A drunk guy with a neon-yellow Mohawk sitting in front of a liquor store in the less fancy part of Friedrichshain yells, as I ride by on my bike: “Hey that’s Conchita Wurst!” (That’s the Euro Grand Prix winner who looks like Imam Ali dressed as Kim Kardashian.) Is that sexist? Racist? Or is he trying to hit on me? (Oh gosh, I would’ve combed my hair…) Before my awareness gland starts working, I laugh.