Bonjour, Riviera

Here I'm trying to get my French Riviera on and I run smack dab into fan appreciation day.

Drat the luck.

Walking to Movieland for the 11:00 screening of Otto Preminger's 1958 film, "Bonjour Tristesse," I was caught up in a sea of football fans.

"You must be a Redskins cheerleader," one jerseyed guy illogically said to me, "your walk is so nice."

No, sir, if you want to see a former Redskinette, go down to the governor's mansion.

Passing a guy wearing a "D. Green 28" jersey, I told him it was nice to see a Darrell Green fan amongst a sea of RGIII fanatics.

"Will you marry me?" he joked, clearly thrilled to get the acknowledgement.

Nope, sure won't.

Crossing the street against the tide, a Capital policeman inquired of me, "Leaving already?"

Explaining that I'd checked out camp on a weekday, he nodded. "Smart! We're expecting 25,000 people today and we've already got 7,000."

Good god, it was 10:40.

I marched past the Redskins marching band blasting out music for those 7,000 and kept right on going.

Once inside the theater, I was the lone attendee.

After a while, I was joined by an older couple and he took a moment to rant about the city's poor preparation for today.

"They took away parking, there's only fifteen bathrooms and I just have to wonder how Mayor Jones is getting away with this!"

I don't know, sir, I just want to see a Technicolor version of a story about a father and daughter with no moral compass.

So while I didn't like the characters, I did like two of the credits in the film: paintings by Kumi Sugai and wardrobe by Givenchy.

You don't often see paintings get their own credit and what a treat to look at Givenchy fashions circa 1958.

Leave it to Otto Preminger.

David Niven was the rakish father and Jean Seberg the spoiled daughter not willing to give up her libertine and lush way of life with her father when he considers marriage to her dead mother's best friend.

It was a movie with a profound devotion to recreational drinking, always in cool places like subterranean boites and supper clubs where everyone danced divinely.

If only I still had those options for my evenings out.

The film began in black and white and flashed back to the summer before in color and the scenes of a summer on the Riviera were breathtaking - the bluest water, dappled sunshine as they lounged on the patio, a villa with sea views from every room.

It was hard to empathize with any of the characters; even the goody two-shoes Deborah Kerr was difficult to feel for, at least until she drove her car off a scenic cliff.

With its hints of incest and the father's non-stop womanizing, I'm willing to bet it went over far better with the French critics than the American ones, at least when it came out.

All I know is that it was a far more pleasurable place to be than on a field with 24,999 other people.

Even if it ultimately was a sadly tragic film, with lines like, "I am as suspicious of summer as I am of you."

What a waste.

Put me on the Riviera for a summer and I'll trust whatever comes along. Try me.

Pigskin Proud

I did it for the family legacy.

Last night a friend had called, saying he was going to Redskin training camp around 9:30 and suggesting I join him.

Not willing to commit to that ungodly hour, I said I'd call him once up.

Up at 9:50 and fed by 10:20, I called, only to hear him say, "I'm at training camp. Can't talk."

Click.

So technically, I was off the hook.

But then there was that pesky family history.

Despite having five sisters, I was raised in a Redskins-loving family.

So much so that we got season tickets in 1962, back when no one cared about the team.

Want proof?

Our tickets are on the 50-yard line behind the Redskins' bench, ten rows back.

With that kind of a view, even non-sportsy types like me could enjoy the spectacle.

So over the years, I watched more than my share of Redskins games with family, boyfriends and significant others, through the Allen and Gibbs years and a few years beyond.

It's probably been fifteen or so years since I was willing to devote a Sunday afternoon or Monday night to football, but my father ensured that, like all his daughters, I was well-grounded in the rules and strategy of the game.

You'd be surprised how that used to impress guys on a date.

Well, that and the possibility that they'd be invited to a game in our seats.

All of this is prelude to saying that, despite my friend's brusque response, I decided to extend my walk (which already encompasses part of Leigh Street) to training camp today.

As a guy in a jersey with a Redskins' bag in hand passed me, I asked if it was worth it.

"Go on!" he said with a smile, gesturing west.

So I did.

Holy rabid football fans, Batman!

I was a tad overwhelmed at the stench the number of sweaty bodies in polyester jerseys  the sheer number of people roasting in the sun, either watching the field or shopping at one of the many kiosks.

I walked the length of the field, taking in the fans in chairs on the hill, dodging the puddles from yesterday's deluge in the gravel walk and wondering why any parents think it's a good idea to bring small children to something bound to bore them and make them cranky.

Frankly, the whole thing reminded me of the State Fair without the rides.

But I am nothing if not my father's daughter, so I found a place along the sidelines and watched the players scrimmage under a sunny blue sky.

I appreciated the fact that they continuously moved their practice up and downfield to afford the fans on either side a good view at some point.

Now, that's playing fair.

But what really matters is that I went and I watched practice.

Dad is going to be so pleased to hear that.