terms.
Aidan shrugs. “It’s the way I’ve always done my documentaries. My subjects have no complaints.”
Wonder how you convinced Triple Cross’s lawyers , I think. I make a pillow out of my jacket and purse and try to catch some rest.
The plane lands in New York to refuel, and then we head across the Atlantic. Ben and Logan both drop off to sleep almost before the wheels are up after takeoff. Aidan and crew take a few shots of all this, switch the cameras off again, and huddle together to talk about concert footage and equipment rental.
Zach swivels around in his seat and those steely blue eyes look me over. I don’t dare look back. The other band mates may be asleep, but my boss isn’t. Zach doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. He just stares until finally I look back.
When our gazes lock, he seems to catch himself. With one hand he gives a half wave, as if to apologize, and then looks away.
I have no clue how to react to that.
Landing in Madrid is way different than anything I’ve experienced on an international flight before. I’ve never been on a private jet that crossed any borders. Rather than go through customs in a big, crowded airport, we’re met by customs agents who ask all the requisite questions, check our bags, and then escort us into a little terminal where they stamp our passports. I’ve heard Castillian Spanish before, of course, in movies and on TV, but it’s weird to be surrounded by people who speak it with its strange, lisping accent. It’s embarrassing to be asked to repeat myself, as if Spanish isn’t a native language I’ve spoken all my life.
We’re through customs in under half an hour, at which time there are a couple of minivans waiting at the curb to take us to the hotel.
That’s a problem for the camera crew—the multiple cars. They want to be able to film the band, but the band and crew won’t all fit in one car. After some discussion, the cameraman and sound guy go with the band and Aidan and I and the rest of the crew go in the other. The air is a little muggy, but the vans are air conditioned.
Once seated and buckled in, I let myself slump against the window. I shouldn’t be tired, but the sleep on the plane doesn’t seem to have counted for anything and my body is not happy with the amount of sunlight beating down right now. It’s just the wrong time for sun.
The vans pull out and I watch the city slide past out the window. Even though it’s just a street lined with buildings and people drive on the right side of the road, the look and feel is very foreign and different. It isn’t the signs in Spanish that give this feeling; we have those at home. It’s as if everything’s measurements are a little off. The proportions of the buildings and the dimensions of the cars are different. The driver talks over a radio to someone in more lisping Castillian, which sounds to me like he’s got a speech impediment, and he’s blue-eyed and blond. I know it’s a little prejudiced of me to note this, but just about every native Spanish speaker I’ve ever met has had at least a drop of mestizo blood in them.
It isn’t a long drive to the hotel, which is a tall building of all glass and chrome.
I stumble out of the van, grab my bags, and follow the crowd to check in. Most of the back and forth about getting room keys passes in a blur, and I wait until I have my key in hand and can wheel my luggage to the elevators. My room is only a few stories up and won’t be anything fancy, of course. I’m just crew and lucky to get my own room, probably due to the gender ratio. Everyone on the camera crew is male, and I’m pretty sure they’ve all been assigned roommates.
Once in the elevator, I slide my key into the slot and press the button for the right floor. A hand inserts itself between the closing doors, pushing them open again to reveal Zach, who slips inside and hits the button to close the doors.
I look up at him, wary. I knew this conversation was coming
Aidan shrugs. “It’s the way I’ve always done my documentaries. My subjects have no complaints.”
Wonder how you convinced Triple Cross’s lawyers , I think. I make a pillow out of my jacket and purse and try to catch some rest.
The plane lands in New York to refuel, and then we head across the Atlantic. Ben and Logan both drop off to sleep almost before the wheels are up after takeoff. Aidan and crew take a few shots of all this, switch the cameras off again, and huddle together to talk about concert footage and equipment rental.
Zach swivels around in his seat and those steely blue eyes look me over. I don’t dare look back. The other band mates may be asleep, but my boss isn’t. Zach doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. He just stares until finally I look back.
When our gazes lock, he seems to catch himself. With one hand he gives a half wave, as if to apologize, and then looks away.
I have no clue how to react to that.
Landing in Madrid is way different than anything I’ve experienced on an international flight before. I’ve never been on a private jet that crossed any borders. Rather than go through customs in a big, crowded airport, we’re met by customs agents who ask all the requisite questions, check our bags, and then escort us into a little terminal where they stamp our passports. I’ve heard Castillian Spanish before, of course, in movies and on TV, but it’s weird to be surrounded by people who speak it with its strange, lisping accent. It’s embarrassing to be asked to repeat myself, as if Spanish isn’t a native language I’ve spoken all my life.
We’re through customs in under half an hour, at which time there are a couple of minivans waiting at the curb to take us to the hotel.
That’s a problem for the camera crew—the multiple cars. They want to be able to film the band, but the band and crew won’t all fit in one car. After some discussion, the cameraman and sound guy go with the band and Aidan and I and the rest of the crew go in the other. The air is a little muggy, but the vans are air conditioned.
Once seated and buckled in, I let myself slump against the window. I shouldn’t be tired, but the sleep on the plane doesn’t seem to have counted for anything and my body is not happy with the amount of sunlight beating down right now. It’s just the wrong time for sun.
The vans pull out and I watch the city slide past out the window. Even though it’s just a street lined with buildings and people drive on the right side of the road, the look and feel is very foreign and different. It isn’t the signs in Spanish that give this feeling; we have those at home. It’s as if everything’s measurements are a little off. The proportions of the buildings and the dimensions of the cars are different. The driver talks over a radio to someone in more lisping Castillian, which sounds to me like he’s got a speech impediment, and he’s blue-eyed and blond. I know it’s a little prejudiced of me to note this, but just about every native Spanish speaker I’ve ever met has had at least a drop of mestizo blood in them.
It isn’t a long drive to the hotel, which is a tall building of all glass and chrome.
I stumble out of the van, grab my bags, and follow the crowd to check in. Most of the back and forth about getting room keys passes in a blur, and I wait until I have my key in hand and can wheel my luggage to the elevators. My room is only a few stories up and won’t be anything fancy, of course. I’m just crew and lucky to get my own room, probably due to the gender ratio. Everyone on the camera crew is male, and I’m pretty sure they’ve all been assigned roommates.
Once in the elevator, I slide my key into the slot and press the button for the right floor. A hand inserts itself between the closing doors, pushing them open again to reveal Zach, who slips inside and hits the button to close the doors.
I look up at him, wary. I knew this conversation was coming
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