It’s January in Utah which means something very definite in the airport Club Lounge: Sundance.
I’m surrounded by the rampant douchebaggery that is profitable indie filmmaking and delightful phrases surround me:
“You’re a giant and you’re surrounded by pygmies.”
“Daddy!” (Giggled by a twenty-four year old snuggled into the lap of her sixty year old traveling companion, to whom she does not appear to be related.)
“We need to shrink the team, we’re starting opine on how to strap sandals.”
“She said she’ll meet up with us in Newport, unless her appointment with the Osteopath goes long, then she’ll just go straight to the Peninsula.”
I’m contemplating throwing my hat into the ring with a faux call to my “agent” to complain that the PETA charity function didn’t meet the elements of my rider.
“Asa, I said Crangrape juice! You know cranapple irritates my IBS! And, the water was luke warm, not room temperature. How is Fifi supposed to drink from her Swarovski-encrusted bowl at that temperature! Book me an appointment with Nastia, the stress is really knotting my shoulders, I knew that Hermes bag was too heavy.”
Forty more minutes of enjoying the free booze, then 14 hours en route to Istanbul (which I may pair with more free booze … don’t judge). The thrill of the journey is kicking in … or that may be my extra dirty Sapphire martini.
Likelihood of making my connection at Charles de Gaulle, I’m putting at 40%.