Tour de….trois villages

I love biking but I have always said that I would for nothing in the world participate Tour de France. Today I changed my mind, I wished that I had been in Tour de France and not on my usual Tour de trois villages. My bicycle punctured, and I had to walk 8 km home.

If I had been in Tour de France, there had been a maintenance car right behind me fixing the bike.

Three things to do before I die

I have never driven a car in Paris, but every time I sit in a taxi around Arc de Triomphe, I feel an awful urge to ask the taxi driver to let me take over. It just seems to be such a challenge, like driving in New York or in Bangkok, and I have decided that I will face these three challenges before dying.

Next week I am going to Paris, and I count on getting down with the Paris part. The unsuspecting Olivier has invited me out and instead of meeting him at the restaurant, I asked him to come and pick me up at my hotel in his car.

Amongst all the stupid things I have managed to say to my Jewish boy, I guess nothing will surprise him any more. So when I ask him to give me the car keys as God wants so, he will immediately hand them over.

Despite the 3 billion cars at Arc de Triomphe, I am not even nervous at all. It is a company car, so who cares if I have a little accident. And even if I fuck up Olivier’s car totally, it can only be partly my fault. The circus at Arc de Triomphe is the only place in France where any accident is always 50/50.

Theories...

My French teacher said that in France it is the upper class that profits most from the health care system. Unlike her theory that the upper class is better fit to fight against the system, I could see totally different reasons for this.

According to my theory, the difference is men. We all know that men won’t go to a doctor, no matter how sick they are, it is always the wife who has to force the husband to seek for medical care. But if the woman is married to a low class, poor man, she cannot see any reason sending the husband to the doctor. Instead she hopes that the illness will kill the man so she can go and get a better husband.

But if the man is rich and successful, it is also a guarantee for a certain life standard, and of course the woman doesn’t want the husband kicking the bucket. So if the hardworking husband is showing any sign of not being able to make so much money because of an aspiring disease, the woman will definitely take care that the husband is treated immediately.

My husband is wondering about a big tumor in his neck. I keep telling him it is not a big deal.



(Please tell my husband to stop worrying, it is propably only genetic.)

I wish…

…that I was a black woman called Fatima Abdullah. Then I wouldn’t need to work, I could just say that it is impossible for me to get a job because of my skin color and the name.

Hun-Ulven-Ilsa

I guess I could make it to Guinness book of records with the weirdest nicknames; Miss Domina, Ma Petite Foie Gras and today She-wolf-Ilsa.

WHAT?

Hm…when googling for a good illustration, I found this one. NOW I UNDERSTAND! And I tried just to be funny...



PS. But even more worrying, is the guy calling me Ilsa really seeing this kind of films?

Compliments or insults?

Someone just called me “Ma petite foie gras”. Cannot figure out if this is a compliment or an insult. Am I as delicious as foie gras or fat as foie gras?

Must be the latter one. In Berlin a German lady asked me for help finding a street and I told her I was just a tourist. She said that I looked like Berlin.

And I prefer looking like Berlin and not like a Berliner. Claudia Schiffer must have a genetic default; no German girl looked like her. Rather be almost lesbian amongst beautiful Danes than real lesbian in Germany.

PS. The guy who called me “Ma petite foie gras” thinks that Claudia Schiffer looks like a horse. Boy, isn’t he weird!

Ich bin ein Berliner!

Berlin, ugly as hell, but what a cool city! Travelling is learning and again I have learned many important things after my week-end in Berlin. Here are top 5 travelling tips to Berlin:

1. Empty your husband’s wallet for Euros. If you are lucky like me, you find several hundreds of them, and don’t need to use your Visa card while shopping. This in return will impress your husband, still not aware of the missing Euros in his wallet.

2. If your travelling buddy lands a couple of hours later than you, go shopping, use all your money, and the day after you can settle being just your friend’s personal shopper.

3. Don’t empty a bottle of champagne before going to opera, Violetta’s suffering isn't suddenly that dramatic at all.

4. Do take a double espresso at the first pause at “La Traviata”. Then you can continue straight to a techno party for the rest of the night.

5. Drink in general a lot of champagne, then you can even dance to techno music.

At the Burkinese Embassy

For years ago on holiday in Gambia I saw a funny traffic sign; “Watch out for sleeping policemen”. Today I had a déjà vu at the Burkinese Embassy, though the sign should have said “Caution sleeping embassy”.

I have never felt so transparent in my life; it is like the lady taking care of my Visa application had just smoked a joint and fallen into emotional coma.

“What should I write on this line?”

“What ever you feel like, it doesn’t really matter…”

“How about this one?”

“It doesn’t really matter either…”

“Well, here is the money; it was 240 kr, right?”

“Yeah…you get the receipt when you pick up the visa.”

“It was 240 kr right (me expecting to get some change back as I had given her 2 notes worth more than the 240 kr) ?”

“Yeah… (and putting my money, which was definitely more than the 240 kr, on top of many other western suckers’ visa applications)”

I have a feeling I will never get my change back. I have also a feeling that I will never see my passport again.