July 24, 2025 
“Just don’t have a temper tantrum,” says my editor.
“I doubt I can avoid it,” I reply. “I’m so petty.”
I’m at the Jumping Dinard in Bretagne (Brittany), France. The whole place is decked out in the most glorious shade of pink, surrounding the arena, a delicious green bowl. I stand on the lip. You’d think all this would be right up my alley, but instead I’m a swollen boil of irritation.
It all began when I was turned away at the Press Parking Lot for not having accreditation. “Oh, no problem,” I said. “I’ll just park here”—gestures at completely empty lot—“for ten minutes while I visit the Press Office.”
“NO! NOT POSSIBLE!”
“Oh, I know I look like the sort that attempts to access 5-star sporting events in the early hours of the first day by using the clever disguise of roving reporter and charismatic columnist, but I assure you I do have an assignment. See here, this is the email verifying my accreditation.”
“NO! EMAILS ARE NOT ACCEPTABLE!”
The man shouting had a beard that was braided with yellow cloth, like a sort of Viking. Despite how cool he looked, I found him very unpleasant. He was flanked by two other men, beardless.
“Well, where shall I park now then?”
“I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T CARE! YOU MUST BACK UP! GET OUT OF HERE!”
I had no choice but to obey, although it’s hardly my nature. I was worried, however, for street parking in La Baule, France had cost me 1300 dollars after someone had decided to take a knife to the sides of my rental car. This, I was told, was because of my Italian license plate and an animosity that has existed between the French and the Italians over a football game that was contested nearly 20 years ago!
It happened in Germany in 2006. The matchless athlete Zinedane Zidane, previously retired, had come back as team captain to help France battle for the World Cup title. The final match was against Italy.
Some (me) say this is the world’s stupidest sport with no horses involved at all and can’t understand why anyone watches it, but this match did have the benefit of high drama. The teams were tied 1 to 1, when, in a moment of inexplicable madness, the incomparable Zidane walked past Italy’s Marco Materazzi, turned on a dime, and headbutted him in the chest!
Materazzi folded in half and fell to the ground like a shattered glass doll. It is rumored that he deserved it by saying something about Zidane’s sister’s impressive performance in his bed on the previous night, but who knows the truth.
The peerless Zidane was then given a red card and ushered off the field and out of the sport forever. Materazzi, after a suspiciously quick recovery, went on with his team to outshoot the French 5 to 3 in the penalty shoot-out. They won the game and, 19 years later, an innocent American tourist gets her Italian rental car knifed.
Anyway, I was desperate not to leave my car on the street for too long, although I had made sure I had a French plate this time around.
I made my way up to the Press Office, where I asked for my accreditation and then attempted to voice my frustration constructively to the woman whose job it was to welcome members of the press. It was only after several minutes of receiving no response that it occurred to me that she had earbuds in and was listening to music “for her own pleasure” as I wrote snarkily in an email (unanswered) to the show organizers later in the day.
At some point she took them out, but still no words formed in her unmoving mouth.
An older man whose mouth did move then approached, but it was more words about impossibilities and other things that I, as a fool who thinks all things are possible, did not understand. He also waved his arms a lot, if I remember correctly. Or that may have been me, or both of us.
I left the office, where I met two breeders of international renown, an international 5* rider of my acquaintance, a famous trainer, and a talented and well-known sport photographer, all in quick succession and all of whom had to hear about my not being received in the manner in which I am accustomed.
“At this point,” I wrote in my helpful, explanatory letter (unanswered) to the show organizers, “My professionalism had evaporated.”
I also spoke frankly of my speech in those moments as a “vomiting out.”
Then I saw the pink hats and had to buy one no matter how I felt about the show, because, come on, those are such fetching pink hats!
But I didn’t put it on. I couldn’t go that far. I undid the strap in the back and attached it to my camera bag.
I went back to my hotel and opened my ordinateur portable where I began this column with the heading: “Remote Reportage: Jumping Dinard.”
There’s always tomorrow!
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