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On the 21-hr bus to Iguazú Falls, I had ½ an empanada, 2 bananas, a dying charger, Misery by Stephen King, & 5 ATLA episodes. And then, you guessed it, a massive, 3-hr delay in the middle of nowhere. I finished Misery as we finally pulled in. Iguazú was stunning, but I was starving, aching in ways I hadn’t thought possible, and yes, miserable. 

Argentina, July 2023
Daniel B.

We arrived at our Airbnb in Mostar around 1 a.m. Everyone was wiped, hungry, and just trying to survive the night. We hadn’t eaten dinner — we were too focused on just arriving — and now every nearby restaurant and market were closed.

But we had a back-up plan: Nutella and crackers from the trunk. Not ideal, not exactly nutritious, but it would do. Plus, I’ve done worse. 

Except as we pulled it out of the trunk, the jar slipped.

Glass shards flew…

Only I didn’t care. We needed dinner. 

Without speaking, I grabbed the half-intact side and — carefully, slowly — carried it inside. Without speaking, we all hunched over a table in our dimly lit Airbnb and, in between showers, scooped out (hopefully) glass-free Nutella.

And no one complained.

Bosnia and Herzegovina, April 2025
Cliff C.

Megalopolis, the film I was most excited about, had one last screening. E, Z, and I hadn’t seen it and thought we’d leave Cannes without it. Then a new, 9:30 am showing popped up.

We didn’t have tickets, but this was a high-priority showing: we decided to pull an all-nighter. We got to Agnès Varda at 4:30. There was only one guy ahead of us. It was dead quiet. 

By 8, the line stretched far.

Then things turned. A festival worker announced a second line—if you didn’t have a bag, you could skip ahead. People who’d just shown up now strolled right past us.

Four hours meant nothing.

When the gates opened, I sprinted. Through security. Up the stairs. A blaze of wild movement. 

Somehow, we found 3 adjoining seats. We’d made it. 

Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling: Cannes never cared if we did.

Cannes (Part IV), May 2024
Anonymous

I was at the last festival premiere, exactly two rows from the cast. I felt incredible. 

But just as the lights dimmed, the man behind me began to snore. Loudly. Violently. Heads turned. 

We were 15 minutes into the film, and the snoring hadn’t stopped. A man across the aisle stood, crossed the pathway, and tapped him awake.

It worked… 

for maybe thirty seconds. 

Then the snoring resumed, even louder than before. The director turned around. So did several cast members. I sat frozen, wondering if I should intervene.

But I didn’t. 

Maybe I still felt like an outsider — in an Orchestra seat I didn’t belong in, as a non-industry student. Or was I just too cowardly? Either way, no one else moved.

The man slept through the entire film. And I spent two and a half hours listening to a stranger’s dreams.

Cannes (Part III), May 2024
Anonymous

Here’s the scene: we were standing in line for The Apprentice catch-up screening at Palais K when Z, E, and I decided we wanted ice cream.

No dinner, no problem. We had time. We walked to Arcades for three oversized scoops (coffee, cinnamon-banana, lemon), then returned cautiously, hoping security wouldn’t confiscate our melting cups.

To my surprise, they didn’t blink. One guard even held the door and told us, in English, “to enjoy.”

So we did… sort of. We stood in line, dripping, frantically racing against the clock and gravity to finish our soupy dessert before heading inside. I’ve never eaten ice cream so fast.

If there’s a message here—and I’m not convinced there is—it’s that sometimes, even at the world’s most prestigious film festival, the best moments come not from the movies but from the mess in between.

Cannes (Part II), May 2024
Anonymous

At 3:45 a.m., we got up—groggy, underdressed, and already regretting everything.

By 4:30, we were in the standby line for Kinds of Kindness, fitted in tuxes and long dresses, and not even first. A trio of French cinephiles had beaten us there. 

The hours between 5 and 8 were rough: freezing temps, dead phones, quiet misery. But by 9, the sun rose, the crepes arrived, and we started to feel human again. We took shifts walking to the beachside Microsoft Café, where you could get free espressos and fruit skewers.

Still, the line swelled. Tension rose. Would all this actually pay off?

Nathan, one of the French guys, told us how he waited 15 hours yesterday for Megalopolis and still got shoved aside last minute. His friend started handing out numbered slips to hold everyone’s place. It helped. But even as 6 pm neared and stars walked the red carpet, we weren’t sure we’d make it inside.

Cannes (Part I), May 2024
Anonymous

I’m in Tehran, and everyone I can see is of my flesh and blood. I am them and they are me. We are all — genetically, at least — the same.

Of course, our lives are not. I don’t know how I was chosen to be born in the United States. Why do I get to be free when they are not? Why does my sister get to walk outside without a hijab? Why can I love who I love without fear of death? Why can I sleep peacefully, every night, under a sky free of missiles? I didn’t earn it. It just kind of happened that way.

I do wonder if those I see in Iran have similar thoughts. Do they ask themselves how lucky they are to still live in Iran, land of our ancestors, of Cyrus the Great? To have their grandparents, khoresht, and chai around the corner, not 7,000 miles away? To never feel like an outsider in their own country — to never be seen as a threat, as a terrorist? I wonder if they feel proud to, every day, resist, endure, and fight for freedom in our Iran.

I’m in Tehran, I am them, and they are me. I’m confident I got the better end of the deal — but I’ll never get to know for sure.

Tehran, September 2024
Ashkan R.

Somebody once told me that once you grow up, wonder is only for kids and movies.

But I’ve seen snow fly upside down, from the ground to the sky, with my legs dangling over an Armenian countryside cliff, next to one of my best buddies. I swam in the Arctic Sea with that same buddy until my toes turned blue, just because. I even saw him dodge the explosive bowel movements of a grazing Portuguese cow.

Call it what you want — I believe in the power of friendship, adventure, and nature. I know how that sounds… Believe me, I do.

But I’ve lived it.

The World, Spring 2025
Mark Wolfman
to Ashkan R.

I didn’t grow up with many beach days.

But look now: a sand-crusted soccer ball bouncing from foot to foot, cold waves breaking as we dive in shameless, and someone yelling as we bury a friend up to his neck in heavy sand.

Yes. This’ll do.

Mallorca, May 2025
Daniel B.

Lightning flashed blue. A clap of thunder shook my camel and my increasingly sore groin. Of all the days to be in the Sahara, of course it had to be the—what? One in ten days?—when it rains.

Sahara Desert, May 2025
Cliff C.