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Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

For an hour, we stood wedged inside the Polish Church on the Rennweg. The rotunda of the church was packed; people stood shoulder to shoulder listening to the priest, offering words of comfort during this time of mourning.

Dear Diary,

I woke up and turned on my laptop; might be a response to one of my job queries…

Dear Diary,

“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,” sang the Beatles in 1960s. This morning, almost half a decade later, I had the same feeling when my parents called me at 09:30 to make sure I was expecting them. In an hour? But how? Where? Vienna? Was it Friday already?

Dear Diary,

Walking along the Moscow streets early in the winter mornings feels like a blade slicing across your throat, sharply taking your breath away. On Côte d’Azur, I would enjoy a cup of coffee sitting at the balcony of a rented flat while listening to every gentle sound drifting up from the perfectly calm sea. For Russians things are different.

Dear Diary,

Shopping, chocolate or diamonds… are a girl’s best friend.

But a new player has entered the game: the makeup kit is the modern girl’s best friend.

In the car, public restrooms, even in the U-Bahn, make sure that mask embracing your face doesn’t fade away. Because who would want to see what your real face looks like?

Dear Diary,

Ode to Aida: To ignore her is to obsess over her, and the desire is growing daily. She’s everywhere, unavoidable and obvious, robed in pastel pink fabrics and a rosy demeanor. Enticing men, women and children to approach eagerly, she rarely disappoints, except when she isn’t there. Some days I pass her quickly, or snake along ridiculous routes so as not to notice her parked there, displaying confections that drive me wild. Oh, Aida, your opera does not compare to your Topfenstrudel.

Perspectives. Experience. These are what shape societies and worldviews; and the fact of the matter is, until you really explore the guts of an issue, what do you know?

Dear Diary,

It was one of those Saturday nights. Some friends wanted to come look at my new apartment after a night out, so we left the party early, knowing that my home was always a catastrophe: dirty plates on the table, a conspiracy of cobwebs and dust bunnies, smelly laundry clogging the doorways and clothes drying on the staircase. This had to change, and fast!

For not being entirely sober, we did a pretty good job cleaning up. And in the meantime, our friends were making their way into the elevator, not knowing what was awaiting them. Living on the top floor, taking the stairs was always a challenge, and the only other way to access my apartment was by using the tiny, 1x1 m2 elevator.