I am headed to the Austin Film Festival tomorrow (click here for my panel info), and some of you who follow me on Twitter have already warned me to be careful since Johnny Depp will be there as well and there’s the potential for me to do something like that time I accidentally made an asshole out of myself in front of John Henson. Well, listen. I just want you to know that I have evolved.
Apparently not all of you bother to be on Twitter, so I have learned that not all of you know what happened on my recent trip to Iceland.
It was for an important wedding for two important friends. I had to buy the tickets many, many months in advance, so I chose refundable tickets in case I’d rubbed my magical vulva the right way and a sitcom job fell out. Buying tickets that were refundable was so expensive it was just an extra fifty bucks to upgrade to Icelandic Air’s business class. So we did.
There was a bit of a commotion upon boarding, but I was so excited to be finally on my way to Reykjavik that I didn’t really pay much attention.
So I’m bouncing in my seat, excited to read my Icelandic literature, when I noticed the woman standing in front of me struggling with the overhead compartment. Well, to be honest, I was noticing her tights, which were very cute. They were pink but faded to this grey and then she had on this kind of dress but it was also a kind of apron with these cute kimono sleeves and I was like, “I LOVE ICELAND.” And then I thought, “Maybe everybody in Iceland dresses like Björk! Maybe I can get myself a Björkfit when I get to Iceland. Yay, I’m going to Iceland.”
And then I thought, “That lady dressed like Björk is still struggling with her overhead bag.”
And then I thought, “Hey, that lady really looks like Björk. And now she’s staring at me staring at her because SHE IS BJORK AND SHE KNOWS SHE IS BJORK AND SHE KNOWS THAT I KNOW SHE IS BJORK AND BJORKISONMYFLIGHT.”
Then she gave me that same weary, slightly terrified private smile that Hatt Henetar gave me years ago, and I knew that I wasn’t just having an overdose of whimsy. I was six inches from Bjork.
And then she sat down about two feet away from me, I started accidentally weeping a little from joy and then they closed the cabin doors and I proceeded to have the most internally awkward and stressful flight of my entire life.
She was RIGHT THERE, you guys. But not where I could easily see her, so I had to just stare ahead even though right over my left shoulder was Björk. It was just as much of a draw as if someone was like, “You know there’s a pile of puppies on that chair just behind your left shoulder.” or “John Waters is just behind you pouring martinis.” or “WHAT BOOK DO YOU THINK BJORK CHOSE FOR IN-FLIGHT? DO YOU THINK SHE’S READING AN ACTUAL READING RAINBOW? BECAUSE I DO.”
I tried to read my Welcome to Iceland book, but you know: there she is, right on the inside page. I tried to listen to music, but my iTunes automatically shuffled to one of her songs (never doubt her powers), and the in-flight music was all, “HAVE YOU HEARD OF BJORK? HERE’S HER PICTURE PROJECTED ONTO THE BACK OF THIS CHAIR, ABOUT THREE FEET FROM HER FACE.” I was accidentally becoming a stalker.
This is a woman who does not like to be bothered in public. It is a well-documented fact! And yet, I was still compelled to tell her… well, one time I stayed at the Mercer hotel in Manhattan, and my friends worked there at the time, so I got to find out who checked into the room I’d had– and it was Björk! We are pillow sisters! She might have run into one of my hair fibers or something!
I chose not to say any of that to her, nor try to surreptitiously take a photograph. This is how you can tell that I am maturing, and I am starting to be able to get my shit together whenever I encounter someone who has made a positive impact on my life.
Okay, maybe I went to pee about nineteen times, and had to stretch every fifteen minutes or so, but it was an international flight and blood clots, you guys. They’re serious.
I never saw exactly what book she was reading. But it was hardcover. And at baggage claim she briefly left all of her belongings next to us while she went to check on something, and I felt like I’d earned her trust.
…or Iceland is such a small country with such a teensy, gnome-sized crime rate that everybody just leaves their suitcases wherever because nobody would ever steal from their next door neighbor.
Or maybe it was the Sisterhood of the Pillow thing, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The point is: I didn’t take a picture of her and that’s okay. I took one in full-color with the dream maker that lives in my head, just as Björk would have wanted.