Between Rock And A Soft Place

Between Rock and a Soft PlaceI was driving north on Interstate 95 outside Boston in May of 1980, just back to America after a week at the Cannes Film Festival, where I had stayed in an overpriced hotel room, drunk beer at the scarifying price of $3.50 a bottle and eaten mostly ham-and-cheese bar sandwiches, because about all I could drag out of the shambles of my high school French vocabulary was "jambon et fromage." For me, everything about Cannes had been a bummer. Everyone was talki...