Suffering in St-Germain-des-Prés

“The major problem of a provincial festival hangs on one word only: return.
Knowing the inefficiency of organisations, I take precautionary measures: an anti-depressant at 2 p.m. My bag is ready on my knees at 3 p.m. Two tranquillisers at 4 p.m. From 4 to 5 p.m. I pray. In these circumstances I renew my trust in God the father and God the son with his fake Calvin Klein floppy underpants. These guys are watching and they know my problem. Someone who's managed to walk on the Red Sea can arrange it so that my TGV train arrives on time, that's the least he can do. At 5 p.m. I drag myself away from the festival to get to the station a hundred and fifty metres away.

And I hear from the back of the booking hall the voice of Jean-Bernard Pouy shouting, "Hey, Villard, get a move on, we're leaving in forty-five minutes."
The shame of it, it's terrible. I don't say anything, really restrained. I pretend to hang around the stands near the exit. And I become aware of Michelle's voice stammering, “Oh, Marc, I'm really sorry, I can't find your return ticket!”

A bummer of a Festival.”