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

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.

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





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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

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 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.

Later, George

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

Paris

Friends: Paris is truly the film capital of the universe. It is a fitting place to spend a couple of days before cycling down to Cannes, 500 miles away, for its annual grand celebration of cinema. I will be joined by fellow cinephile and bike devotee Jesse, friend from the Telluride Film Festival. We could go crazy watching movies here, but we will try to limit ourselves. The Cannes Film Festival poster is already on display on lampposts and bus kiosks, as the festival is an event of national interest. All the films in Competition and Uncertain Regard will play in Paris the week after the festival ends. This year's poster is a tribute to that seminal cinematic moment when a gust of wind from a subway vent lifted up Marilyn Monroe's dress in "The Seven Year Itch."

Jesse couldn't wait to get his hand on the weekly digest listing and describing the several hundred movies that will be playing in the dozens of movie theatres about Paris the next week. When he was a student here two years ago, he lived for the publication. He'd spend a couple of hours every Friday when it came out dissecting it, plotting out his movie-going for the next seven days. Many theatres devote their week to a retrospective, some play movies all night, concluding with a breakfast for the bleary-eyed. Some theatres, even those with multiple screens, offer a monthly pass for around $20.

We noticed two movies we were both eager to see that had yet to open in the US--"Brown Bunny," the most notorious film at Cannes last year, and Jim Jarmusch's "Coffee and Cigarettes," playing on eight screens. When it opens in Chicago, it will play at just one theatre, the Music Box, and probably won't have a run of more than a couple of weeks. It will play here for months. Jarmusch is a virtual deity in France. Hardly a week passes that some theatre doesn't have a retrospective of his work. One is going on right now. A review of it referred to Jarmusch as "The Prince of Independent Cinema."

Before retreating to a movie theatre, we spent several hours exploring the city on our bikes. Jesse led the way, taking me to many of his favorite haunts, many of them movie theatres. We also dropped in on his old school to say hi to former teachers, got lunch at his favorite felafel stand and grabbed an ice cream cone from his favorite ice cream parlor. Jesse romped about with a youthful exuberance, thrilled to be reliving a noteworthy six-month chapter of his young life.

With our senses alive and percolating from the biking, we opted for a dose of Jarmusch's zany, off-beat humor. We knew we were in for a barrel of laughs with a cast of Bill Murray, Stephen Wright, Tom Waits and a host of others in this series of unconnected vignettes, mostly of a couple of characters sitting around in small diners smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Jarmusch spent several years filming these segments between other projects. Murray is rip-roaring hilarious playing himself as a waiter serving a couple of hip-hop artists. When they recognize him ,he begs them not to tell anyone he's working as a waiter. He walks around his small diner, drinking straight from the coffee pot he is carrying around. He continually offers some to the hip-hop artists, but they adamantly refuse, citing the perils of caffeine, and nicotine as well. Jesse and I were hurting from laughing so hard. Murray's segment is the show-stopper, coming towards the end of the series, but not a one disappoints or falls flat.

The bike is also celebrated and revered in France. As we biked the 21 miles from the airport to Montmarte last night on our fully loaded bikes to the apartment where we're crashing with a friend of Jesse's, a passing bicyclist greeted us with the exclamation "Bon Courage." As I guarded our bikes this morning while Jesse was in the American Express office changing money, the Bob Matter of Paris came over and invited us to the Paris version of Critical Mass. It is so popular it is held every Friday night, not just the last Friday of the month as in Chicago and most cities around the world. Even though its not called Critical Mass, the bicyclists proceed to take over the streets, including the Champs Elysees, and have a jolly good time like Critical Massers the world over.

Unlike most Critical Masses, the Parisian version doesn't interfere with the rush-hour commute, not starting until ten p.m. He said last Friday they had over 750 cyclists and enthusiastically encouraged us to join . He even gave me a map showing its starting point just a block from Notre Dame in the plaza in front of the Hotel de Ville, the City Hall of Paris. This 60-year old gent went on and on like some disciple preaching the gospel of the bike, extolling its many virtues and what a joy and how worthwhile it is to ride.

He was ecstatic to learn that Jesse and I plan to spend the next three months biking around France and some of its adjoining countries, saying that is something he has always wanted to do. He lamented that France is "late" in promoting the bicycle compared to Holland and Denmark and Germany, but is trying to catch up. But one thing France isn't "late" on is staging the world's premier bicycle race--The Tour de France.

He gushed over its magnitude and majesty, how much he loved it and how it takes over the country for three weeks every July. He was nearly epileptic with joy, actually pounding me on the back, when I told him that I was going to follow The Tour on my bicycle. That too is something he has dreamed of doing himself, though at his age he knows he'll never do. He was proud to have his picture taken last year with two of Lance's teammates on the Champs Elysees at the conclusion of the race.

As much as he loves The Race, he has never left the Parisian environs to witness it, not even to the mountains, where the greatest dramatics of The Race unfold and the fans are the most enthusiastic, though that too is something he'd desperately like to do. And why oh why hasn't he. I am constantly meeting others with all sorts of unfilled ambitions. Listening to such people in my early adulthood inspired me on the path I have taken.

At least this fine fellow wasn't lamenting. He was bubbling with so much energy, it was shocking that he couldn't find the will to ignite the fuse to set himself on his way. His last words were he'd be rooting for Lance to win number six, just as will I.

One more day in Paris and then on to the city of Tours to visit former Chicago bike messenger and Critical Masser Florence.

Later, George

Reykjavik (2)

Friends: Reykjavik has rolling terrain like much of Iceland, though there is one sector flat enough for the domestic airport. It is about as close to the town center as Meigs Field was to Chicago's downtown. Unfortunately, there isn't a runway long enough for international flights. The international airport is 30 miles away. That will make a nice final ride through the lava fields and wind and rain.

Atop the two highest hills in Reykjavik are two of the city's most prominent features. One is a cathedral with a spire some 250 feet high. The other is a cluster of four gigantic, gleaming silver tanks, holding the city's hot water. They look like something placed by NASA to thank Iceland for letting Neil Armstrong and the Apollo astronauts use the rugged terrain of Iceland as practice for their lunar escapades. It wasn't until 1940 that the country began heating itself with the massive amount of hot water that lies beneath it, some as hot as 400 degrees Celsius. The hill where the hot water tanks reside is laced with hiking and biking paths. I saw someone out mushrooming as I bicycled up it. There is an expensive restaurant above the tanks providing the best view in town. There are also two man-made geysers on the premises, one inside the complex shooting up four floors, and one outside, spouting even higher.

The best spouting I've seen here in Reykjavik, however, came at the Volcano Show, a two-hour movie of erupting volcanoes and flowing lava shot over the past sixty years by a father-son. The son is now about sixty. When he's not off filming "another volcanic disaster," as he phrased it, and as he'd prefer to be doing, he is on hand to present his film. Lucky for me, and the country, he was in town. He warned the thirty of us on hand for his noon show that he could go on for weeks telling about his experiences. He was so enthusiastic, none of us would have left if he had.

Yesterday I had a pleasant day of just meandering about this pseudo-metropolis letting my bike take me as it whimmed. We followed a bike path along the coastline and another around the mile-long lake in the heart of the city. There were hardly any automobiles to contend with other than on the four-lane wide arteries that skirt the city. They had no shoulder. A non-messenger might have had occasional cause for alarm, but the traffic couldn't make me flinch.

The Ring Road, Route 1, turned into a four-lane divided Interstate as it neared Reykjaik, but still, there were none of those dreaded sings of a bicycle with a slash through it, just signs of a tractor with a slash through it. And there are such tractor-restricting signs on some of the four-lane arteries in the city as well, though some that just apply during the rush hours. Reykjavik may be the only national capital in the world that has the need to restrict tractor use. Another common sign with a slash through it applies to dogs. Dogs aren't welcome in the parks or even on the main shopping street or in many of the plazas.

Today I purchased a pass good for many of the city's museums and its seven geothermal pools and the zoo. It may be the best deal in all of Iceland. The card also allows use of the bus system, but I remained faithful to my bike. I visited all eight museums it entitled me to and the zoo. The pool by the campground is open until 9:30 p.m., so I'll end my day there. It also grants me entry to a soccer match in the city's stadium. I swung by the stadium as preparations were being made for the game and was joined by four boys on their BMX bikes. They were going to be selling concessions at the game. They told me, "Iceland sucks at all sports." Like nearly everyone I have met, their English was fluent and accent-free. Nowhere that I have traveled, where English isn't the main language,  has English been so universal.

None of the museums here were as fascinating as the truly remarkable Maritime and Whaling museums of Husavik, but all were worthwhile. Two of the museums were devoted to sculptors. One of the sculptors carved a gavel that was Iceland's gift to the United Nations upon its birth. That gavel met its demise when the presiding officer banged and banged it trying to still the chaos set off by Kruschev's shoe-banging fit. One of the art museums had an exhibit devoted to the rock band Bad Taste when Bjork was a member. She joined the band when she was fifteen and was an immediate sensation. She may be the most internationally known Icelander, so it was appropriate that a museum would acknowledge her. It is the same in Sweden. When I visited Stockholm two years ago, two museums had exhibits devoted to Abba, its country's best known musical act. For many around the world Bjork represents Iceland, just as for many Abba represents Sweden.

The Museum of Culture had books of the Sagas that were over 500 years old. They were illuminated by the dimmest of light, activated by motion detectors when someone came in to their room. There was a video of the return of several of these books from Denmark some time in the 1970s. It was a huge event that was declared a national holiday. The Museum of Culture made a strong case for the Vikings, who were based in Iceland, as having visited America long before Columbus. The bi-weekly English newspaper has a regular feature interviewing tourists about their impressions of Iceland. Among the questions they are asked is, "What do you think about whaling?" "Who is the premier of Iceland?," and "Should North America be returned to Iceland?"

I had to bike to the outskirts of the city to visit a vast outdoor museum with some twenty typical Icelandic houses and structures, some 200 years old. Milling around were young Icelanders dressed in the costume of the various eras, engaged in traditional activities. There were several sod houses. With no wood or stone for building they were the most common dwelling in Iceland for centuries. In 1910 they were banned from Reykjavik, when its population had grown to 12,000. A Model T automobile represented the first car to come Iceland in 1904. There were some old bikes scattered about, but history has not recorded the first to arrive.

This has been another most memorable trip in an environment of many distinctive features, natural and man-made. The Icelanders are a sturdy and proud lot. I thought they might be similar to their fellow islanders, the New Zealanders, who feel isolated and overwhelmed by Australia, and suffer an inferiority complex of a sort. There was no evidence of such a thing here. Most of the Icelanders hop over to Europe for extra schooling and travel, but the majority remain loyal to the homeland. Iceland may be a speck in the international community, but that doesn't seem to bother them, or be an overriding concern. They know they have it tough here and they are proud to have the toughness to endure it. It was a pleasure being amongst such a people.

Later, George