Nisimazine Cannes 2013 | Confession 1

confession1I was given the honor to initiate this short blog series without much indication apart from the description of my general state of being in the hours apart preceding the festival extravaganza, aren’t you envious of this privileged position that I so dignifyingly hold at 2.44 at night? I find writing about Cannes in Berlin a ‘retro’ move but focused on the future. Is there such a word?

Also I was literally suggested the possibility of “going nuts” in order to deliver a great opener “à la pissaladière” for the spiciest of the world’s film festivals, a suggestion I might save for the actual time with my feet on the Riviera.

Believe it or not, this is the appropriate time and space to confess that I broke my bag on the way to the way to Cannes. The event in itself is definitely irrelevant. However this happens in the context of Cannes, which is far from irrelevant. So since I tend to stress the positive in things, and since rounding up things in excess is always better, I am going to tell you how I broke my bag, which is now a relevant event.

It’s the evening of the 13th of May 2013, the last usable evening to print the necessary documents, especially for the individuals who do not possess a working printer at home. As I was thinking of a friendly spot where to print the boarding pass and other unclear informational papers in the soothing tranquility of a could-be-warmer Rosenthaler Platz evening, another thought crossed my head, the thought had the shape of a snack.

 Dragged as I was in this vortex of emotions heightened by Cannes and its proximity, one would expect my movements to be somewhat erratic and fidgety. None of that, as I was proceeding slow on my tall bike towards the nearest shop. My bike is very tall. The tallest I ever had, possibly the reason why I was so slow. It´s purple with green spots, cheap and handy with a metal basket, a recent purchase on Craigslist. On the front basket sat my long standing travelling bag, companion of countless queues in airports, packed at my friend’s place where I spent the past few weeks—months?—while looking for a room in this growing Berlin, without results.

I am bringing the bag to another place where I am spending the pre-Cannes night. Already not the easiest of the situations, right? Anyway I do my detour towards the shop on Kastanienallee; a Ritter Sport for me, nutmeg flavored, after parking the bike and taking the bag with me in the shop. Whistling at the accomplishment, I remember to check whether I actually took everything I need from my devoted friend’s apartment, a good and sound thing, very sensible of me, bravo. The reshuffling of the elements in the bag, previously arranged in counter-easyjet fashion with a touch of pocket feng shui, provokes the damage. As I try to zip the content in plus the Ritter Sport with a classy but decided move, brraam the bag betrays me and it rips itself apart. Chocolate also fattens inanimate objects.

 Tomorrow I’ll have a FIFA world cup training bag sponsored by Coca-Cola to match the red carpet. Ain’t this glamorous?

By Filippo Spreafico (Germany/Italy)

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