Happy Birthday...over, and over, and over, and over again...

Last week, in anticipation of my 26th birthday, I made a pact with Kim.

"We're gonna celebrate every night that I have left as a 25-year-old."

She put up zero resistance.

After all, me "celebrating" my birthday night after night meant that she, too, would be celebrating. And who doesn't enjoy the occasional week-long bacchanalia?

We began Wednesday night at the Dirty, gulping down Snakebites as we played drinking games with the pack of cards Morgan managed to score from the bartender.

A pack of Tarot cards.

First, I taught them how to play one of my favorite childhood card games, Culo Sucio (Dirty Ass in English). Essentially, I explained with animation as I had, by then, already been topped off for the third time, we leave one Joker in the deck, distribute all the cards, and discard them as we accumulate pairs. One player draws a card from his neighbor, and around and around we go until only the Joker remains - in the hands of the unfortunate player who is henceforth dubbed "el culo sucio." When I used to play this game with my father, he insisted on maintaining a roll of toilet paper at the table in order to give the "dirty ass" his or her due - "Anda a limpiarte el culo," go wipe your ass, he would exclaim to peals of laughter from all players save the poor, mortified "culo sucio."

After my detailed explanation, Kim deadpanned:

"Katie. That game is called Old Maid. It exists in the U.S. too. It's the lamest card game in the world."

Feeling just a bit deflated, I nonetheless insisted that we had to, HAD TO play it.

Which we did. For about three rounds, all of which Kim lost (Kim, as it turns out, has a fierce competitive streak hidden behind that doe-eyed goodness of hers).

After that, the night exists only in bits and pieces.

We played Ride the Bus, a brilliant suggestion of Kim's. Morgan and I squared off while Kim observed, horrified either by our butchering of the game or our extreme consumption of alcohol (likely both).

Then I attempted to teach Morgan a hand-slapping game.

One, two, three

My momma takes care of me

Ooo, ahhh

Wanna piece of pie

Pie too sweet

Wanna piece of meat

Meat too tough

Wanna ride a bus

Bus too full

Wanna ride a bull...

The night led us to la Mine (the Mine), the most happening non-techno club in St. E. It is appropriately named, as you have to climb down a set of dark and vertiginous stairs into a basement to enter (also, St. E. is, or at least was, a mining town).

Dancing ensued. Among the fifteen people out at la Mine at 2 am on a Wednesday. One of whom, quite magically, turned out to be Nico, a bartender at...you guessed it. The Dirty! Nico is a native stéphanois who "knows people," including the resident DJ at la Mine who is actually a Smiths fan and played "This Charming Man" on my request. Nico and I danced like teenagers (awkwardly but furiously), and I managed to avoid the usual embarassing music-related commentary (e.g. "I wanna DJ my own wedding!").

Friday night, we drank in (what else) my birthday at Kim's apartment in what turned out to be the most memorable night of crazy yet.

The company: 3 parts American (me, Kim, and Corinne), 3 parts French (Mathilde, Jean, and Morgan), and 1 part German (Ilka).

The drinking event: a power hour using a Snakebite-inspired concoction, not beer.

The power hour is a treacherous drinking game. Minutes stretch into hours, you lose track of your shot count and wind up drinking double or triple. Neither the Frenchies nor the Germans had ever seen, let alone done, anything like it before (oh, American drinking culture, be still my heart, by strong my liver). But Math, well, Math was the star.

After seven minutes: Yous a slut beach! (her attempt at "slut bitch")

After eleven minutes: Putain! Ça fait combien d'heures qu'on joue ce jeu? (Fuck! How many hours have we been playing this game?)

After twenty-six minutes: (singing and playing the guitar)

Mr. Jones and me tell each other future.

We steer at ze beautiful womens.

She lookin' at you?

Ay, nah nah, I don't fink so, she lookin' at me.

Ladies and gentlement, I give you the Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones," covered by Mathilde Grand.

That night ended, once more, at la Mine. With a brief stop at the Dirty because, well, it's become a compulsion.

Finally, on Monday night, I was surpised with the birthday cake of my dreams. Corinne baked me one of the most magnificent and truly personalized cakes I've had the pleasure of devouring in my adult life. If you want more details on how it was prepared, check out her blog.

Yes, what's that you see on top? Nothing other than Kinder Buenos! The crispy wafer, chocolate-covered, hazelnut-filled candy bar that haunts my thoughts when they turn to chocolate.

And that frosting? Could it be? Well, yes, it's clearly chocolate. But what sort of chocolate, you might inquire. There's chocolate and then there's chocolate. Corinne made her ganache frosting out of Lindt milk chocolate. Only the finest (in my opinion) milk chocolate in the world.

The ganache also served as filling to the cake, yellow cake to be precise, found underneath the blanket of milk chocolate. Moist and dense, the perfect consistency.