Cannes... you dig it?

When I last wrote, I was in Mallorca, in the delightful comforts of Kelly's apartment in Alcudia, and although I knew I'd be doing some major traveling in the following days, I hardly knew it would be the most hellaciously stressful and exhausting travel experience of my life. I am speaking in superlatives because I've officially decided to never do anything like it again.

I woke up too early the next morning in Alcudia, to a day of perfect blue skies and warm temperatures. It was so sweet and delicate I could have stayed there for a week. My sweet host Kelly was sitting drinking tea and reading when I blew downstairs with my 50 kilos of weight and a forced determination. I actually felt incredibly unnatural to be leaving Alcudia that morning, but I had a plane to catch so there was no time to change my mind. I stumbled into the sunshine bound for the bus that would take me back to Palma and the airport. There was a huge street market between me and the bus stop, and maneuvering all my crap through the crowds with a quick step proved highly challenging. I arrived at the stop just as the bus pulled up, and got in line to board, relieved. When I finally stepped up, the driver stopped me, explaining that the bus was full and I'd have to wait for the next one. I couldn't wait for the next one, however, because it took an hour to get to Palma and I'd be too late. I was more relieved at this point, because it meant I might be able to stay in this delightful town a little longer...

I hauled my stuff back to Kelly's place again, where she and her roommate were surprised to see me and hear the news. The next 20 minutes consisted of me stressing out on vueling.com trying to weigh the pros and cons. I concluded that if I took a taxi to palma it would cost the same as it would to change my flight or lose the money on it- might have been less- so i jumped up with the last 60 euros I had and went for it. I arrived early for my flight to find that the plane was delayed for an indefinite period of time. I walked around the airport for three hours trying to find someone to tell me what the hell was going on but no one was there. All the people on my flight were just sitting in the terminal with blank faces. I love Europe, but all i could repeat to myself during that sequence was 'this would never happen in america'. the american in me totally came out- i really wanted (expected) someone i could bitch at and get some bureaucratic groveling in response, but there was no one around to care. one woman in the terminal looks at me and goes, 'welcome to spain'. great.

finally, they announced that the plane existed and would actually leave at some point, and i eventually got to barcelona around 7pm. i was staying one night with a guy named duro, friend of my friend drew from sf, but i didn't have his address or a phone to call him. I took the shuttle to placa de catalunya and decided to figure it out there. i tried to find a wifi spot where i could give him a skype call, but it proved ridiculously difficult. I was still with my bags and just wanted to sit down at this point. i went into a restaurant and they let me use their phone. duro told me to take the metro and meet him at the Sants stop. However there were two Sants stops, Placa de Sants and Sants estacion. I stood at estacion while he was waiting at placa de sants for one hour, until i gave up, frantically looking for a locutorio where i could call him again. when i got him he sounded frustrated and we decided to meet in the train station. we finally met and walked back to his place. duro is an artist and lives in a single studio with all of his work. i was really impressed with his paintings and his living space, though all i could think about was sitting down- i was exhausted. but in an email some days before, duro had mentioned an art opening he was going to, and by the time we finally made contact it had already started. so i had five minutes to set down my bags and wash my hands before we were back on the metro, and then on a train across town to get to the gallery. i was starving, sincerely hoping for some arty snacks, but the offerings were slim- a few carne bunuelos which i finished the last of. i tried to be nice by chatting with duro's friends and checking out the art, but i couldn't hide my complete exhaustion. after the gallery, a few friends of his latched on and everyone moseyed to a cafe for some wine. i felt like i was getting a cold or something, my throat was really starting to hurt, so i abstained from drinking. i got some patatas bravas to hold me over until we left, which was around midnight. we took the train back to the metro where a guy tried to pickpocket my purse while we were walking up some stairs. i turned around like lightning and he tried to act like nothing had happened and scurried away. he's lucky cause i was about to bust out some kung fu shit on his ass. travelling alone has really made me cutthroat when it comes to self-protection.

we finally got back to Duro's around 1am. i had some peanut butter crackers and water packed my stuff all over again- i had to catch a train at 8:45 the next morning at the station on the other side of town. Duro kind of explained that he didn't really have anything for me to sleep on but a duvet cover, and on the marble floor that wouldnt really fly...thank god i had my sleeping bag. I set up on the floor, next to the door, just as a huge rainstorm began outside. By this time my throat was really starting to hurt. I got really stressed out that I would be sick travelling and then in Cannes, stressed that I wouldn't sleep enough or miss my train, still emotionally reeling from the intensity of the day. Between the rain and the hard floor and all my worries I could hardly sleep at all that night.

7am came quickly but at least the rain had stopped. Duro got up with me and we rushed outside to find a cab to the Franca station. It was 8:25 when I finally got in a cab and bid a flustered goodbye to Duro. He had assured me it would be no more than ten minutes to Franca by cab, but the driver said it would be 20 at least. I would surely miss the train that way, so I just told him to take me to Sants which was basically walking distance. I got out and ran inside, to a line where the clerk told me it would be impossible to get to franca and make the train. She gave me a pamphlet with an explanation of the trains I would need to take to get to Cannes.

So i took six trains that day. The first was three hours from Barcelona to Cerebeu, on the french-spanish border, then Cerebeu to Narbonne, Narbonne to Montpelier, Montpelier to Marseille, Marseille to Toulon, and finally, Toulon to Cannes.

The train stations were packed because the volcano had cancelled tons of flights, so everyone was travelling by train this day. This caused a onslaught of delays. I wrote this while waiting at the train station in Montpelier, note my muted angst:

'Because of the goddamn volcano the train stations are jammed with people and bags galore, the lines are 40 people deep, and the bags under everyone's eyes look like robert downey jr. after a weekend bender. The trains are all delayed so we're standing in one gigantic mass in the middle of the station with our eyes glued to the departure screen waiting for an update. Moving is unadvisable during this pregnant period due to sneers and collisions. And then it happens like a tidal wave- the platform number appears on the screen- and it's like a gun blew, the gates open, the greyhounds are charging forth. People are moving in every direction in catastrophic frenzy, we're tripping over each other's rolling suitcases, trampling grandmas and strollers, old and young, falling all over ourselves for a coveted seat on the train. It's like 300 MacAllister families storming through the station except they all hate me because I can't speak french. It's a fucking free for all. Yet I can't enjoy how hilariously stupid it looks because I'm too busy shoving people out of the way and foaming at the mouth just like the rest of em. God knows I'm getting out of this shitstorm if I have to crawl.'

So it was a bit of a cutthroat afternoon. I finally arrived in Cannes around midnight, after 14 hours of travel, and set out into the night to find 44 Boulevard Carnot, where Carleton was living. I got to the bulding but didnt know the number, so I had to go into a hotel nearby and call him on skype, which turned into kind of an hourlong ordeal. Finally, he met me in front of the place, after a creepy drunk french guy was boldly staking his claim on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette while obnoxiouslý hitting on me. These things I simply don't tolerate so he was walking away with tail between legs within 60 seconds, but not before the pissed-off parting words of 'uh...ï'm just saying zat because, uhh, you would be nice to have some sex with.' Right.

Even though I was beyond exhausted, I was excited to be there, so I changed clothes and we walked down to the Promenade, called La Croisette, where most of the festival action took place, and met up with the two other flatmates for the week, Sarah and John. They were a couple, and friends of Carleton's from film school in France. Sarah is from Paris and John from Dublin, respectively. They greeted me with open arms- both very kind and down to earth people- and i was happy to be with them, relieved that they weren't uppity or self-absorbed (it seemed that would be plenty easy to come by). Down on the Promenade it was glitzy indeed- if you weren't in a tuxedo or a sparkling dress nobody even looked at you, but the ones who were dressed the part had swarms of paparazzi blinding them with flashes, knocking the commonpeople out of the way. There weren't many commonpeople to note, however.

We walked around, checking out the scene for a few hours, until about 2am. We were sitting down for a drink (i was still abstaining) when i started to feel really exhausted and very strange. I was shaky and weak, dizzy kind of, and began to feel naseaous. We slowly made our way back to the apartment, and i could barely keep my eyes open on the walk back. I was feeling very bad now. We got inside and I immediately went to the bathroom and puked. The three of them were shocked and confused...I then began to explain my last three days and the level of exhaustion my body was experiencing...and sickness had to be the culmination of taking it too far.

The whole incident really shocked me too. The three days had been pretty stressful though, physically and mentally, and it made sense why it was happening, I was just sad for my poor body and not treating myself well. I vowed to be kind and gentle for that point on, so I abstained from alcohol for nearly the whole week in Cannes (despite the free champagne in the pavilions). It definitely took three days for me to get back to normal, from the travel hangover of a lifetime.


The rest of the week at Cannes was great. I spotted some stars, like Pedro Almodovar and Naomi Watts. Sarah saw Woody Allen. We almost went to a party on a yacht. We had 20 euro cocktails at the swanky hotels where you couldn't get in without a festival badge (I did not shell out for these drinks). It was very Cote D'Azur, sundresses and sunglasses by day, heels at night. It was very much about playing up to a fantasy of what it should be like to be at Cannes, but it was all very false. It was the real Cannes experience, in all it's exclusivity and outrageously expensive glory. But honestly, it was way too much for me. Monday rolled around and we packed our stuff and went to the train station where we would all part ways. Carleton and I tok the train to Nice where we stayed one night, saw a movie and had some dinner near the beach. It was good to spend time with him.

Berlin update to come next.