Painting and Rights Owned by Lukas' Family

Just beside me, his head tilted back, a boyish blank expression sketching his features, Mike Rowan has fallen asleep. Outside the window, snow-capped mountains meander into view. Mike breaths lightly, and for a few seconds, I close my eyes, falling into the melody of Keegan DeWitt's Quiet City soundtrack. Far above the towns and their people, I dream I am flying, a modern Sam Lowry with much less angst associated with my escape. I'm of an imagined reality.

And, now here the Shuttle Express attendants call my name, mispronouncing it as 'Flores.' The car waits outside for the group of us traveling from the Salt Lake City airport to Park City. We're a mixed bunch--two event planners sitting in the back, a still photographer volunteering for the festival stationed next to me and a London-based freelance journalist perched up front. Shuttle comrade the photographer introduces himself immediately, speaking excitedly in a thick and melodic Irish accent. It's his fourth year attending the festival, and by now somewhat expert on the Sundance hazards, he schools out newcomer pointers, which, truthfully, only serve to unsettle me.

"It's a dry climate. In the first 24 hours, you have to drink lots of water. And, after a few days, your skin, on your hands and feet, will start to crack, so you'll need a lotion. Go to the Albertson's, look for the kind with the bear on it," he says. "And, don't blow your nose too hard. The first year I came I got a nose bleed. I didn't even notice, just started bleeding."

"This sounds like a perilous adventure in film viewing," I mumble.

"Where are you from?" This from one of the two women, one blonde and one brunette, both beautiful to boot, sitting in the back, the statement directed to the photographer.

He glances back briefly with a slightly noticeable frown of confusion.

"Ireland," he says. "There are two Irish features in the program this year--The Escapist, and I'll be working at the Eccles Theatre for the opening of In Bruges. It's really important for the director [Martin McDonagh] because it's his first feature. The first short he made Six Shooter won an Oscar."

"I haven't seen Shooter yet. I've been meaning to," I say. "Mostly I'm just interested to see how he adapts in writing from theater to screen."

"I just want to see the Q&A. I think the entire cast will be there."

"Oh, yeah, they'll be there," the brunette says. "They're always there."

"I won't get to see the film though. That's hard for the volunteers. But, just to see the Q&A, that will be--"

"Great," she finishes. "Not so much if you don't get to see the movie though." Her giddiness washes over the awkward silence that I surely thought was imminent. We're quiet for a few seconds, the sounds of photographs being snapped filling in the space.

"Where are you staying?" the photographer asks.

"At a Bed & Breakfast of sorts...Well, it's more like I'm staying with a family. Staying with a family, yeah."

"I'm in a condo."

"Swanky."

"Sundance treats the volunteers well."

"It's a perk. What are there, 1500 volunteers out here this year?" I ask.

"Always a lot of us, lots of working filmmakers."

The shuttle pulls up to Bufflehead Drive, and I start to scramble my belongings together.

"Who's staying out here?" This from the journalist in the front.

"Oh, it's me."

"It's the right place?" the driver asks.

"Yeah," I say. "It's sort of a...Well, like I said, I'm staying with a family."

"It looks nice," the journalist says.

"It does," I say. "Nice to meet you all."

It's only as the car pulls away that I realize I've barely introduced myself to any of my fellow passengers, and in fact, I've given none of them my card. I don't know why I'm dodgy about giving people my card. It always feels like such a big commitment. "Here, take my card. Call or write me. Let me take yours." It's a strange formality that I can't gussy up to.

Before I get to the door of the house, Sheri Lukas has beaten me to it. She wears an ivory knit cap, a red, fleece vest and a huge, kind smile. "Come in, come in."

"I've got snow--"

"I'm Brian, and you put your bag on my cat's bowl," points out the bright-eyed five-year-old.

"Oh, sorry, I--"

"And, this is my brother Berkeley," Brian adds, pointing out his year older sibling.

"Berk," he clarifies.

Ushered into my room for the night, I place my two small carry-ons down and make my way into the kitchen. An immediately affable and gregarious host, Sheri cooks a dinner of fried eggs and cheese for the boys, working, in a rather romantic gesture, by the dim glow of a tea light candle. A San Diego transplant to Park City within the last year, Sheri, as well as the rest of the Lukas clan, ski and snowboard on free weekends, the boys just now starting to pick up on the sports. A college sophomore, daughter Chelsea will come into town tomorrow to accompany Sheri on their frantic Sundance viewing rounds, which, as Sheri runs through the list, already includes attending screenings of Mancora, Henry Poole Is Here, The Last Word and A Raisin in the Sun.

"I take the boys into school at eight in the morning. You can ride along if you'd like to," she offers.

"That would be great. Thanks. I'm pretty easy going about my schedule."

Scattered around the Lukas' home are several striking paintings and photographs, all of which I note and which Sheri identifies.

"This one was done by Herb's father," she says. "He's had all these different phases. This was from the 70s--"

"That doesn't surprise me," I say laughing, as I examine the brightly colored painting.

"Then he went through a darker phase where the paintings looked like images from concentration camps. He's an interesting guy."

As Sheri and I keep talking, Berkeley has pulled out a game of Sorry, and we set our pieces up on our respective sides of the board.

"If you get a one or a two, you can get out of the start," Berk explains. "If you get a four, you have to go back spaces. If you get a Sorry, you have to start from the beginning." I'm sure that last rule isn't quite stated correctly, but I'm certainly not about to tango it out with a six-year-old. Rules are rules, and I'm following his. Hard as I try to lose, I win the game anyway, and I give Berk a lot of credit for taking that with good humor. There are just some little kids in the world, who while they have the passion, excitement and intelligence of Peter Pans, have absolutely none of the selfishness. Berk and Brian are little boys of that rare class, and as Brian tells me about how important it is that he learn to read soon, I envy his focus and self-motivation.

The night passes on with a grocery run, e-mails sent and an episode of American Idol watched in intervals. Beyond that spent by the fire, a certain undefinable warmth flows through the house. I hear comforting whispers late into the night.