of the scenery as the forests and the fields. Leaving Avignon we were on roads with heavy traffic for the first time since leaving Tours a week ago. But after 40 miles or so we returned to roads with little traffic and lots of breathing room, more A-plus cycling. Jesse is continually commenting, "I love France," and I can't disagree.
Dogs are a passion of the French. People are so accustomed to taking them anywhere and everywhere, some stores have sings prohibiting them. We see many dogs every day. Some try to give chase, but none have been successful, as those prone to chasing have all been fenced in or leashed. Since leaving Craig's, each chasing dog brings him to mind, as he seems to be part dog himself, keeping an eye out the window of his house for bicyclists to chase after. His three-story, one hundred-year old house, abuts the narrow road that winds up the secluded valley he lives in. He can often hear the cyclists huffing past, if he doesn't see them. He doesn't always bother to chase after lone cyclists, but if there is a group of them, he`ll drop practically anything for the challenge of chasing them down, picking them off one after another and giving them all something to puzzle over when they end their ride--who was that guy in the jeans and straw hat with a rocket between his legs.
Craig excitedly told us about a mass conquest he'd had a couple of days before we arrived, "dusting off" a group of twenty. It took him half of the nine-mile climb to catch the first of the string of them, but he managed to pick them off one by one and beat them all to the summit
like a champion greyhound. One of them came over to him as they gathered and said,"I ought to have you arrested for how fast you flew by me." At 135 pounds Craig has the climber`s physique and the heart to match. If he had grown up in France rather than Detroit, he would have discovered his talent on the bike before he was past his prime and might have become a household name in bicycle racing circles.
like a champion greyhound. One of them came over to him as they gathered and said,"I ought to have you arrested for how fast you flew by me." At 135 pounds Craig has the climber`s physique and the heart to match. If he had grown up in France rather than Detroit, he would have discovered his talent on the bike before he was past his prime and might have become a household name in bicycle racing circles.
Thoughts of Craig also bring to mind the array of local delicacies he served us, all washed down by a local wine that goes for 75 cents a bottle. Along with the wine was a strawberry/raspberry concentrate a local makes that added to a glass of water made a sublime drink and was my beverage of choice. As we munched on olives, Craig cooked up a batch of organic radish greens. He said," I don't have any meat for you, but I`ll make sure you get plenty of greens." There was also green in the pesto we had over pasta and then a lush green salad as course number three. That was followed by pellets of goat and sheep cheese the size of a hockey puck purchased straight from the farmer for a dollar each. Our dinner feast was concluded with pastries, also purchased from a neighbor. Craig said his girl friend Onni will do most of the cooking when she arrives in a week or so. As accomplished as she is, Craig says whenever she cooks for neighbors she tries to cook something unknown to them, as otherwise they will all tell her how she could have done it better or differently.
Yesterday we had the tastiest strawberries from a road side stand that either of us had ever
experienced. They were so sumptuous Jesse had to buy a bottle of the farmer`s apricot nectar and another of his apple juice, equally beyond compare. Last night's campsite in a patch of wild rosemary and lavender just off the road dazzled our nostrils as much as those strawberries had dazzled our taste buds. Cleopatra's boudoir could not have smelled more divine. As Jesse keeps
commenting, "Provence is just too much." Though we haven't been able to spend as much time
as we would have liked with the three sets of friends we have stayed with since leaving Paris, we've been able to cover all the ground that we had hoped to except for a slight detour to climb Mont Ventoux, one most storied climbs of the Tour de France. It is just 30 miles out of Avignon, but we would have needed an extra day to squeeze it in. Even though it is only 1,200 feet higher than Mont Aigual that we climbed, its summit is covered in snow and was recently closed to traffic. We will make the effort to return to climb it in the next month or so. Its not included in this years Tour de France, but Lance will be climbing it in the middle of June in the Dauphene Libere race. We are now less than 50 miles from Cannes. We`re both very excited.
Later, George
__________________________________
Monday, May 10, 2004
Avignon, France
Friends: The temperatures have been cool all along, but when we awoke the other morning and my tent poles were so frigid they were painful to touch, I knew it was finally time to put on my tights. A light rain made it feel even colder, but since we had purposely camped at the bottom of a long climb we could count on the exertion of our climbing to warm us up, the cold rain didn't have us shivering yet. We've had a lot of rain, but never for long.
The climb was longer than we realized and soon the falling moisture was trying to make up its mind between being rain and snow. That wasn't all bad, as the fledgling flakes didn't soak in, nor did they gather on the road. Rather than cursing our circumstances, I was delighted at the novelty of this, biking in the snow in May in France. I've biked along side snow and glaciers on many of my trips in Alaska and New Zealand and Norway and Bolivia, and have biked in veritable blizzards as a messenger, but I'd never actually biked in falling snow when touring. Such a new, unlikely experience almost had me whooping in delight. I knew snow was a possibility in the Alps and Pyrenees this time of the year, but I didn't realize the Massif Central in the heart of France rose to such altitudes that it too could offer snow in late spring.
I've been rather enjoying these cooler temperatures, as I know come July, and maybe even
June, I'll be sweltering. I appreciate the luxury of being able to buy a liter of orange juice in a cardboard carton for 41 centimes, a great bargain, and pour it into my water bottle and have it last all day. Not only is it a pleasure to have such a flavorful, cold, nutritious drink at hand, it's nice to be sweating so little and not having to drink all the time. I'll be drinking liters and liters all too soon and not at very cool temperatures.
The OJ isn't the only bargain to be found in the supermarkets. A couple days ago we found a supermarket with an eight-pack of quiches for four and a half euros. Usually we pay one euro a piece for them in the bakeries. I asked Jesse if he'd like to split a pack, but he had already grabbed one for himself. He's learning to keep plenty of food on hand and to eat at every opportunity and still he's losing weight, which he isn't all that unhappy about. As I browse the supermarkets, I'm always on the alert for sale items. I haven't even been spending ten dollars a day on food, my only expense other than the Internet. France has been much cheaper than I anticipated. I won't have to plunder my money market funds to finance this trip as I feared. This won't be as cheap as Southeast Asia, but much cheaper than Iceland and Scandinavia.
Friends who rely on a single crop for their livelihood abide by the words, 'The plants come first.' The touring cyclist's axiom is, 'The legs come first.' In all that the touring cyclist does he has to think of nurturing and sustaining his legs, giving them ample and timely and good fuel and rest whenever it can be found. If he has any ambitions of riding more than 40 or 50 miles a day, he must be prepared to make many sacrifices in the name of keeping his legs happy and hopping. Jesse is learning this lesson and his legs are responding. He even had his first one hundred mile day on our seventh day out of Paris when we were making a concerted effort to reach Craig's house before dark. When we set out that morning we knew that it was over a hundred miles away and over terrain that included considerable climbing. We did not know if we could make it. We knew we had to keep our breaks to a minimum. This was a day where dilly-dallying had to be forsaken.
We were lucky when after twenty miles we found a bakery in a small town that also had a small cafe attached to it, so we could sit inside out of the cold for our first break. We each had a piece of pizza before we returned to the cold. Twenty miles later it was a hot chocolate and a couple of our quiches. By 3:15 we had knocked off 62 miles and dipped down in altitude where it was warm enough in the sun to sit outside and eat. We were in a gorge that we had to climb out of. We allowed ourselves a 45-minute break and fueled up for the big climb. We had five-and-a-half hours of light to ride the last 43 miles, though the last twenty appeared to be down hill. It took us three hours to climb 2500 feet in 22 miles on a narrow, virtually traffic-free byway. The bulk of the traffic was motor bikes enjoying the scenic, winding road that took them to Mount Aigoual. At 4500 feet it is the highest peak around. There is a weather station at its summit, one of only two in all of France. From there it is sixty miles to the Mediterranean.
Within a couple of miles of the summit snow began falling. The higher we got, the harder it came down and the bigger were the flakes. Before long it began accumulating on the road. It was almost picturesque, at least until we reached the summit and had to descend. At speed the light, fluffy flakes turned nasty, stinging the exposed flesh of our faces. As we descended the snow turned to sleet, pelting us harder. I could even feel the sting of the sleet in my legs through my tights. This had turned into a horror, almost a survival situation. We couldn't stop as we were soaked and shivering and would only get colder. We had to get down and fast, but we had to go slow as the road was horribly slippery. Our hands were barely functioning, yet we had to brake with all our strength at every turn. If we went too fast, we'd wipe out.
This went on for an hour. I was growing increasingly hypothermic, shivering uncontrollably. That and my flexing hands were my only movement. I was so intent on squeezing the brakes and trying to stay upright, I neglected to periodically spin my legs, as one should on any descent, to keep the blood flowing and preventing the legs from stiffening . After having been in the same locked position all that time, my knees had virtually seized up. I could barely pedal when the road at last somewhat leveled. I felt as if all my joints were creaking as I tried to move them. We were moaning and groaning when we came upon the turn to Craig's village. Luckily it was a mile-and-a-half climb, enabling us to warm up enough so that Craig didn't have to immediately bundle us up in blankets and set us in front of his fireplace.
We didn't have an address for his house, only that it was the house with blue shutters, and that he was the only American in town that anyone could direct us to. As we rolled up to a house with blue shutters, out popped Craig on his way to his basement for more wood to feed his stove. I had only spoken to Craig over the phone and corresponded with him, so this was our first meeting. It was a miracle though that we had never met in Chicago as we share many friends,
some of whom are close, close friends. We both hang out at the same one-man bike shop in our neighborhood and have a great fondness for its owner, Joe, who had visited Craig here in France. But for the past ten years, Craig has spent six months in Chicago and six months in France, and since I spend six months or more a year traveling my self, it was only now that the fates deemed we could meet. We knew a lot about each other, and now we truly discovered that we are genuine kindred spirits, and beyond the brotherhood of the bike.
After our long, hard day, I didn't want to stay up as late as we did with Florence, but once again we lost all track of time as we feasted on the multi-course banquet Craig had for us and suddenly it was two a.m. again. It was sad Cannes couldn't wait for us, and allow us to linger, but we had to be off the next day. Craig led us out of his isolated little valley up a nine-mile climb on a barely one-lane wide road that passes right in front of his house. His favorite pastime is to lay in wait of cyclists riding up the road and to chase after them. The majority of French cyclists dress up in racing regalia. Craig wears jeans with rubber bands around his ankles and a straw hat atop his head. He delights in rocketing past the pseudo-racers in his Farmer John get-up.
From Craig's it was on to Avignon, about 90 miles away, to visit Jesse's former French teacher at Carnegie-Mellon. Once again it was a race against dark, and again we succeeded. We are glad that tonight we don't have a specific destination to reach and we can camp along the road. But the movies start at Cannes at noon on Wednesday in exactly 48 hours. It is 150 miles a way,
so I must be off.
Later, George
The climb was longer than we realized and soon the falling moisture was trying to make up its mind between being rain and snow. That wasn't all bad, as the fledgling flakes didn't soak in, nor did they gather on the road. Rather than cursing our circumstances, I was delighted at the novelty of this, biking in the snow in May in France. I've biked along side snow and glaciers on many of my trips in Alaska and New Zealand and Norway and Bolivia, and have biked in veritable blizzards as a messenger, but I'd never actually biked in falling snow when touring. Such a new, unlikely experience almost had me whooping in delight. I knew snow was a possibility in the Alps and Pyrenees this time of the year, but I didn't realize the Massif Central in the heart of France rose to such altitudes that it too could offer snow in late spring.
I've been rather enjoying these cooler temperatures, as I know come July, and maybe even
June, I'll be sweltering. I appreciate the luxury of being able to buy a liter of orange juice in a cardboard carton for 41 centimes, a great bargain, and pour it into my water bottle and have it last all day. Not only is it a pleasure to have such a flavorful, cold, nutritious drink at hand, it's nice to be sweating so little and not having to drink all the time. I'll be drinking liters and liters all too soon and not at very cool temperatures.
The OJ isn't the only bargain to be found in the supermarkets. A couple days ago we found a supermarket with an eight-pack of quiches for four and a half euros. Usually we pay one euro a piece for them in the bakeries. I asked Jesse if he'd like to split a pack, but he had already grabbed one for himself. He's learning to keep plenty of food on hand and to eat at every opportunity and still he's losing weight, which he isn't all that unhappy about. As I browse the supermarkets, I'm always on the alert for sale items. I haven't even been spending ten dollars a day on food, my only expense other than the Internet. France has been much cheaper than I anticipated. I won't have to plunder my money market funds to finance this trip as I feared. This won't be as cheap as Southeast Asia, but much cheaper than Iceland and Scandinavia.
Friends who rely on a single crop for their livelihood abide by the words, 'The plants come first.' The touring cyclist's axiom is, 'The legs come first.' In all that the touring cyclist does he has to think of nurturing and sustaining his legs, giving them ample and timely and good fuel and rest whenever it can be found. If he has any ambitions of riding more than 40 or 50 miles a day, he must be prepared to make many sacrifices in the name of keeping his legs happy and hopping. Jesse is learning this lesson and his legs are responding. He even had his first one hundred mile day on our seventh day out of Paris when we were making a concerted effort to reach Craig's house before dark. When we set out that morning we knew that it was over a hundred miles away and over terrain that included considerable climbing. We did not know if we could make it. We knew we had to keep our breaks to a minimum. This was a day where dilly-dallying had to be forsaken.
We were lucky when after twenty miles we found a bakery in a small town that also had a small cafe attached to it, so we could sit inside out of the cold for our first break. We each had a piece of pizza before we returned to the cold. Twenty miles later it was a hot chocolate and a couple of our quiches. By 3:15 we had knocked off 62 miles and dipped down in altitude where it was warm enough in the sun to sit outside and eat. We were in a gorge that we had to climb out of. We allowed ourselves a 45-minute break and fueled up for the big climb. We had five-and-a-half hours of light to ride the last 43 miles, though the last twenty appeared to be down hill. It took us three hours to climb 2500 feet in 22 miles on a narrow, virtually traffic-free byway. The bulk of the traffic was motor bikes enjoying the scenic, winding road that took them to Mount Aigoual. At 4500 feet it is the highest peak around. There is a weather station at its summit, one of only two in all of France. From there it is sixty miles to the Mediterranean.
Within a couple of miles of the summit snow began falling. The higher we got, the harder it came down and the bigger were the flakes. Before long it began accumulating on the road. It was almost picturesque, at least until we reached the summit and had to descend. At speed the light, fluffy flakes turned nasty, stinging the exposed flesh of our faces. As we descended the snow turned to sleet, pelting us harder. I could even feel the sting of the sleet in my legs through my tights. This had turned into a horror, almost a survival situation. We couldn't stop as we were soaked and shivering and would only get colder. We had to get down and fast, but we had to go slow as the road was horribly slippery. Our hands were barely functioning, yet we had to brake with all our strength at every turn. If we went too fast, we'd wipe out.
This went on for an hour. I was growing increasingly hypothermic, shivering uncontrollably. That and my flexing hands were my only movement. I was so intent on squeezing the brakes and trying to stay upright, I neglected to periodically spin my legs, as one should on any descent, to keep the blood flowing and preventing the legs from stiffening . After having been in the same locked position all that time, my knees had virtually seized up. I could barely pedal when the road at last somewhat leveled. I felt as if all my joints were creaking as I tried to move them. We were moaning and groaning when we came upon the turn to Craig's village. Luckily it was a mile-and-a-half climb, enabling us to warm up enough so that Craig didn't have to immediately bundle us up in blankets and set us in front of his fireplace.
We didn't have an address for his house, only that it was the house with blue shutters, and that he was the only American in town that anyone could direct us to. As we rolled up to a house with blue shutters, out popped Craig on his way to his basement for more wood to feed his stove. I had only spoken to Craig over the phone and corresponded with him, so this was our first meeting. It was a miracle though that we had never met in Chicago as we share many friends,
some of whom are close, close friends. We both hang out at the same one-man bike shop in our neighborhood and have a great fondness for its owner, Joe, who had visited Craig here in France. But for the past ten years, Craig has spent six months in Chicago and six months in France, and since I spend six months or more a year traveling my self, it was only now that the fates deemed we could meet. We knew a lot about each other, and now we truly discovered that we are genuine kindred spirits, and beyond the brotherhood of the bike.
After our long, hard day, I didn't want to stay up as late as we did with Florence, but once again we lost all track of time as we feasted on the multi-course banquet Craig had for us and suddenly it was two a.m. again. It was sad Cannes couldn't wait for us, and allow us to linger, but we had to be off the next day. Craig led us out of his isolated little valley up a nine-mile climb on a barely one-lane wide road that passes right in front of his house. His favorite pastime is to lay in wait of cyclists riding up the road and to chase after them. The majority of French cyclists dress up in racing regalia. Craig wears jeans with rubber bands around his ankles and a straw hat atop his head. He delights in rocketing past the pseudo-racers in his Farmer John get-up.
From Craig's it was on to Avignon, about 90 miles away, to visit Jesse's former French teacher at Carnegie-Mellon. Once again it was a race against dark, and again we succeeded. We are glad that tonight we don't have a specific destination to reach and we can camp along the road. But the movies start at Cannes at noon on Wednesday in exactly 48 hours. It is 150 miles a way,
so I must be off.
Later, George
Thursday, May 6, 2004
Felletin, France
Friends: Finding an Internet outlet hasn't been as easy in France as elsewhere. Not all libraries offer the Internet, and one has to be lucky to arrive in a town when its library is open. Though the French are known as avid readers it is not reflected in the quality of their libraries. They are are generally quite modest and keep very erractic hours. They often are only open in the afternoon or morning and sometimes just three or four days a week. And if a library does offer the Internet, it may only have one terminal, so Jesse and I have to take turns.
We have had to resort to Internet cafes, but they too can erratic in their availability and quality. Jesse and I sat for over half an hour in the tiny square of one small town waiting for its Internet outlet in a photography store to reopen after closing for lunch. Its hours were nine to twelve and two to six. It was 2:15. We watched a parade of locals come by the shop, check the door and walk off. Their varied reactions of frustration were as entertaining as a Tati movie--shaking the door, thinking it needed to be pushed rather than pulled or pulled rather than pushed, peering in the window holding their hand to the side of their face to shield the glare, some pounding on the window or door, and some peering around as if they were considering breaking in if no one were looking or pulling out a can of spray paint to vent their frustration. After five or six, we began laughing at the mere approach of the next person in anticipation of their reaction. It was better than being on the Internet.
When I left off yesterday, I was commenting on the French devotion to meat, and was about to comment on the experience of a friend from Chicago who moved back to France a year ago after over a decade in the U.S. While in the U.S., she became a vegetarian. Her friends and family were shocked, and are convinced something is seriously wrong with her. But Florence deferred to the ways of her country and put out a spread of meat along with cheese and fruits and bread when we overnighted with her and Rachid in the city of Tours along the Loire River two days ago. Jesse and I didn't need meat, but Florence felt conditioned by the culture she lives in that having biked 150 miles from Paris in two days we might need some meat, even though she too is an ardent cyclist and maintains her energy without it. It was a nice gesture, and we appreciated it.
Florence and I are uniquely bonded, as we have shared the streets of downtown Chicago the past seven years as bicycle messengers. To a degree, every day is a battle, and we are fellow combatants contending with traffic, security guards, idiotic building policy, uncaring receptionists and mail room clerks, oblivious pedestrians, stressed-out dispatchers, rain and wind and cold and heat, and much much more. It is dangerous out there. But it is an exhilarating experience. Florence was the senior woman messenger when she left. Florence became a messenger after burning out as a waitress. She loved the messengering. Like many, she felt as if she had found her calling. Not even one in ten messengers last two months. Anyone who sticks it out for more than a year is a virtual lifer.
No one knows the downtown of a city more intimately than its bicycle messengers. They know every street and alley and shortcut, every place to take a leak or to plop down for a brief respite or bite to eat, the coldest drinking fountains and patches of grass, every building and their many entrances and elevators and mailrooms and security guards. We know a city's eccentrics--the beggars and homeless and cops and commuters. Florence missed it intensely, as I do too whenever I take a break. She wanted to know about her many messenger friends and the countless nuances of the messenger's world--the latest in how buildings were treating messengers, which were making our life easier and which more difficult, relegating messengers to freight elevators or instituting messenger centers keeping us out of their building.
We gabbed non-stop until nearly two a.m., even though I had been accustomed to crashing by ten after a long day on the bike. Even though we had been talking for over eight hours, we felt as if we had barely started. We were fully energized and were shocked when we discovered how late it was. Florence had to be up early to get to class, as she is enrolled in an environmental studies program. Jesse and I had to be on our way fairly early too, as we had no time to spare to get to Cannes, 600 miles away, with a couple more friends to visit on the way.
Florence's husband, Rachid, gave us a quick bike ride around Tours before we departed. We were in the heart of Chateau country and Tours had one to offer, though it was quite pint-sized compared to some of the monstrosities we had seen as we bicycled along the Loire River. After Tours our next destination is the Cevennes 350 miles to the south, to visit another Chicago bicycling friend, Craig. He lives six months of the year in Notre Dame de Rouviere, a tiny town of 100, about 50 miles north of the Mediterranean. I have a couple of bicycle parts to deliver.
We were hoping to be able to spend more than an evening with him, as Craig said he had loads of roads he'd like to bicycle with us, but once again it doesn't look as if time will allow. Our daily mileage hasn't been as good as we had hoped, slowed by more climbing than we anticipated. We climbed over 4,500 feet yesterday in 88 miles and today in 30 miles we have climbed 2,100 feet already. But at least we don't have to contend with the heat, as the temperature is plenty cool, not even 60. We need gloves and an extra layer or two when we set out in the early morning. When it's raining, it's almost as cold as Iceland was last July.
We were hoping to be able to spend more than an evening with him, as Craig said he had loads of roads he'd like to bicycle with us, but once again it doesn't look as if time will allow. Our daily mileage hasn't been as good as we had hoped, slowed by more climbing than we anticipated. We climbed over 4,500 feet yesterday in 88 miles and today in 30 miles we have climbed 2,100 feet already. But at least we don't have to contend with the heat, as the temperature is plenty cool, not even 60. We need gloves and an extra layer or two when we set out in the early morning. When it's raining, it's almost as cold as Iceland was last July.
We were saved having to set up camp in the rain last night, but just barely. We camped just outside Guret. The Tour will finish one of its stages here come July. After Guret we have been riding a portion of The Tour's route between Limoges and St. Floret, this year's longest stage, 150 miles. I plan to bike as much of The Tour route as I can, though I know it is highly unlikely that I will be able to bike all of it. Whether or not I will be there for this stage remains to be seen. We were given a small hint of what it will be like to be amongst the throngs alongside the road cheering the riders as they pass, as a truck driver today shouted "Allez!, Allez!" as he passed us on a long climb, just as he would the riders of the peloton. The Race touches all here. Rachid expressed amazement at how captivating the television coverage of The Race was. He watched it for hours at a time for all three weeks of The Race, even though he had never had any interest in bicycling racing. He raved at the beauty of the countryside and the efforts of the riders and the exuberance of the thousands of fans lining the roads. He's looking forward to watching it on tv again this July.
Every town, no matter its size has a bakery. We patronize a couple every day, Jesse
for a baguette and pastries, and I for more nutritional fare--quiches and potato patties and pate's or weiners in a biscuit and mini-pizzas and more. They are emporiums of tasty treats, often with something unique. We enter each with great expectation, wondering what we might find. Their proprietors often engage Jesse in conversation, curious about his fluency in their language, and curious too about our bicycling. An older guy in the pastry shop in the town with the closed Internet shop told us about visiting Chicago. He said it wasn't anything like the movies--it was clean and didn't have any gangsters. France hasn't showed a hint of its reputation as being snooty or anti-America. So far everyone has been kindly and welcoming. Jesse's facility with the language may be partially responsible for winning the favor of all we encounter or perhaps it is that we are traveling by bike, something that always has a positive influence.
Every town, no matter its size has a bakery. We patronize a couple every day, Jesse
for a baguette and pastries, and I for more nutritional fare--quiches and potato patties and pate's or weiners in a biscuit and mini-pizzas and more. They are emporiums of tasty treats, often with something unique. We enter each with great expectation, wondering what we might find. Their proprietors often engage Jesse in conversation, curious about his fluency in their language, and curious too about our bicycling. An older guy in the pastry shop in the town with the closed Internet shop told us about visiting Chicago. He said it wasn't anything like the movies--it was clean and didn't have any gangsters. France hasn't showed a hint of its reputation as being snooty or anti-America. So far everyone has been kindly and welcoming. Jesse's facility with the language may be partially responsible for winning the favor of all we encounter or perhaps it is that we are traveling by bike, something that always has a positive influence.
Later, George
Wednesday, May 5, 2004
Le Blanc, France
Friends: All early indications are France is a touring cyclist's paradise. Jesse and I are three days out of Paris and except for having to set up our tents in the rain twice, we have no complaints whatsoever. Camping wild has been a snap, our first night in an apple orchard and last night down a tractor path alongside a field into a bit of a forest. We didn't even have to wait until the cover of dark to make our camping clandestine, and for that we are grateful, as its not getting dark here until 9:30. All that daylight will be nice later on when we are stronger and can ride without tiring.
Jesse and I are on our way to the Cannes Film Festival, the granddaddy of film festivals. I have attended other prominent European film festivals (Berlin, Rotterdam, Thessaloniki, Midnight Sun). Cannes has long beckoned. I've felt an even stronger attraction to the Tour de France, the Cannes of bicycle races. Finally, this summer I will experience them both. Jesse will join me to Cannes then continue on to Munich, where his girl friend is spending the summer studying. This trip is Jesse's graduation present from his father. He completed his degree in film from Carnegie-Mellon in Pittsburgh last summer.
I met Jesse two summers ago when we worked together in the shipping department of the Telluride Film Festival in Colorado. Jesse hadn't been on a bike in years. He was inspired by my enthusiasm for the bicycle and my bicycling endeavors (touring/messengering/commuting) to return to the bicycle. He was awfully wobbly when he borrowed my bike and started biking again, but he is now a full-fledged, hard-corps convert, even working as a messenger in Philadelphia. This is his first genuine tour. He had a mini-tour last fall from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia and enjoyed it enough to want more. Its nice to have him along, as a semester in Paris has made him fairly fluent in French. And he knows Cannes as well, having worked as an intern in the American Pavilion at Cannes last year. It was his love of cinema that encouraged him to learn French, so he could read the exceptional French film magazine "Cahiers de Cinema" and others.
Since I am a bicycle touring missionary, I am proud to have made another convert and to have the opportunity to fully indoctrinate Jesse into the joy and fundamentals of touring. This is my first touring experience in France. I did spent a week in Paris on my bicycle a few years ago, when I visited a friend over the Christmas holiday. Though I thoroughly explored the city, I didn't venture any further than out to Versailles. I am sorry I've waited so long to discover the beauty and charm of rural France. It has been exceptional in every respect. The roads have been narrow and without any shoulder, giving a first impression of being perilous for cycling, but there has been little traffic, and what traffic we've encountered, has been most considerate and patient. We've witnessed countless examples of how much the French appreciate and respect anyone on a bike. Drivers unhesitatingly slow and wait patiently, if they must, to pass us. Drivers give us thumbs up and a double pump of a clenched fist, a gesture of “Allez-Allez," accorded racers. People shout it out as well and other encouragements--"bon courage" and "bravo."
The countryside is brightened by fields of the bright yellow flowers of rapeseed. If they were in such extravagant display during The Tour every Tour de France photographer would include them in the foreground of a shot of the peloton racing past, as they do with sunflowers. Rapeseed is grown primarily for animal feed, but it is also the world's third leading source of vegetable oil behind soybean and oil palm. This was the first time I had ever encountered it, or at least in full bloom. After a farmer had explained its virtues to us, he mentioned, without us asking, that The Tour had passed his farm three years ago.
With a different route every year, The Tour has included just about every road throughout France in its ninety editions. Often when there is a squiggle in the road ahead I envision the 189-strong peloton of The Tour ahead, snaking down the road in all its colorful splendor, pedaling hell-bent past the thousands who are drawn to The Race lining these roads. For a few seconds in some distant July, any spot I am biking has been the focal point of the cycling universe.
My thought strays to imagining myself shadowing those Giants of the Road (Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, Bobet, Coppi, Armstrong) knowing that their tires have graced these roads and their sweat has consecrated the pavement below me. As I bicycled around Iceland last year, the question I posed to everyone I met was, "Do you eat putrefied shark meat?" On this trip it will be, "When last did the Tour de France pass here?" As in Iceland, I know everyone will brighten and have a fond memory.
The great variety of exceptional food also makes France a touring cyclist's dreamland. The deli departments in the supermarkets all have couscous and quiche Lorraine and potato salad and many other tasty offerings. Food is an essential part of French culture, and when the French have a passion for something, such as cinema, they do not hold back. When I tour the US, baked beans is the cheap easy choice of food. The French supermarkets have a wide assortment of what can almost be considered gourmet canned foods, at least in comparison to our baked beans--pastas and lentils and stews and meats. The French do love meat. The potato salads are invariably thick with bits of ham. The cassoulet stew is half beans and half meat. I know I will have many more great food discoveries to come.
The noon hour has just struck and Jesse and I have just been informed that the library is closing for lunch. That seems to be the custom for most businesses in France, even supermarkets. We have been caught a couple of times arriving at a supermarket or tourist office during their lunch break, ranging from 90 minutes to two hours.
Later, George
Jesse and I are on our way to the Cannes Film Festival, the granddaddy of film festivals. I have attended other prominent European film festivals (Berlin, Rotterdam, Thessaloniki, Midnight Sun). Cannes has long beckoned. I've felt an even stronger attraction to the Tour de France, the Cannes of bicycle races. Finally, this summer I will experience them both. Jesse will join me to Cannes then continue on to Munich, where his girl friend is spending the summer studying. This trip is Jesse's graduation present from his father. He completed his degree in film from Carnegie-Mellon in Pittsburgh last summer.
I met Jesse two summers ago when we worked together in the shipping department of the Telluride Film Festival in Colorado. Jesse hadn't been on a bike in years. He was inspired by my enthusiasm for the bicycle and my bicycling endeavors (touring/messengering/commuting) to return to the bicycle. He was awfully wobbly when he borrowed my bike and started biking again, but he is now a full-fledged, hard-corps convert, even working as a messenger in Philadelphia. This is his first genuine tour. He had a mini-tour last fall from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia and enjoyed it enough to want more. Its nice to have him along, as a semester in Paris has made him fairly fluent in French. And he knows Cannes as well, having worked as an intern in the American Pavilion at Cannes last year. It was his love of cinema that encouraged him to learn French, so he could read the exceptional French film magazine "Cahiers de Cinema" and others.
Since I am a bicycle touring missionary, I am proud to have made another convert and to have the opportunity to fully indoctrinate Jesse into the joy and fundamentals of touring. This is my first touring experience in France. I did spent a week in Paris on my bicycle a few years ago, when I visited a friend over the Christmas holiday. Though I thoroughly explored the city, I didn't venture any further than out to Versailles. I am sorry I've waited so long to discover the beauty and charm of rural France. It has been exceptional in every respect. The roads have been narrow and without any shoulder, giving a first impression of being perilous for cycling, but there has been little traffic, and what traffic we've encountered, has been most considerate and patient. We've witnessed countless examples of how much the French appreciate and respect anyone on a bike. Drivers unhesitatingly slow and wait patiently, if they must, to pass us. Drivers give us thumbs up and a double pump of a clenched fist, a gesture of “Allez-Allez," accorded racers. People shout it out as well and other encouragements--"bon courage" and "bravo."
The countryside is brightened by fields of the bright yellow flowers of rapeseed. If they were in such extravagant display during The Tour every Tour de France photographer would include them in the foreground of a shot of the peloton racing past, as they do with sunflowers. Rapeseed is grown primarily for animal feed, but it is also the world's third leading source of vegetable oil behind soybean and oil palm. This was the first time I had ever encountered it, or at least in full bloom. After a farmer had explained its virtues to us, he mentioned, without us asking, that The Tour had passed his farm three years ago.
With a different route every year, The Tour has included just about every road throughout France in its ninety editions. Often when there is a squiggle in the road ahead I envision the 189-strong peloton of The Tour ahead, snaking down the road in all its colorful splendor, pedaling hell-bent past the thousands who are drawn to The Race lining these roads. For a few seconds in some distant July, any spot I am biking has been the focal point of the cycling universe.
My thought strays to imagining myself shadowing those Giants of the Road (Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, Bobet, Coppi, Armstrong) knowing that their tires have graced these roads and their sweat has consecrated the pavement below me. As I bicycled around Iceland last year, the question I posed to everyone I met was, "Do you eat putrefied shark meat?" On this trip it will be, "When last did the Tour de France pass here?" As in Iceland, I know everyone will brighten and have a fond memory.
The great variety of exceptional food also makes France a touring cyclist's dreamland. The deli departments in the supermarkets all have couscous and quiche Lorraine and potato salad and many other tasty offerings. Food is an essential part of French culture, and when the French have a passion for something, such as cinema, they do not hold back. When I tour the US, baked beans is the cheap easy choice of food. The French supermarkets have a wide assortment of what can almost be considered gourmet canned foods, at least in comparison to our baked beans--pastas and lentils and stews and meats. The French do love meat. The potato salads are invariably thick with bits of ham. The cassoulet stew is half beans and half meat. I know I will have many more great food discoveries to come.
The noon hour has just struck and Jesse and I have just been informed that the library is closing for lunch. That seems to be the custom for most businesses in France, even supermarkets. We have been caught a couple of times arriving at a supermarket or tourist office during their lunch break, ranging from 90 minutes to two hours.
Later, George
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