TUESDAY, 7/6 - TUESDAY, 7/13 - It was with some trepidation that I embarked on the trip to Portugal -- mixed with excitement, of course. The language is just impenetrable to me and the country so unfamiliar. But the festival sounds like fun and the five Festival Directors (Miguel, Rui, Mario, Dario and José Nuno) are quite solicitous and supportive of CREAMPUFF. The Festival Internacional de Curtas Metragens de Vila do Conde is in its sixth year and has established a pretty strong reputation as one of the top international short film festivals. It's attended by a number of other festival directors and, supposedly, several important European television buyers, as well as filmmakers and journalists. This year there's a tribute to the great Russian filmmaker, Alexander Sokurov, and Mira Nair is one of the Jury members (as well as various other international cinema names I'm too ignorant to recognize). I had hoped Megan and/or Harold would be along to shmooze for sales, but it looks like that task will be up to me (with possible help, I understand, from one of the Festival Directors).

The flights via Newark are easy (and much cushier with the free upgrade to First!) and I arrive in Lisbon at 7am. The passport and customs clearance is interminable and I am finally able to proceed to the rental car area some 90 minutes after landing. The car situation is a rather unfortunate beginning to this trip, as both my reservations (Hertz & Alamo) are lost and the only cars available are offered at four times the cost I had booked. I finally settle on a good rate with a local company after agreeing, without thinking twice, to a small, non-air conditioned Fiat. Big mistake. The car turns out to be more like a wide moped and the effects of the lack of air conditioning don't really hit me until I've been on the road a bit and noon is approaching. I hadn't been aware of the heat wave hitting Portugal and the car is fast becoming an Easy Bake Oven. I manipulate the sticky five gears and try to drive like the high-strung Europeans swerving around me, but my clothes are soaked and I realize I really don't know where I'm going. At an important, but unmarked, juncture, I choose a route and it takes me forty-five minutes to realize I am going back in the direction I came. Slowly, I manage to get close to where this town is supposed to be and I start looking for signs, landmarks or someone to ask for directions. Everyone I stop seems, not only to have never heard spoken English before, but to be rather averse to lending any kind of directional help. I am struck by the unwelcoming attitude I sense; not a gesture or a smile of encouragement! I am frustrated and way overtired and I decide to pull over for a break.

Eventually, I find my way into the town of Vila do Conde. It's a lot of sprawl and squalor and some beachfront and the assertive smell of spoiling fish is everywhere. The town has a struggling ship-building industry centered on some of the oldest ship yards in Europe. The light is a bit mysterious and people walk the streets with a kind of dour comportment.

I drive in circles trying to find the Centro and finally come upon the not uncharming area where a collection of restaurants, hotels and a park surround the festival headquarters.

I park the vehicle and make my way to the festival office, where I am given credentials and directions to my hotel, which is in the next town south. I return to find a parking ticket and a few centimeters on either side of my miniscule car. I make it back on the road and head for the town of Povoa de Varzim, a resort town with sandy beaches, high-rise hotels and a waterfront casino. Once ensconced in the Hotel Gett, I begin to unpack, but, upon testing the softness of my new bed, promptly fall into a deep sleep.

I awaken some hours later and make my way back to the festival headquarters. The set-up is friendly enough, but clearly not as well-organized and thoughtful as Clermont-Ferrand, which seems to have been the inspiration and model for much of this festival. I am given more festival materials, maps and play money for some of the local restaurants and bars. My photo is snapped for the "Special Guests" wall and I recognize the mug shots of several directors, festival programmers and journalists from previous festivals. I get oriented and sit down to plan a loose schedule of screenings, events and touring.

The central meeting area is the bar adjacent to the festival headquarters. It is here that the festival-goers stop in or pass through and a good perch from which to spot someone between screenings. It is also the site of the daily "press conferences," which are loosely based upon the "debates" at Clermont-Ferrand. But they are moderated by a rather dotty British journalist and prove to be rather unfocussed. The occasional scintillating conversation about the films and the inadequate amplification can't really compete with the activity in the bar and the through-traffic.

Journalist, Sophie Loubiere ("Bref") and Director, Dominick Scherer ("Hell For Leather") in front of the Vila Do Conde market

So I move from screenings to casual conversations to meals to screenings. Several days of moderately interesting short films. Opportunity to catch some of those I had missed at previous festivals. Some brilliant retrospective programs, including the striking early short works of Alexander Sokurov: ponderous, beautiful, graceful, intriguing. The big medium shots and languorous pace open up one's mind to levels of reflection and complexity that one rarely experiences in western films. The overactive mind is provoked, defeated, retaught to be sensitive to the information underneath the text. The reverence and grace with which Sokurov shoots begs an awareness and sensitivity in the viewer that are quite striking and impressive responses.

The chat with the English-speaking filmmakers is fun and informative. The parties and meals, though, become a bit tedious; the food and surroundings are mildly interesting, but that begins to seem a bit old and claustrophobic after a few days. The famous Portuguese specialty, Bacalau (dried salty fish) just doesn't taste to me like anything but dried salty fish; other dishes (particularly the meat) are tasty, but not memorable in any way.

Two attempts at sight-seeing are unsuccessful, as the car is uncomfortable, the roads and directions confusing and the environs of Vila do Conde are attractive, but not remarkable. Vinyards. Farms. Modest, straight-forward towns. Some decaying, but picturesque, structures.

It's hard to get really comfortable touring around, though, as smiling faces and welcoming attitude are very rare. The phrase books are insufficient and there's rarely any help from the other side in communicating. I find a few interesting vistas, some nice Kodak moments and not a lot of desire to explore more.

The days of films and chats pass quickly. There are two venues for screenings, though the makeshift open-air "theatre" rarely has more than a dozen audience members in attendance at a given time. CREAMPUFF screens twice and the response is warm, with a few viewers visibly stirred and wanting to make contact. Some interesting and generally quite positive feedback, mostly from journalists and festival programmers, who seem surprised and often rather moved by the film. I'm very impressed with HUMDRUM, an animated film that shares the program with CREAMPUFF and I make a point to spend some time with the British director, Peter Peake. It's a crude, shadow-puppet graphic with incredible performances by a pair of Scottish comedians and it is memorable, clever, silly and moving. I discuss the piece at length with Peter, who has very high praise for CREAMPUFF, as well. A regular mutual admiration society.

The final days of the festival are a bit harried. It seems the jury has to be reconfigured due to no-shows among the international judges. I find out the prize will go to LIFE IN FOG, an odd and affecting short from Iran about a family of orphans living in squalor and trying to eke out and existence smuggling goods into Iraq. It is striking and political and its producer talks non-stop about its importance and the burgeoning filmmaking industry in Iran. I'm a bit surprised that this documentary wins the Best Fiction prize, but not really disappointed about CREAMPUFF, as the process doesn't strike me as very serious and the original jury members who might have gotten the drama and performance stuff in it (especially Mira Nair) never made it to Portugal. Nonetheless, it's nice to hear the kind words of a few of the Festival Directors, who are surprised and disappointed that we didn't garner the award.

I leave Vila do Conde at the first available opportunity and resolve to drive straight to Lisbon, find my hotel and settle in for an evening of sleep before the flight home. The drive takes longer than expected and I need several approaches to find the right exit into downtown Lisbon. The traffic and driving conditions are just unreal and I finally manage to pull onto a sidewalk in front of my hotel long enough to drop my bags, then jump back into the fray to find a parking garage. An hour later, I manage to return to the hotel after having twisted and squeezed my mini-car through endless streets into the underground garage tunnel and out again, on foot, into the bustly midtown streets. The hotel is quite comfortable and overlooks a dramatic piazza called Rossio, where it seems some lovely highlights of the Inquisition went down. There's a fog setting in and the light is almost mysterious. Somehow, it's not hard to imagine the view from my balcony onto an Auto de Fe or other torturous inhumanity. I feel a bit spooked and start getting those chills and tickles one feels when one thinks one's in a haunted place - or when one hasn't slept much in a week and has just driven for hours in a hot, uncomfortable Fiat through ridiculous traffic and aggravation…

After settling in a bit, I decide it would be silly not to stroll a little, as I've no idea if I'll have another few hours to kill in Lisbon anytime soon. I get some basic directions from the reception clerk and set off into the old city. The Alfama district is a truly extraordinary labyrinth of winding alleyways, steep stairways, compact homes with colorful facades, bustling taverns, crumbing churches, shady terraces, children playing and wash hanging to dry everywhere. All of the craggy, picturesque streets winding their way up to the imposing and well-preserved Castelo de Sao Jorge. The castle is surprisingly accessible and the lack of tourist improvements (like guardrails!) is both exciting and intimidating. The view of the entire city is awesome and the perspective it affords on the strange wafting atmosphere of this mysterious and intriguing town is truly remarkable. Making my way down the winding streets to the waterfront I sense an authenticity to this popular tourist destination that strikes me as quite unique. The central Cathedral, the Se, has a gloomy, Gothic grandeur to it and is one of many really beautiful structures tucked into this historic district. One can really feel the ages in the ancient cobblestone streets and slightly dilapidated, but very alive city. Lisbon sprawls in many directions and one could easily walk very far.

At a certain point I realize that I have been wandering for hours and I resolve to create a real dinner break, before I drop. Back at the hotel, the reception clerk recommends what he says is the best Fado House in town. I've wanted to experience this unique, somber musical performance and I change clothes and head back out for a dinner show. At the restaurant, I get the sense that my laptop is interpreted as a journalist's tool, maybe even suited to a food critic... I am seated strategically and I enjoy an extraordinarily tasty, beautiful roast cod dinner, some very pleasant local wine and friendly, attentive service. When the music begins I am very comfortable. The performers are elegant, mature, and sexy and play complex, beautifully poignant melodies. The songs are full of longing and sorrow; stories of loves lost and loves never attained. Strong, sad, earthy. The two guitarists are precise and brilliant and the alternating singers are folksy, sincere, fiery, pained. It is all so deeply emotional, actually rather spiritual and, at times, almost mystical. Really powerful stuff.

I amble back to the hotel and crash for a few hours. I wake up with a start, late, of course. My departure is frenzied and aggravating, but I make it to the airport, ditch the car-lette and fall into my first-class seat with a good minute and a half to spare. The last day in Lisbon has been a truly exciting and stimulating visit and, on reflection, the time at the festival was really quite fun and interesting, as well. Another opportunity to view some really interesting films and a few filmmaker-types I'm really pleased to have met and to have begun a relationship with. I'm not sad to leave the attitude of the people, but I do hope to return to Lisbon. And the Vila do Conde crew remain in my thoughts as gracious, supportive and hard-working. I'm glad to have had the opportunity to experience this strange place and to share CREAMPUFF with an appreciative Portuguese audience.