(Times, events and quotes are subject to my hazy, decaying memory)

Day One
I arrive at Leon International airport at 2:45pm with Diego Carillo, the most overqualified chauffeur since Batman’s Albert Pennyworth. We meet our pre-arranged security detail and review some basic procedures. I leave them to check on the status of the arriving flight while Diego and the security team wrangle with airport police over our bold choice of parking. “Is this not an appropriate place to park?” I pose in my best Raul Duke impersonation as I leave our van on the airport’s curbside—a definite no-no at most international airports in this post-9/11 era.
We’re early, the flight is on the board but hasn’t yet arrived. We’re not alone though. There is at least one TV cameraman and another photographer lurking amongst the crowd of friends and families waiting for other passengers. That’s two more than there should be, given that no one was to be alerted of our charge’s arrival. The board flashes ARRIVED and by now Diego and the security detail have joined me. We’re not carrying any signs, only bottles of cold water, and we’re hoping we’ll recognize the man when we see him. Oliver Stone is a tough man to miss, hovering well above six feet (1.83m) with broad shoulders, he’s larger than advertised. He’s followed by his comparatively diminutive wife, Chong, and their 10-year-old daughter, Tara. I greet everyone and welcome the family to Mexico. Chong struggles with her luggage, and I offer her some help. Stone is stoic, his eyes concealed by copper-hewed sunglasses and he seems a bit jetlagged.

“So what are we doing here Daniel?” he drolly asks me as he calmly assesses the situation.

“Well, we’re going to stick together and make our way to that parking lot,” I point to where our van is awaiting. “This is our driver, Diego, and these gentlemen are our security. And if you’ll follow me, we’ll be off.”

“You hear that Chong?” Stone rhetorically poses as he marches off by himself. Chong is still fumbling with her bags, which haven’t all been picked up by the luggage caddy yet. Little Tara is waiting for some sort of direction from her mother. And Stone is gone.

I stay behind with wife and daughter while one part of our security follows Mr. Stone. Finally he notices he’s marching alone. He stops, and without looking behind him, almost senses his solitude with invisible feelers that protrude from the sides of his sunglasses. “Now come on guys,” Stone beseeches his family, “we have to stick together!” We help Chong with her final bag and we join Mr. Stone in a tight ball. As we approach the rope that separates us from the crowds, microphones, cameras and reporters immediately swarm us. Where did they all come from? How did they know?

We form a protective ball around the family but there are at least three times as many of them as there are us. As we make our way towards the parking lot they begin to squeeze in on us and the awaiting van is still twenty yards away. I have to push a few cameras and reporters out of the way, but most of the journalists are respectful of our space.

“Saturday,” I keep repeating to them, “He’ll take all your questions on Saturday.” I hear a few moans from my fellow press corps and a few of them disappointingly flash their Expresión en Corto accreditation in my face—leaving me with a slight feeling of betrayal as the doors of our van slam shut in their frowning faces. The feeling soon dissipates.

A big sigh of relief is heard from the back of the van. A round of bottled waters for everyone. We reintroduce ourselves, now that we’re out of the chaos.
“So where are we Daniel?” Oliver asks. “Guano-goto? Or San Miguel?” I explain to him that we’re leaving Silao and headed for the state capital of Guanajuato. The family spends some time trying to get the pronunciation of the capital right. Tara pretty much nails it the first time. Diego, part of the state tourism department, kindly explains the meaning behind the city’s name in his fluent English.

“When do we get to San Miguel?” inquires Oliver. I politely explain to him that the San Miguel portion of the festival has now concluded, and that we’re now onto the next stage. “What? I thought I was going to San Miguel? I’ve heard so much about it. We must go.” Although a trip to San Miguel was not contemplated, there is still room to make some minor adjustments.

“Sure, no problem,” I assure him, assuming Sarah Hoch, the Director of Expresión en Corto, won’t kill me for fucking with her tight schedule.

“When we get back to the room, I need you to help me get on the Internet,” Stone politely requests. I have what you would call a pregnant pause. “There’s internet, right?” he probes. The family is staying at one of the finest hotels in Guanajuato, but for some reason I have a nagging suspicion there is no internet in their room. The rustic hotel is known for its exclusivity and remoteness, not for its practicality and technology.

“Let me check on that for you,” I bashfully reply.

About an hour later Fernando Camargo, the State Government’s IT guru, is in Oliver’s room rigging up network cables that run from the reception downstairs, out a window, in through Stone's window on the second floor and to his computer on a wooden desk we’ve had especially set up for him. Physically hooking up Mr. Stone’s computer to the network hub is no problem. Retrieving the correct DNS codes from the hotel’s lack-luster ISP in Mexico City (before they punch-out for the day) is another story. When we finally do get Mr. Stone online, he’s disappointed to realize he can’t get into his email because the very same ISP restricts certain sites. Fernando says they do this to ban their employees from entering chat rooms or sex sites.

“You mean the Mexican government is censoring me?” ask Stone.
“No sir, it’s not the government. It’s the hotel’s ISP. Much like big corporations in the States, they don’t want their employees gaining access to certain sites.”

“You mean corporations in the States do this?” His naive reaction surprises me.
“Yes sir.”
“I wouldn’t know, I never worked for one,” he grumbles.

Eventually the internet situation is sorted out and Oliver goes to work. He’s brought about 20 books with him and stacks upon stacks of DVDs. As well as a briefcase where he keeps his various scripts and papers. Just two weeks ago his 9/11 project was green-lit by Paramount and he has now entered the frantic phase of pre-production on one of the most anticipated (and some would say controversial) Hollywood films of the coming year. I leave him to work and his family to rest.

That evening we make reservations at “Jardín de los Milagros” for dinner. Chef Bricio Domínguez Aguilar, eager to please, has asked me to inquire what Oliver would like to dine that night.

“It doesn’t matter,” Oliver says as he looks up at me from above his reading glasses, “Atmosphere over food.”

We arrive at the restaurant around 10:00pm to find we are the only ones there. Well not the only ones. There’s Chef Bricio, who is more than happy to greet us, three waiters and a female singer, doing the equivalent of Las Vegas show tunes. I’m waiting to hear her break out “Feelings” in Spanish.

As we’re seated, Oliver looks around, turns to me and says, “You fucked me! I ask for atmosphere and you bring me to an empty restaurant.” I suffer my first failure. But Chef Bricio quickly recovers the night by laying on the charm and an assortment of dishes he has specially prepared for Mr. Stone. He also breaks out a very rare and very fine Mexican wine, which proceeds to seduce and enrapture our guest. Halfway through the bottle, all wrongs are foregiven and Oliver is engaged in some very clever banter with the Chef, who are both using me as their interpreter/translator.

“Eat you skinny fuck!” Oliver demands I polish off the last of the ceviche. Over dinner we discuss current events, US/Mexican politics, the Zapatistas and Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. We share our admiration for a documentary entitled “The Revolution Will Not be Televised” (about the failed US-backed coup on Chavez’ government in 2002) which I brought to Expresión en Corto two years ago. We also discuss his distain for the distorting American media, his troubles in the studio system since JFK was released and the difficulty of maintaining his confidence in these pre-censoring, post-Alexander days. “We did great business with Alexander in Mexico. We did great business almost everywhere else in the world besides America. I can’t figure it out.” I liken it to America’s seemingly lack of interest and knowledge of antiquity.
By the end of the night, Oliver is signing autographs, taking home bottles of wine and taking pictures with the restaurant staff. Chef Bricio’s charisma, generosity, excellent food and great wine selection have salvaged my night.

Although the festival has been raging, we’re not obligating Oliver to join the festivities on his first night in town, though he and his family are more than welcome to do so. He seems intrigued by the Mummy Horror Marathon and is interested in catching tonight’s show. It’s drizzling outside. We head straight for the van. We drive a few blocks when Oliver declares he would rather walk off his meal. We stop the car, the security team stops behind us. Oliver opens the door and takes off down some dark Guanajuato alley. The only problem is we’re nowhere near the mummies—it’s still quite a hike—and Oliver is walking in the wrong direction. He doesn’t care. He needs some air. Chong and Tara, as always, are not far behind. I’m impressed that its nearly midnight and Tara is still awake and not complaining about walking or being tired.

“She’s been on her father’s schedule since she was born,” says Chong. Wow.
Oliver fearlessly takes us deeper into the city’s inner labyrinths. And what does he have to fear? Having waded through the heart of darkness during his volunteer tour of Vietnam (where he requested combat duty) and lived to make two excellent Oscar-winning films about his experience. That’s when a dog barks at us from a high window terrace and scares the bejesus out everyone. Realizing we've all been jumped, the entire family erupts into boisterous laughter.

We regroup and make our way back to the van and the mummy museum. Before we get there, Oliver wants to make sure the event will be low-key, he doesn’t feel like having his picture taken or being in the spotlight tonight. I make a call to Big Bird and she assures me that the event is subdued, warm and friendly. “If you fuck me over, I won’t trust you again,” he cautions me. I hope Big Bird is right.

By the time we arrive at the mummy museum the rain has picked up. Stone and his family are ushered through the museum doors. There is one photographer there, but he’s one of ours, and he’s been instructed to stand down. Big Bird pulled through. Sarah and the Sub-Secretary of Tourism, María del Refugio Ruiz Velasco, brief Oliver and his family on the morose history of the mummies and the museum. We watch a bit of the schlock horror projected on the screens and when it gets a bit too violent for Tara we decide to call it a night. Finally he’s tired.



Day Two
Friday has turned into a San Miguel excursion at Mr. Stone’s behest. He’s still having trouble accessing his email and being unconnected from his office has put him in a sore mood. It seems to be one of those days when nothing goes right. And he’s feeling the first inklings of a sore throat coming on. We stop along the roadside between Guanajuato and San Miguel so that Stone can get some air and enjoy the rustic landscapes. Chong has a headache, probably due to our high elevation, and little Tara has shown her first signs of fatigue.
An hour and a half later we arrive in San Miguel, and after a quick stop at the local pharmacy for solutions to everyone’s ailments, we head for the jardín for the worst cup of coffee Stone and his wife have apparently ever shared. “Tastes like dishwater. You’ve fucked me again!”

We take a quick walk around the block. Stone is looking at his watch. He’s anxious to get back to the hotel (and back to work) and has seen enough of our town. It’s lunchtime. His words come back to haunt me: “Atmosphere over food,” and of course the ubiquitous, “You fucked me!”

I have a choice between taking them to an expensive, posh restaurant that was recently written up favorably by a pretentious New York magazine, or a quaint, authentic Mexican cafe that always serves a solid prix fix menu. I vote for authenticity over extravagance. Chong separates from us to do some real shopping. Tara and I hold down a table while her dad checks out a bookstore. Stone eats light for lunch and doesn’t want anything too heavy. I suggest the flautas, since he seems to enjoy tacos. Tara orders the same. Chong and I both try the fixed menu.

“You’ve fucked me again,” Stone sighs as he picks through his remaining flautas. “First the coffee, now this. You’re 0 for 2 today Daniel.” Unfortunately there’s no booze to save me this time.

Stone is ready to hit the road but the car isn’t quite prepared. Traffic is deadlocked in San Miguel’s Centro today and we have to wait for Diego to reach us from the parking lot. We kill some time at Bellas Artes and I show them the unfinished David Alfaro Siqueiros mural. I’m alerted that the car is ready and we make a bee-line to Guanajuato post-haste. I thought this might be my big opportunity to interview the man, but he and rest of the family are zonked-out on cough syrup, headache pills and so-so Mexican food. So I must bide my time.

Tonight is Stone’s big tribute. It will be the first time he officially appears in public at the film festival. We’ve never had a celebrity guest of this magnitude before and there is a buzz about the audience and a bit of electricity in the air. We arrive on time at 9:00pm and are greeted warmly by Sarah, who ushers Mr. Stone and his family to their front row seats. The tribute goes off without a hitch. Several representatives from various Mexican governmental, cultural and film institutions pay Mr. Stone their respects and award him various trophies, awards and gifts.

Finally Irvin Kurshner, director of The Empire Strikes Back (among many other films) gives a moving tribute to Mr. Stone, which seems to strike a cord with the somewhat haggard director. Stone rises to thank Irvin and relates a brief story about his experiences in Mexico and the creative inspiration this country gave him when he was just a student living in Guadalajara in the late sixties and creatively writing for the first time. He wrote a story that would eventually become his first novel, A Child Night’s Dream. He later returned to Mexico as a filmmaker (twenty years ago), to both write and direct Salvador, which will be shown tonight, immediately following his tribute.

Stone has not seen Salvador on the big screen in some time and his daughter Tara has never seen it. They sit through the first 15 minutes and some of Oliver’s favorite lines before they make their discreet exit out of the theater for his tribute dinner, which is to be held on an old ex-hacienda outside of town where various VIPs, movers, shakers and dignitaries are in attendance. At the end of dinner Stone makes a concerted effort to meet and greet each of the guests. Later he would jokingly recount to his daughter that he had “sung and danced” for his meal. However, everyone was appreciative and touched by his performance.

There is still a film festival going on and Stone wants to check out the famous tunnels of Guanajuato and catch some of that “erotic” film. When we arrive at the tunnel there is some definite man-on-man loving on the screen. Some somewhat intoxicated fans immediately spot Oliver. They request pictures, he indulges one group, and of course now everybody wants one. Not in the mood to be tonight’s sideshow oddity, we make a quick exit and get lost in the tunnels. It’s here I have an opportunity to dispel some Internet Movie Database rumors.

A big part of Oliver’s enduring popularity as a director in Mexico is the extremely entertaining job he did on one of rock’s biggest legends, Jim Morrison, in his 1991 biopic The Doors. Much like Rock n’ Roll, The Doors never died in Mexico and the film can be spotted on some cable channel about once a month, more frequently than any other Stone feature. And it probably still hauls in decent ratings, or they wouldn’t show it as often. So I hit him with this IMDB factoid:

“Is it true that you pitched your film to Jim Morrison before he died?”
“Yes. Except that it wasn’t a Doors biopic. It was a piece of fiction that I had written that I thought Jim would have been right for.”

“How did you manage that? I mean, Jim died in 1971 and you still hadn’t established yourself as a filmmaker.”
“I was just a fan. I sent it to his agent at the record label. I was later told that when they found his dead body in his French apartment they found a copy of my manuscript there.” Wow.

“Did you have the opportunity to go to many Doors concerts?”
“I never got to go. I was in Vietnam during the height of their popularity. And by the time I was out, they were basically finished.”

With that, I’m satisfied for the night, and we head back to the hotel.

Day Three
This is going to be a heavy day for our guest. It starts with a 10:00am breakfast at his hotel with Diana Bracho, Mexico’s premier actress, and Sarah. Diana and Sarah are prepping Oliver for his Masters Conference on censorship, the theme of this year’s festival, and a subject that he’s all too familiar with. However, he seems a bit shocked to discover that he’s actually going to have to conduct a two-hour conference in front of thousands of people.

“I haven’t prepared a thing! My office didn’t tell me anything about this!” His office had been informed about the Masters Conference during the invitation process, but its format was intentionally left open-ended for Mr. Stone to conduct as he saw fit. Apparently it was left a little too open-ended.
Diana doesn’t know what to say, she’s already nervous about meeting the man and it seems she has never conducted anything like this before. Sarah is maintaining her cool, but is having difficulty expressing to Mr. Stone what’s expected of him during the proposed conference (which has been widely publicized for two weeks now, including in this publication). I can sense the panic creeping over him now. I’ve read he’s a big fan of rehearsing with his actors before he commences shooting on any of his films. And in typical Expresión en Corto fashion, we haven’t left any room for rehearsal.
I try to make an intelligent suggestion: “Maybe if we focus on your personal experiences and your struggles as a filmmaker, the censorship stories will reveal themselves.” Oliver doesn’t agree with my haphazard proposal and begins fearing the worst. Sarah starts the ball rolling by systematically listing the various forms of censorship we could touch upon (political, economic, religious, cultural) and then Stone begins to chime-in (self-censorship, pre-censorship, distortion, chaos and the dissemination of information or misinformation through the internet), while Diana and I fervently take notes. With only half an hour left before his first press conference, Stone quickly excuses himself from the table to clear his head and organize his thoughts. Sarah excuses herself as well, as she is running late for other appointments. I quickly compare notes with Diana, and then leave her to prepare for her conference.

Before that Masters Conference, which begins at noon, we’ve slated 120 accredited members of the national and international press for a private session with Stone in the empty State Auditorium. The press has been hot and rabid to corner the director since he touched down in Mexico two days ago and at 11:00am we release the hounds on him. Stone has already advised us that he doesn’t really want to discuss 9/11, seeing how he’s currently in pre-production on a movie about this controversial subject, and wants to avoid being pre-judged (and pre-censored) by the media. But apparently not every member of the Mexican press has received this memo and Oliver handles all their questions with grace and diplomacy. At one point he declares that President George W. Bush is one of the worst American presidents we’ve ever had and questions the validity of both his elections. (It is interesting to note that Bush and Stone were part of the same class at Yale University in 1968. While Bush graduated and joined the Texas Air National Guard—only to later go AWOL—Stone dropped out of Yale to volunteer for duty in Vietnam, where he earned the Bronze Star for Valor and the Purple Heart.)



Immediately following the press conference, there is a brief 15-minute recess, while we clear the auditorium and refill it with audience members for the Masters Conference. Oliver gets some air and takes a power nap in his dressing room with Chong and Tara nearby. He’s calmed down a bit by now, after the press worked him over a bit, and he’s now gearing himself up for the main event.

Stone seems to come out of his shell during his Masters Conference and Diana Bracho performs brilliantly as his bilingual moderator. She has a quality that makes both Stone and the audience (still half-asleep on this early Saturday afternoon) feel quite at ease. Per usual, they don’t stick to the script, and instead decide to exchange personal anecdotes about filmmaking while occasionally touching upon the theme of censorship. Diana’s father, Julio Bracho, was an accomplished Mexican director who was himself censored and blackballed within his own lifetime, and in his daughter’s own words, was eventually “killed by his own sadness.” Stone’s random musings are even more entertaining and informative than what was planned. And if one had access to the internet during his conference, it would be a fascinating exercise to Google each of the dozens of references he makes to historical events, political figures, authors, artists, films and filmmakers.

The question-and-answer portion of the conference begins and Stone takes questions from the young aspiring filmmakers and fans in the audience. Stone seems to just be getting warmed up and suddenly he begins to realize all the Latin American censorship stories he’s gathered throughout his years. He interrupts one audience member’s question to recount his difficulties making a film in Argentina based on Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Evita. He also relates the challenges he experienced actually filming Salvador in El Salvador during that country’s civil war (the production decided to relocate to Mexico after their Salvadorian government liaison was assassinated on a tennis court). And just when he was about to tell us a good Chile story, we run out of time. Guanajuato Governor Juan Carlos Romero Hicks is in attendance and gives his appreciation to Mr. Stone for visiting our state. And then we’re off to the hotel for a two-hour break for lunch and rest, before the afternoon press junkets begin.

We arrive at an undisclosed, secret location for a junket with 20 elite members of the national television and radio press. We’re about halfway through the subdued and straightforward junket when Stone is interviewed by a regional television personality who specializes in entertainment news. When she’s on her fourth or sixth badly posed statement (they couldn’t even be considered questions) Mr. Stone stops the girl halfway through and is forced to ask:
“Who writes these questions? What editor asked you to ask me these stupid questions?” He’s definitely irate and somewhere in between shock and revulsion. He disconnects the microphone from this lapel, throws it down and storms off the set. A classic Hollywood moment. He then turns to me and points outside.

We step outside to the parking lot so he can get some air and clear his head. After a few minutes of unnecessary apologies and quiet meditation we head back inside to finish the junket. Most of the reporters do have intelligent questions and understand who they’re talking to. One of the reporters asks him his opinion of Mexican President Vicente Fox. Stone, completely aware he is a guest in Mr. Fox’s country, diplomatically answers: “Not living in your country, I can only tell you what I’ve gathered from the media. But it seems that Mr. Fox is genuinely a good man that wants to make a positive impact, but who has been compromised by his own relationships with his constituents, his opponents, big business and the Bush administration—which has made him somewhat ineffective. What do you think of your President?” The reporter, completely unprepared to answer this question on national radio, begins to stutter a response, but then simply shakes his head and shrugs.

Another reporter poses a question about recreational drug use and its place in the creative process. Oliver responds that in his life he has experimented with a variety of drugs. He also mentions that the black soldiers in Vietnam introduced him to marijuana. He recounts that he foolishly experimented with cocaine in the 1970’s and he believes it “destroys your brain cells” and made you into a complete moron. But he says he got his revenge at cocaine years later, after kicking the habit while writing the film Scarface. Stone then poignantly questions the origins of our drug epidemic. He claims that during the Taliban’s occupation of Afghanistan, that country’s heroin production was nearly non-existent, due to that Islamic fundamentalist government’s strict laws banning drug production. But since the 2001 US invasion of Afghanistan, heroin production has reached all time highs under the control of the US-backed Karzai administration. “Maybe someone should look into that,” Oliver conjectures.

A few more reporters who arrived late, or were never on any list to begin with, ask for an interview opportunity. Oliver, being a terribly good sport after a very long day, agrees to take two more interviews just after 6:00pm. Afterwards he turns to Sarah and adds, “You fucked me! You said just one more!” Having been desensitized to his outbursts by now, I’m pleased to see he’s got plenty of love to share.

That night I ask Stone about his preference for dinner. It’s getting late and our options are quickly dwindling. Stone is in no mood for trial and error. “Let’s go see Bricio again.” To mix it up a little.

From our hotel’s parking lot we can see La Bufa is lit up like a Christmas tree for the festivities of the Cave of St. Ignatius of Loyola, the patron saint of Guanajuato. A winding row of torches lights the way to the top of the mountain. This of course intrigues Stone, even more so after one of our security team recounts the legends behind the pagan-Christian ritual. “Looks like a Frankenstein movie from here,” he comments.

Well stuffed once again, we roll out of Bricio’s and head for La Bufa. Citing security concerns, our bodyguards have advised us against making the half hour hike up the mountainside. The trail is full pious pilgrims and some rambunctious revelers who have reinterpreted the tradition into a beer crawl. We settle for an outlook across a valley at the base of the mountain. Our head bodyguard, Arnulfo Salazar Guzman, approaches me and hands me something. I look down. They’re a pair of night vision goggles—right out of Silence of the Lambs—complete with a wicked long-range lens. I pass them to Oliver and he raises them to his eyes:

“Wow. Just like Vietnam—Except these actually work!”

He passes the goggles to Tara. She takes a minute to focus. She’s surprised by what she sees. A bright green iridescent world. Where there was once darkness she now sees the bright green silhouettes of humanoids lurking through dense forest.

“Where did they all come from?” she asks. Her dad explains that the goggles magnify the ambient light and heat in the air. The people were always there, these goggles merely over-exposed whatever light was available. Stone goes on to tell us a story about one of his first days in combat. Still green and fresh to the conflict, he and his group found themselves pinned by the enemy. He says if he hadn’t stuck to a member of his platoon who was more experienced than he was, he would have probably died that day. As it was, he escaped with only a grazing flesh wound to the nape of his neck. They killed one enemy, chased another down and lost the third completely—vanished into thin air. Our Bufa expedition draws to a close. Stone has had a very long day, and no one is up for the rap-party or rave—especially not me.



Day Four
Sunday is another free day for the family, their last day in Guanajuato. I try not to show my face at the hotel until the late morning, allowing them ample time for sleeping in and eating a leisurely breakfast. Someone mentioned to Chong that she “must visit Santa Rosa” for its excellent artisans. Except for a brief excursion for toiletries and warmer clothing, Chong and Tara have not ventured very far without dad. Stone definitely wants to stay in and get some work done this morning, so a trip to Santa Rosa is just what the doctor ordered for the cabin-fevered mother and daughter.

We only have an hour and a half before we must depart for the airport and Diego gets us to the quaint pueblo in record time. We arrive to find the main street very quiet and seemingly abandoned by its inhabitants. Besides the fact that its late Sunday morning, it’s also the final day of the festivities at La Bufa, and its an enormous picnic day for the villagers. All the shops and restaurants are closed and there doesn’t appear to be any artisans working today. We walk up and down the main avenue but have no luck. We stop outside what must be ‘the infamous’ artisan shop we were looking for but no one is home. We settle on purchasing some exotically flavored (nopal, guava and mango) marmalades.

Back outside the hotel parking lot Oliver is peacefully reading a manuscript on a bench beneath a tree. His wife and daughter join him and soon they’re headed back towards the hotel room. Oliver joins them shortly and they prepare to leave.

On our way to the airport, Oliver can’t help but mention, “I hear you were misinformed about the pottery...”

Here it comes.

“Yeah, we didn’t account for the festivities closing everything down today.”
But there’s nothing more. I was expecting a reaming. But I guess it’s okay as long as didn’t fuck him over this time.

We’ll be at the airport in less than half an hour. I see this as my final opportunity to nail that interview. I’m ready.

“Sir, I was wondering if it would be possible to get that interview?”
He sighs, “Oh yeah, your interview. Sure.”

He indulges me for about 15 minutes and it’s well worth the wait.
The airport check-in goes smoothly. Don’t ever believe any famous person that says the inconvenience of fame doesn’t come along with some perks. Although they have to go through the same security measures as everyone else, there is a private waiting area made accessible to traveling dignitaries and special guests. While we wait patiently to board the plane, Oliver reads his manuscripts, Chong and Tara eat sandwiches and I read over the coverage of the festival in a local newspaper. There’s a story about Oliver on the front page which he’s interested in me translating. I begin translating it word-for-word when he abruptly asks me to stop.

“I feel like I’m at the fucking UN. Just give me the gist of it.”
“It’s all good,” I say.

Finally, its time to board. We walk them to their gate. They board before everyone else. At the door to the crosswalk Oliver, wearing his dark tan sunglasses, turns to Diego and says, “You have a nice life Diego.” He then turns to me and says, “You have a nice life too, Daniel.” They walk down the crosswalk, then stop for a second, turn around, and wave back at us. And they’re gone.