Work in progress / Rough notes
Woodstock
The documentary Woodstock by Michael Wadleigh was released in France on 17 June 1970, lighting up the cinemas of Paris with peace, love, and far more hair than we were used to. A month later I was home on summer holiday, caught in that strange limbo between school years where time moves slowly unless you’re sweating in a summer job. Mine was at my father’s paint factory, where three of my friends from La Bande 68 were also employed. It was generous of my father to take us on—though the regular workers probably wondered why he had unleashed four enthusiastic teenagers into their carefully organised world.
We did work, surprisingly. And not badly either. In fact, we sometimes worked too fast, which did not particularly please those who preferred a more traditional, shall we say “measured,” approach. Still, it was good fun, the days were long, and by the evenings we were all pleasantly exhausted and faintly covered in paint dust.
One weekend, with nothing much on the horizon, my brother announced he was heading to Paris with a group of friends to see the documentary about Woodstock. It was showing on the Champs-Élysées, which instantly made the whole outing seem sophisticated. I tagged along. I knew everyone in the group except one girl—a petite, smiling blonde who was introduced as Alice, an American from Pennsylvania visiting France and staying with one of my brother’s friends.
During the film, somewhere between Jimi Hendrix and a sea of ecstatic hippies, the inevitable happened. Sitting next to Alice, our hands found each other, and then our lips did too. When the lights came up, we stepped out of the cinema hand in hand, floating down the Champs-Élysées as if we were extras in our own romantic documentary. We caught the train back to La Celle-Saint-Cloud still holding hands, as though letting go would somehow break the spell.
It was the beginning of a romance that rose and fell like the soundtrack of the film we had just seen—sometimes tender, sometimes chaotic, but unforgettable all the same. A romance that would, eventually, take me all the way to America.
Across the Atlantic
Alice and I somehow kept in touch—letters crossed the Atlantic like little paper boats, carrying our teenage hopes and the first sparks of something more. Slowly, the idea of visiting her in America took shape, and somehow, against all odds, my parents agreed. It’s remarkable to think about now: in 1971, I was seventeen, my brother sixteen, and our parents were happily paying for tickets to a country they barely knew—let alone the family we were going to stay with. Not only that, they gave us spending money, as if to say, “Go on, survive America, and don’t embarrass us too badly.”
In July, we found ourselves boarding a TWA plane to New York. Not my first flight, but certainly my first transatlantic adventure, which felt far more serious than anything short-haul.
New York greeted us with its usual chaotic charm. Alice, her sister June, and their mother—also named Alice—met us at the airport. They drove us back to Pennsylvania in a classic American car: huge, powerful, and intimidatingly smooth. We were forced to make a stop on the highway thanks to a puncture. My brother and I were eager to prove we could “handle it,” but the truth quickly became clear: American cars have a personality all their own.
Eventually, we reached their large house in Huntingdon Valley, a few miles north of Philadelphia. Alice had her life, and so did I, but we were close enough to be labeled boyfriend and girlfriend for the next few weeks. Her family looked after us brilliantly: anything we wanted, it was ours, as though they had made it their mission to spoil two slightly bewildered French boys.
Our days were filled with adventure. We explored Pennsylvania, and even took a trip to Canada. Driving all the way to Toronto, I had one unforgettable evening: dinner at the top of the CN Tower, where we somehow managed to order wine and even a Cointreau after dinner—all underage, of course, but apparently French charm counts for something. Niagara Falls left us speechless, awe-struck, and more than a little proud to call ourselves travellers.
Back in the U.S., my brother and I indulged in one of our small obsessions: BELL helmets, the latest craze, practically impossible to find in France. Each of us walked away with a shiny new prize.
By August, it was time to return to Paris, we had no fixed date. From Paris we took the train to Toulon in the south of France and from there the bus along the coast to Cavalaire where our parents were vacationing. They were quite surprised to see us when we turned up at thge beach. Life felt effortless: freedom, adventure, a hint of recklessness—and, looking back, a fair dose of courage.
That concluded my first visit to the United States, but it was far from the last. America had left its mark: a mix of wonder, boldness, and the sense that anything might be possible if you were brave enough to get on a plane.
▫️ Huntingdon Valley / Philadelphia
▫️Villanova University
▫️Catherine Pinto
▫️Cahoots (Jamie Ritto, Jo Frazier,
▫️Dodge Challenger
▫️A night on Chestnut street
▫️Business trips and more holidays
sauvageraie.fr 