Dear Anaïs,

I thought it was you. There aren’t so many woman who listen to the name of Anais. How on earth did you find me here? In Prague of all places? Still haven’t lost your appetite for sex and accusations. I’ve read it with pleasure, excitement and approval. At a most unusual place I must admit. Besides a tree captured in a cage, next to a foreign exchange bureau, Bar Rio and a souvenir market.

But I must disappoint you. I’m not the person you think I am. I am not the collector you hate, I’m a surfer. And a woman. I surf the waves of the city; the city in all it’s wonderful and difficult diversity. I’m longing for movement under my feet. I’m looking for colours. I’m scratching the surface. My eyes are licking the buildings. I’m feeling the rhythm. I’m smelling, I’m texting, mapping, wondering, enjoying, reading, tasting, hearing, feeling, lingering, laughing, following, shivering, waiting, waiting, waiting, and moving, shaking, balancing, dancing … I’m surfing.

And surfing the city my dear Anais, is like sex – mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spice of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.

Underneath the pavement lies the beach … so come if you’d like to experience ecstacy together and let me surf you.

The surfer