Recently, my youngest child asked if I wanted to go see movie with her. I was a little surprised by the invitation, but I thought that would be a great idea. I enjoy movies, and they are always more fun to see with company, so I said yes.
Then she asked if I could drive her to the theater and pay for the movie. This question was not as much of a surprise. But I’m a father. I’m used to being the one to pay for everything. So, I still agreed to it.
I asked her what movie she wanted to see, and EM2 said she had been given a homework assignment from one of her classes to see a film called, “Cyrano, My Love.” That seemed a bit odd to me. It has been several decades since I went to college, but I do not recall taking any classes that sent me to movies for homework assignments. I asked what kind of classes she had signed up for and she said it was her French class.
The movie was in French.
That made much more sense, but also sounded like a lot less fun than the movies I thought we were going to see. I don’t know a lot about French cinema, but I had images running through my mind of black and white films of mimes smoking cigarettes and dying slow, agonizing deaths while a gathering of strangers applauded and whispered bad poetry.
Like I said, I don’t know a lot about French films.
Despite my misgivings, I agreed to go. I suppose I should clarify that it was actually my wife who agreed that both of us would go. I was simply too slow trying to come up with a good excuse to stay home.
Off to the movies, we went.
Our adventure into French film started off a bit rocky. We parked in a parking garage that advised we could get our parking ticket validated at the movie theater. When we bought tickets at the front ticket counter, my wife asked about our parking. The young man behind the window said we could have our parking validated inside at the concession stand.
Inside at the concession stand, the fine young gentleman at the cash register told us tickets could be validated outside at the ticket booth. Either neither one of them had any clue what we were asking them to do, or else this was some kind of scam the parking garage people were running to make sure everyone parking in their facility paid full price.
With no immediate resolution to the problem, I bought a bag of popcorn. I figured if I was already at the front of the line of the concession stand, I wasn’t walking away empty handed.
We went into the theater and found seats for ourselves.
The movie we were seeing was only one film of many that were being screened for the sixth annual, French Film MiniFest. The entire day was devoted to watching and discussing classic French movies. When I heard we were attending a film festival, I assumed that we would soon be surrounded by pretentious, twenty-something hipsters with man-buns and questionable bathing practices. Instead, the theater slowly filled up with old people like me, who apparently had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon. I admit to being a bit disturbed to find out that I actually was the demographic the theater was shooting for that day.
I don’t recall much (or any, actually) of the French I learned back in high school. I was prepared to sit in the theater and catch a two-hour nap while people on the screen in front of me rambled on in a language I did not understand. I figured at least I would be able to tell all my friends the next day that I had attended a French film festival over the weekend. That was a statement I had never been able to make at any time prior in my life. I could pretend I was trying to become more cultured and sophisticated, instead of merely admitting I had been suckered into helping my kid out with a school assignment.
The movie, however, had subtitles. Instead of a language lesson, it was suddenly a reading and comprehension exam. I put my glasses on and tried to keep up.
To be fair, the movie was pretty good. I enjoyed it quite it a bit. It was the story of the playwright who, in 1895, wrote Cyrano De Bergerac.
To my horror, EM2 asked me who Cyrano De Bergerac was. She had never heard the story of the long-nosed poet trying to win the love of Roxanne for another man. Either I’m a failure as a parent, or EM2 is simply an uneducated lout.
I’m prepared to blame the kid.
When the movie ended, I returned to the box office window. By some miracle, the kid who had been there earlier had been replaced by someone who knew how to validate parking.
We returned to the parking garage and I went to the machine to pay for my parking. I placed the ticket into the slot and … it disappeared. The machine was out of order and it ate my ticket. I started pushing every button I could find trying to get my ticket back. After the ordeal I had gone through to get the damned thing validated, I wasn’t going to pay full price because some machine was having a bad day.
The ticket stayed gone.
We found our car and drove to the exit. When the attendant asked for my proof of payment, I started yelling. My wife and daughter slunk down in their seats trying to make it appear as if I was alone in the car.
The attendant never stopped smiling. He opened the gate, waved me out, and wished me a nice day. I’m not sure if he was amazingly nice, or if he just wanted me gone, but I took the hint and drove away. I don’t know who the guy was, but his boss should give him a promotion and a raise. People who can handle assholes like me and keep a smile on their face are a rare breed.
Despite the few hiccups, my day with my wife and daughter turned out to be a pretty nice outing. I got popcorn, watched a decent movie, and got to park for free. Not bad.
I’m going to call that a win.
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