I wouldn’t know what “the third kind” stands for as I never saw the movie but by any means this was a close encounter with this year’s Tour de France. “I vaguely remember lots of shouting and the loud noise of bicycles crashing into the asphalt right as they passed” was the sentence I prepared for this blog upon realizing just how close it was going to be, but I haven’t had to use it. It would have brought me instant world fame as a photographer and I figure that kind of makes it yet another missed opportunity.

Childhood memories: playing make-believe you were the hero. In my days: cowboys and knights, but these kids were without a doubt re-enacting David Villa’s better moments. I watched the first half of Spain vs. Portugal in the World Cup at a Spanish bar yesterday, hoping to get a good shot of some one-hundred glorious Spaniards after a goal, but left with the scene of a more interesting game of soccer of five-year olds outside during halftime. Of course, Spain scored right after I got back home.

Every once on a blue moon you stumble upon a story that gets stuck in your mind. The story of Mrs. Popa is one of them. I met her a year ago while on assignment for Amnesty International in the slums just 10 kilometers due North of the posh inner city of Paris, where she lived with her husband, three children, a cat and a goat in a cardboard shack somewhere along the high-speed TGV train track that connects Paris to Brussels and Amsterdam.

She was a hearty woman and invited us in for a remarkably good cup of coffee. Her tale was one of sorrow and despair for their future in Romania and the health of her daughter who didn’t get any treatment for her tuberculosis back home. Thus they ventured out into the world searching for a better life, only to end up there in their shack next to the trains swishing rich tourists back and forth to the Champs Elysées. She managed to make the most out of the hostile environment in which they settled. The lack of water and electricity was a minor nuisance. It was the rejection of people living their rich lifes comfortably tucked away in their lavish homes that hurt, especially the kids throwing stones at her beautiful daughter on her way to school nearby. And still, in all the misery, she was kind and welcoming and invited us over for a BBQ one day. Of course we never went back, our worlds being so close and yet so far apart.

A week ago I went to Paris and must have swooshed past her small cabin. I never managed to spot it, but she’s been on my mind ever since. Mrs. Popa, how have you fared?

On a dark desert highway / cool wind in my hair. You simply can’t escape whistling to the tune of the Eagles’ hit Hotel California while driving through the barren emptiness of eastern Jordan’s desert where signposts tell you the distance to Iraq and Saudi Arabia in the surreal setting of both Lawrence of Arabia’s conquests and the legendary Tales of 1001 Nights. I never found the hotel though.

As previously mentioned, art is abundantly available and not just in nature. Take for instance Amman, the bustling capital of Jordan: it’s a paradise for lovers of cubism. Wherever you look you’ll find square concrete blocks of buildings strewn out over the hills. Some sure enough would call it ugly, but then again: cubism isn’t for everyone.

From the fluttering wings of a hummingbird to the cold crystals of ice and from the blooming dandelion to its transformation into a flurry ball of seeds: there is an abundance of art in nature and one only has to look around to see it.

I shot yet another event for Ford Motor Company (previous ones shown here and here) and while one could argue Ford’s hotness, people attending were more than impressed by the new models presented and their new EcoBoost engine. All I can say is it’s pretty tough hanging out of a car to shoot another one passing you at around 140 km/h.

Don’t get me wrong: I love Rome and if there were one place in Europe where I could live, Rome would be it… And then there’s Petra, ancient capital of the Nabataeans in Jordan. Never in my cultural life have I understood George W.’s “shock and awe” better than when viewing the Treasury for the first time just after daybreak. From there to the Monastery and back, climbing and descending Petra’s mountain tops for 10 straight hours, meeting its charming inhabitants, I feel I can safely say: Rome is for sissies.

For the past 6 years I’ve been eating the same pasta dish on each and every Sunday night, nicely made from fresh tomatoes, good Italian olive oil, more than a hint of garlic and a touch of the strongest red peppers you can find and I don’t seem to tire of it. This Sunday however I don’t expect to have anything remotely like it as I find myself in a tented camp in Jordan’s desert near Wadi Rum. Indeed: tough luck. No need to worry though, as I’ll probably get over it…

I love the sea, for many reasons. I love the soothing sound of small waves reaching shore after having travelled thousands of miles from distant places. I love its produces: please do wake me up for lobster. I love the sweet memories of fishing marlin with my father. And I love the fact that it’s hardly possible not to take an interesting image. This here’s the North Sea at the end of the day when the rain had just passed and the setting sun was breaking through on the horizon. I love the sea.