She wears New World shoes with Old World dresses, combs her hair with a Chinese brush, wears Parisienne eye shadow on days when it drizzles, and adds cassis to her African tea.
She hums Russian love songs with lips lined in Portugese, writes left-handed poetry with ink brewed in Egypt.
And when she sleeps, it is between Eskimo icesheets, fragile in pajamas of raw Cuban cigar.
Dance with her the Mongolian merengue, and you will dream Tierra del Fuego under tiny Tunisian stars.
The world writes her signature and her love crosses borders.
Just remember your passport if you want to go home.