Okay so oh my G-d. I just KNEW I was going to have an otherworldly Cannes experience as soon as I skipped onto the airplane in Washington, D.C. I quickly found my row (Row K!!!) but couldn’t get to my window seat in light of the obtrusive mound of novels stacked on the seats and surrounding floor space. Mostly Tolstoy and other light book shit like that. Thankfully I have lots of muscles so I lifted them all up in one fell swoop, took my seat, and returned them all to their spots safely like Spider-Man did when he saved Mary Jane from the mean green monster. Then I popped in my gum and purple earplugs and situated my pretentious airplane pillow perfectly behind my lower back. (I’m such a LOSER.)
A few seconds later, I felt a shuffle as someone took a seat in my row. I looked to my left, then back down, then slowly left again as my brain place registered who was sitting in the very same row as me on Lufthansa Flight 492.
It was Woody Allen.
Yes. THE Woody Allen. The anxious hypochondriac who taught me that therapy was cool and the very same man to whom the letter I’d been carrying around with me for years was addressed. Smiling the biggest smile that ever was, I took the letter out, speechless, and handed it to him gently. He looked down at the worn white envelope, staring at the remnants of a PB&J resting beside the picture I’d drawn of him on the front. What he did next shocked me, and it’ll shock you, too: He dabbed his finger on the PB&J splotch and said, “Strawberry. My favorite,” following by the giggle of an innocent schoolgirl. Then he opened the letter with the care of someone who’s touched greatness, e.g., Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and began reading. Every once in a while he’d look over, and I’d smile back.
Minutes later, he was done. He then began to silently move the Russian giants off the middle seat in a clear attempt to create a path between him and I. I tried to help him but he nodded and waved his hand back and forth, as if saying, “Freeze, Bitch. I got this.” Before I knew it, THE Woody Allen was sitting directly next to me. As if I was in a movie or something CRAZY like that, he then took my hand and said, “You remind me of myself when I was younger. I can tell you’re incredibly talented. And I want to make your movie.”
My heart was racing like Mickey’s did in Hannah and Her Sisters while he waited for the doctor to tell him whether he was dying or not. (You should see the movie to find out whether he actually dies or not, but he definitely dies.) The next line he delivered still plays over and over in my head every seven seconds to this very day: “Do you by any chance have your script on you?” My heart leaped like…like…okay I could totally insert another Woody Allen reference here but I feel like I should switch it up…like…Billy Elliot’s did when he put on those tights and leapt his little poof butt in the air whilst yelling, “I’m a poof now watch me soarrrr!!!” Smile still on my face, I pulled my script out of my backpack and handed it over to THE Woody Allen, eyes wide, as if saying, “Oh my G-d what a coincidence that I happen to have my properly hole-punched and brass-fastened script in my backpack RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!”
Then, before I could say strawberry jelly, Woody made a phone call and POOF! In ONE PHONE CALL he got my movie made AND distributed. It was like magic. (Look for it in theaters this fall. It’s called “Revenge of the Double-Sided Dildos—Part 1: Breaking Dawn”)
As the plane prepared for takeoff, I thought about how much I wished the flight attendant had given me two inappropriately small bags of salted peanuts (ideally lightly salted ones) instead of one. And guess what? Before we fastened our seat belts, the flight attendant headed toward our row and stopped in front of Woody’s elbow, which protruded innocently into the aisle. I looked up slowly, and in place of the female attendant who looked oddly like Michael Jackson it was none other than JONATHAN RHYS MEYERS, extra peanut bags in hand. Lightly salted ones. One bag for me, one bag for Woody. Then he winked and walked away.
Woody and I both shut our eyes and drifted into the most peaceful sleep that ever was.
It was going to be a good trip. 🙂
NEXT UP: The Cannes Experience (I Didn’t Have): Part 2 – Castles, Ryan Gosling, and more castles!