In Berlin I used to sleep on my son’s floor rather than stay in a hotel. It had nothing to do with money or physical comfort; I lived on a raft for weeks while shooting Aguirre. Today, ever older, I have reconciled with hotel rooms, though the little chocolates they leave on my pillow every evening exude an aura of despair, the same feeling that overwhelms me during the presentation of the official mascot of the Olympic Games, or when a film star becomes a Goodwill Ambassador for the UN.
