Three plane flights, a few airport shuttle buses, a car service, a taxi, and 21 hours after leaving my apartment in New York, I finally make it to the Festival de Cannes. An hour long delay on the runway at JFK on Tuesday evening set into motion a series of delayed travel plans.
Arriving in Barcelona just 15 minutes before our scheduled connecting flight to the South of France, indieWIRE’s Brian Brooks, new friend Susan Farris and I literally sprint the entire length of the airport to try and catch the small jet. Sweaty and panting from the run, we arrive to find a woman shaking her head at the gate and we see our plane a few feet away out the window. It sits there for about 10 minutes, but they won’t let us board.
Dejected, we return to where we started, only to learn that we’ve been booked on a flight to France 10 hours later. At the Delta counter, a noted casting director and a film financier are dropping the names of Hollywood agents. We can’t figure out how a fellow passenger’s tangential work relationship with Kevin Huvane makes a difference. But somehow she and the financier are booked on an immediate flight to Paris, with a quick connection to Nice. We track down our luggage and Air France books us on an afternoon flight to Lyon, followed by the connection to Nice an hour later. The morning is rescued by a terrific local breakfast of tortilla de patates and zumo de naranja (a potato/onion frittata with a glass of fresh orange juice).
An array of other hurdles emerge after we finally make it to Nice, and then Cannes. The free festival shuttle has unexpectedly closed two hours early, so we are forced to take a 100