My passport is an indispensable companion. He accompanies me wordlessly to the most hidden corners of the world, reminding me time and again about who I am and where I come from. Every scuffed page represents a chapter of my life. This is my story. The story of the stamp girl.
The most expensive coffee in the world does not come in a golden cup. He comes from the bushy hairy butt of a cat. The Asian cunning cat, to be exact, which has given the Kopi Luwak the delicate nickname 'Katzenkaffee'. A coffee junkie dares the self-experiment.
I never thought that I would admit this publicly, but I love a whore and hear Reinhard Mey.
17 years, blond hair, that's how I stood there and longingly attracted you from afar. I knew immediately that you are the one. The only one I wanted. How you leaned casually against the wall, with your red and black cap, the broad shoulder and this shapely body. It was love at first sight. Fourteen years on, you're still by my side, and nobody knows me better than you. We've seen the world together, and it's about time I told you how much I love you.
This little enchanted Himalayan kingdom has given me an inner peace that I have not experienced anywhere else, awakening primordial fears that I did not even know existed, and throwing me into situations I find myself in my wildest night writing orgies could not have thought.
When Jack Johnson plays guitar on the beach next to you, Kelly Slater is surfing in the sunset, and girls in ice skates are distributing iced coconuts - then you know you've landed in paradise. The air tastes of salt and papayas, your heart beats to the beat of the ukulele and at night the windows vibrate when the waves break. At the end of the rainbow a pot of gold is waiting and I have found it.
In me a bitter-sweet fight rages and I'm just the dusty stage. "Will I say for the moment: Stay! You are so pretty! Then you may shake me in chains, and then I will gladly perish. "With these words, Faust, driven by curiosity and hunger for life, sold his soul to Mephisto.
Sorry, the oxigen is out of order. As this crunching announcement in the train at about 5000 meters penetrates my ear, I lie mentally fogged on my spine-wide platform and concentrated my last senses to not involuntary Stagediving on the Chinese karaoke group under me.
In front of me is a monk with his mouth wide open, holding out his tongue to me. I blink like a dazed yak into the blinding sun, vacillating between outraged horror and amazement. "Show him your tongue!", The gently demanding voice of my guide Tsenam tears me from my confused thoughts and after a short hesitation, I push my dust-dry tongue obediently to the daylight.