Recently.

Since my last post I’ve visited three countries, stood on top of the Eiffel tower and managed to turn 28 with minimal anxiety. We walked so much my feet nearly fell off, we ate all of the food and drank all of the wine and had all of the fun. I’m tired, sick from some awful travel plague and trying to adjust to Eastern Standard Time with limited success, but I’m so, so, so happy. We had an amazing time. It was brilliant. All of it.

Birthdays away are weird. It feels like I skipped mine this year because instead of doing birthday things, I was wandering around Paris, eating crepes and baguettes and standing on the top of the Eiffel Tower. Not that I’m complaining, it was magical.

I used to hate birthdays. Passionately. It started when I was 16, when I’d focus all my spare energy on hating my approaching birthday. Then, around 25, I stopped minding it so much. I keep expecting some terrified part of me to emerge, scared at this descent toward 30, but it hasn’t come yet. Maybe next year. Maybe 29 will be the one to startle me back into birthday-hatred.

In Paris, on the day after my birthday, I fed pigeons. I know they’re the rats of the sky. I get it. But they were French, so doesn’t that make the immediately at least a little bit more fancy?