Monday, July 4, etc. (a reconstructive effort)

Avignon, France: Avignon Contemporary Theatre Fest, 2011

1. SEE: des spectacles, theatre
2. WRITE: des pensees, observation & reconnaissance of either poetic, theatrical, near manic nature or straight-up shot-from-the-hip reportage
3. ENGAGE: des français, french people, language, culture, customs, theatre(!)

*tip: try not to fall asleep; there really isn't any time....

***

Avignon begins a week earlier in preparation for the trip, meaning: I'm not sleeping; I'm packing, desperately enthousiastic for what I imagine will be necessary to wear. Avignon is hot, sexy and european: les avignonese will not broach casual wear without comment, age is your only excuse. I would bring what I own, but I'm experimenting with scarcity and have committed to one bag (though this obviously has no bearing on my 40 lb carry-on and two swollen purses I carry besides.) Bare necessities! Occasionally, I clean up after myself, preparing the house for my absence by retrieving what I've left littered around - marking territory upstairs, downstairs, in different rooms and the various spaces available to me; indeed, there's very little of the house I haven't thoroughly besmirched. I assure myself I'll get everything packed up and put away by morning, but I'm forgetting my habit of haphazaard progress and never really finish the job. My clothes are everywhere, most of the lights are on wherever I've been and I'm collecting electronics - phone, computer, stereo speakers, a camera and tape recorder, for which I've lately ordered a wind cover and of which will punctually arrive the day after my departure, c'est dommage. The fantasy (or objective, if you prefer,) is to dutifully report my experience on a blog, (this blog!) dedicated and really addressed to my friend and colleague Kyoung Park, my gadfly and inspiration. ...We figure: If the best (funded and attended) contemporary theatre is premiering in Avignon where many of America's most devout theatre professionals are prohibited by language, finances, conservative sentiment or law from attending then I can certainly endeavor to bring the mountain to my erstwhile mohammedans (in the form of this blog,) detailing what I've done, what I've seen and what I've done-thought while here.

Immediately, there are problems. First, I'm not very reliable: lazy, tired, flirtatious and I don't speak French all that well myself. Second, and those of you who are quick on the uptake will have undoubtedly observed by now, I am prone to certain exaggeration - typical of my writing as well as my behavior - for which I must assume and therefore admit, poses a certain problematic to the journalistic credo of fidelity to fact. For a dramatist, I don't think I'm as bad as I could be, let's say, if I wanted to and no one stopped me and I decided to go ahead and write musicals, but truthfully, I do go on presque toujours and what's worse, I like it, and so I take little if any precaution around sentiment, without instruction or editing that is. I can be delusional and egoistic - in writing and in person, both - and have been known to talk more than I listen, and perform more than I observe. Any modification of the prior statement would really be a lie. You'll see, it's a habit. However! I'm here and you're (presumably) not so I guess I'll just get on with it. [My confession brings on a fit of scratching and I've ink dobbing four of my fingertips, which is now getting on my face. I'll take a minute before returning. (...I'm washing my hands.)]

To continue:

Morning comes early today (July 5th) and it turns out I've somehow set off the smoke alarm; the fire department calls to ask why. I, however, remain entirely unaware of my transgression or any incident that would have encouraged the alarm, or indeed any evidence of the purported offense in the form of either smoke or electronic beeping. I continue packing unperturbed. My mother has now joined to help me and together we finish in record time. Without my mother there is in fact very little I can do or have done, it would seem, (whether or not this is a paid advertisement for my mother, I'll leave to the discretion of my reader.) 13:00 and we are out the door and on the road to JFK for my international flight, departing terminal 4 at 17:45. And yet again, I'm flying Air Lingus, which is fast becoming my international jet of choice on account of its consistently competitive prices to the South of France.

The ride to the airport is quiet: sans the expected fourth of July traffic and recursive chatter of those who know nothing new other than what's already been said at every departure hitherto, we are definitively quiet; mature; dignified; and, yes, on account, no doubt, of our trajectory, seemingly European in our collective composure. Despite my agitation at not bringing more stuff, I can't shake the suspicion that I've left something necessary behind. I'm tending a casual resentment now at not being more organized, preparing my suitcase sooner, owning less pretty things, (all of which veritably shout for inclusion on a trip like this one, demanding my reconsideration of their inclusion in my bag, which is impossible now, but remains frustrating and unsatisfactory nevertheless.) I should ditch it all and become religious, I tell myself; and the thought brings me comfort.

In line for my boarding pass now and I remember with all the force of sudden recollection what it is I've forgotten: Blankies! I've forgotten my blankies; among my most important possessions. They've been with me from the start and rarely leave my side. Even at adult sleepovers, I am conscious of their comfort and, in fact, clutched them not long ago during a mid-morning reprieve from packing, leaving them, I now realize, where I last slept. The loss is overwhelming and I begin to cry in front of a line of Irish tourists and airport personnel. My mother, distressed at my distress and no doubt distressed herself, in-sympathy with my loss, insists that my father will turn the car around right this minute and retrieve the forgotten blankets from my bed, but my father, (she tells me upon returning,) rejects the idea outright and so, she declares, she will ship them to me overseas instead. She is an irrepressible pragmatist. Having no further problems or concerns, I pass into the interior of the airport, kissing both of my parents goodbye.

I shop a bit. I wander. I buy a travel case for my computer. I proceed to undergo the requisite airport rigamarole that ensures our collective safety and security from one another to enjoy yet another day of international travel and commerce, jauntily making my way to gate 3C to settle-in for a little CNN before boarding. ...This particular segment concerns the patriation of various newly-minted citizens to the good ol' US of A and just how thrilled everyone finally is to now be officially considered such. The broadcast feels ironic, appropriate and sincere all at once and I think of politics and Dominique Strauss-Kahn and the various incidents that have once again made France relevant for Americans. ...All of this talk of France, thoughts of my impending travel and, if luck will have it, not too few sexual misadventures of my own, casually reminds me that I've forgotten to record the address of the apartment I'm letting, along with other associated facts and information, such as: the number to the flat, the number of the woman who owns the flat and even the number of the woman with whom I've been corresponding (Audrey,) who is brokering the arrangement for the flat. Re-powering my cellphone, (I am unwilling to pay the $7 to access the internet myself,) I call friends to do it for me. After a few miss-fires I get ahold of my good friend, Adam, the Brooklyn bookstore proprietor of Unnameable Books-renown. For those of you in Brooklyn: go. It's truly a brag-worthy establishment and Adam is among the best of the best of them. In accordance with his superlative nature, in no-time-flat Adam retrieves the gmail-cloistered information and we're back on-track, departing from Kennedy airport, traveling N.E. to 12 rue des grottes, 84000 Avignon, FRANCE.