11:30pm
Though, in standard anal-retentive style, I’ve packed days ago most of what I’ll need in Park City, I spend a last hour wedging a few remaining items into my large duffel, pressing blazers and ski boots and paperwork and socks down hard to zip the bag tightly closed, before falling asleep.

2:36am
My cell phone rings, waking me; it’s Napster founder Sean Parker, who’s heading to a Rolling Stones after-party with Canadian record label CEO Matt Drouin. I consider briefly going out to meet them, partying straight through the night and sleeping on the plane, but common sense prevails. Ten days at Sundance will be more than tiring enough without coming in already a full night’s sleep in debt.

7:00am
Up again, shower and dress, then grab a taxi to the Upper East Side, to pick up colleague Scott Bromley and head off to La Guardia. Our flight boards painfully slowly, as a seventeen-person Iranian extended family has pre-boarded, with very little command of English, and even less understanding of air travel. They’re in the wrong seats, they’re piling bags on their laps and in the aisles rather than in the overhead bins. And as we taxi out towards takeoff, they keep standing up and wandering around. Each time one does, the plane grinds to a halt, and the captain comes on the loudspeaker, like an irritated father pulling his minivan to the side of the road and threatening to turn it back around until his kids in the back seat knock it off.

The captain actually does threaten to turn around the plane, as if we keep stopping, we’ll lose our place in line yet again, and have to head back to the gate to refuel. While these English threats mean little, the ‘just you try and mess with me’ expression of the heavy-set, matronly Black flight attendant is apparently international enough to work.

1:05pm
We arrive in Atlanta, twenty-five minutes into a short forty-five minute connection. Muscling our way through the Iranians and out onto the concourse, we discover that we’re in Terminal A, while our flight to Salt Lake City leaves from Terminal E, at precisely the opposite end of the airport. We sprint, monorail impatiently, then sprint again, arriving just in time to find out our flight’s been delayed. At least, now, our baggage is likely to make it, too.

2:00pm
As we board, it becomes immensely clear, just by looking around, that every single person on the plane is bound for Sundance. Scott looks back at me as we walk past row after row of Williamsburgers, and says with a wry smile, “I think this might be the coolest flight in all of America.”

2:15pm
The man I’m seated next to smells strongly of clam chowder. Across the aisle, however, I’m surprised to find several execs from Belladonna, the producers of Transamerica and L.I.E., in whose offices I’ve spent countless afternoons. “Fancy meeting you here,” one of them says.

Further up, I see the father of my college roommate James Ponsoldt, who has a film he wrote and directed, Off the Black premiering at the festival this weekend.

The world of film, it seems, is dangerously small.

2:30pm
We take off without incident, and a flight attendant comes over the loudspeaker to announce our in-flight movie is Just Like Heaven. Sarcastic cries of “sweet!” and “nice!’ go up around the plane. One of the Belladonna producers shakes his head; “I think they picked the wrong flight for that film.”

5:00pm
Retrieving my bag from the carousel, I manage to slice my right ring finger on a suitcase buckle; by the time we hit the cab, my hand is coated in blood.

6:15pm
We pull into the driveway of our condo in Park City, and pause to let the cab driver pray towards Mecca. Then, dropping off our bags, Scott and I head out to meet Rob, Nate, and an array of non-Cyan entourage for drinks and dinner at Cafe Terigo. Stopping at the neighboring liquor store, we stock up before heading back to the condo, to drink the night away, put up a revised version of Cyan’s site, lay out strategy for the next ten days, and post this blog entry.

It’s going to be a long trip.