after all. Days where she went to the theater, and the ballet with her sister every chance they had, days where art was embedded into her every move, thought and breath. As she told me about her past, it was as if every memory were a picture in her mind; a living scrapbook of every trip, face and place that she had been to and experienced. Like a scrapbook, with every picture comes a story, be it about skulking the secret passages of churches to find something close to a perfect picture - even though this action of perfection is simply impossible - or finding a face in the middle of a jungle that she hadn’t seen in twenty years. She describes her camera as her passport, or as a VIP pass that can take her anywhere she wishes. Her camera takes her to places that would usually be completely out of the question. To explore to her, nothing is out of the question. Then again, that might not be because of the camera, but because of her drive. She is a strong believer in the idea that it is easier to ask for forgiveness, than to ask for permission, because asking for permission just might be an obstacle in the way of creating another chapter in her scrapbook. Her camera is what allowed her to meet the country that she lives in, the city that raised her and the books she grew up with. Finding something to say never seemed too difficult, and the conversation evolved from question to question, leading to laughs echoed by the parakeets. The afternoon went by just as quickly as it came, and along with the rain came a man who was terrified by our loud laughter, her husband. After that, the laughter turned to insightful phrases about traffic and politics, along with rants about how teenagers abuse technology. After a few more smart remarks, I was led out by her husband, with reminder to come by more often to plan the next book, along with an invitation to not be a stranger to that peculiar home. t*
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