ON LOCATION
by Christine K. Zarb
 As I stroked the press pass dangling around my neck, my fantasy was that working during a film festival meant a luxurious hotel room with breakfast in bed, all expenses paid, culture-filled days interjected with media brunches and elegant soirées. But reality was somewhat more grass roots.
Let’s just say, I felt like I’d returned to my university days, in other words, I bunked at a-friend-of-a-friend’s home. A bunch of people cruised through the flat at any hour of the day or night. They came to use the loo or the computer and for the homemade vegetable juices. The owner of the flat is a conceptual artist who stores vials of his own blood in the freezer. He also owns two tarantulas. While waiting my turn to use the bathroom, I stood in the corridor, looking at the arachnoids in the hope of catching them crawling around — their terrariums smelled like old talcum powder.
Downstairs, a vacant industrial space had been converted into a temporary showroom-come-cocktail lounge. The owner was a dealer who exposed his collection of 70s designer furniture and offered free apéros to the designer crowd at 6:00 p.m. As we nibbled and sipped, a pierced d.j. kept the mood funky. His sleeveless shirt displayed his tribal tats, which swayed to the music as the d.j. swapped one vinyl disc for another with professional nonchalance.
These little gatherings provided a much needed refreshment and a well deserved break after hours of moving pictures. I’d refill my glass of Chardonnay, breath in deeply, focus on the red tulip chair and … relaaax! An apero, somewhere between the movies and dinner, always gets one started on the wine and social interaction. Later, we’d grab a quick bite to eat just in time before the late screening in the Piazza Grande — unless it looked like rain. In which case we’d head straight for the cocktail lounge. If the music was any good — and inevitably it always was — we’d hang around the bar downing cocktails and chat up all the friends, colleagues and acquaintances that showed up. Many of them were regular festival groupies.
On our way home we’d stop for a night cup chez our host’s art gallery. While I sipped my last mojito through a straw, I gazed at the bunch of drunken intellectuals. They looked just like regular drunks, except they all wore black.
After spending ten days at the 54th International Film Festival in Locarno, I got on the train to return to my flat looking forward to all the creature comforts of home, but with a kaleidoscope of images still reeling in my head. It was a hard slog; nonetheless, I can hardly wait for next year’s festival to come around.
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