Unnskyld, har dere hørt om videokonferanse?

It is a sad fact that the older we get, the less birthdays seem to matter. Yes, there are a few benchmark birthdays that get people's attention. Turning eighty, for instance, seems to be worthy of note. At fifty, we officially arrive at "middle age." Thirty, we leave behind our youthful, jubilant twenties, and society at last concedes us some measure of maturity.

But, let's be honest. Few of us have or will celebrate these birthdays with the same excitement as when we turn ten (double digits!) or sixteen (driver's license!) or eighteen (emancipation!). The "important" birthdays culminate, at least for Americans, with the big two-one: at last, we can drink. Legally. In our culture, it is the last of the rewarded birthdays (I don't count renting a car at twenty-five as substantial birthday recognition).

I've watched friends and relatives age, many dreading the accumulation of years and acquiring a certain "age touchiness." (How old am I? How old do I look to you?! How old do you think I am???)

Others are just indifferent to the passage of time.

Both, to me, are travesties.

I made my first birthday resolution the year I turned twenty-one.

I was living in Buenos Aires at the time and had an American friend named Robert who was four years my senior. Robert turned twenty-five a couple of months before me and promptly launched into a deep depression. He warned me of the fate in store, speaking with reverence about the years spanning twenty-one to twenty-four, until:

"One day, you're twenty-five. And then you're thirty. And forty. And suddenly you realize you can't see your knees because of how fat you've gotten, and you're married to a woman who cuts her hair shorter than yours and lives in sweatpants." (Rob was drawing on the example of his parents, who, I think, had long deprived him of any hope of aging gracefully.)

I told Rob to snap out of it and stop being such a psycho. I resolved to be the anti-Rob.

Yes, I know getting old is scary. I feel it too. But come on! Everybody poops. Everybody gets old, too. I don't want to be one of those tortured souls who agonizes over the inevitable. Nor do I want to make believe the years aren't flying by.

Which is why, last year, on my own twenty-fifth birthday, I made my second birthday resolution: that I would honor each year by challenging myself to do something, well, challenging. Something that would both humble me and honor my strengths, reminding me that, no matter what my age, I am (and always will be) me.

Last year, I ran twelve miles on my birthday, a record distance (for me) and a feat I reveled in for days.

This past Thursday, on my birthday, I headed north on a solo trip to the "gateway of the fjords:" the city of Bergen, in Norway.

Not many people travel to Scandinavia in the winter. That was part of the draw. To spend sixteen days traveling alone, first through Norway, then to Stockholm and wrapping up in Copenhagen, seemed a good way to honor my step into "late twenties." And to see a completely unfamiliar part of the world, both geographically and linguistically, while I'm at it.

I awoke, on my birthday, at 3 am, to a call from my mother, wishing me the best, and reinforcing what my reveille was poised to do at the very same moment: sound the alarm rise and shine, it's travel time. I showered. Forced myself to eat a bowl of cereal. Unplugged my frigo, shut off my power strip, loaded up my pack, and set off for the half-hour walk (no tram at this ungodly hour) to the Chateaucreux train station.

St. E., as you know, is not a big city. Walking its streets at 4 am on a Thursday, I was reminded of this. The whole way to Chateaucreux, I must have seen no more than three people. All men. One intoxicated, as his choppy, uneven gait indicated.

St. E. is also, normally, not an especially windy city. This morning, however, a strong, cool wind blew through the streets, whipping my wet hair this way and that. Gusty currents tugged at items strewn about on the deserted streets. Dead leaves were pulled by the undertow over the length of entire blocks. Lion Candy Bar wrappers rose mid-air from the gutters. A plastic garbage can, left out for trash day, had been knocked over onto its side. The wind opened and closed its lid like a puppetmaster pulling strings to breathe life into an inert object. (This garbage can is speaking to me, I thought in my drowsy state. Something about the wind and the barren town pointed to a greater message, an omen, maybe. I have more than a few superstitious bones in my body.)

Ominous atmosphere aside, I made it to my bus on time and embarked on the very long (and multi-legged) first part of my journey.

My itinerary looked like this:
1. Bus from St. E. to Lyon Part Dieu
2. TGV from Lyon Part Dieu to Paris Gare de Lyon
3. Metro from Paris Gare de Lyon to Denfert-Rochereau stop
4. Bus from Denfert-Rochereau to Orly Airport
5. Plane from Paris Orly Airport to Bergen Airport

I felt pretty good boarding my plane a whole seven hours later. I took in every detail: the bright red color of the Norwegian Airlines plane, smooth-skinned and youthful air hostesses, their cheerful welcomes. ("Hi!" is, apparently, "Hi!" in Norwegian. One of the only words I can understand.)

And, of course, the signs on the carry-on bins, reading Unnskyld, har dere hørt om videokonferanse? (My God what a magical language.)

The Norwegian Airlines Magazine had a feature entitled "Norwegian Masters." This was, quite possibly, my favorite part of flying to Norway.

"We all have our heroes - so do Norwegian. You'll find them on the tail fins of 15 of our airplanes."

Among the "Norwegian Masters" were such stars as polar explorer Roald Amundsen, skater and U.S. film star Sonja Henie, playright Henrik Ibsen, painter Edvard Munch, and composer Edvard Grieg.

Then there were the masters previously unknown to me. One by the curious name of Ole Bull (1819-1880) - "He is often referred to as Norway's first international star. He was a violinist and composer in the Romantic period and through his over interest for Norwegian folk music, he represented a central part in the re-building of the Norwegian culture after the union Denmark-Norway was dissolved."

The latter sentence prompted me to consider how much I don't know about Norway. (Denmark-and Norway were united?!)

I smiled and scooted closer to the window, anxious to learn.

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.

Joyeux Anniversaire, Martin et Marie Hélène (or how I soiled on my to-do list but had the Frenchiest day)

If you know me well enough, you'll be the first to recognize (or bemoan) my dogmatic passion for organization. I revel in dusting off my books and storing them in alphabetical order, I can pick myself up by aligning every item on my desk and night table, and I can spend hours creating a to-do list. If you really want to get under my skin, the simple act of misplacing a sheet of paper on my work space (the "mis" being at anything other than perfect 90 degree angles) will leave me visibly unsettled.

So last night I mapped out a plan of attack for my first day in Lyon. I arrived without an apartment, without a cell phone, and without a bank account. Today, my intention was to obtain all three. Oh, and since the pair of glasses I bought before leaving Harvard is still pinching the back of my left ear, a trip to the optical shop was my extra credit.

I'll give you a hint as to how my day panned out: I didn't accomplish a single task I had set out for myself.

What, then, did I do today?

I have the great fortune of currently residing with Maria Reinita and Gérard Guenot on the Boulevard des Tchecoslovaques in the center of Lyon. Maria Reinita is a vetrinarian from Uruguay with an eye condition that causes her to tear uncontrolably (when she picked me up from the airport yesterday, her glasses were sprinkled with tears that I mistook for her great emotion at seeing me again after twenty-some years). She also happens to be, in some magical, legal way, my aunt. Her husband, Gérard, collects old film reels and the machines that play them. So far, the only questions he's asked me are "Do you think Barack Obama will win the election?" and "Would you like some more wine?"


Their eldest daughter, Éleonore, is my "cousine française," and a friend of mine from when I lived in Buenos Aires (she was doing the French equivalent of study abroad in Montevideo at the time). I think she has appointed herself my guardian until I'm settled in, or "installée" as people keep telling me ("Bonne installation!") Éleonore is one of the sweetest and most giving people I know, and you would be hard pressed to find someone with such generous qualities. Except that she happens to date such a person - her boyfriend, Benjamin. So when they offered to give me a ride to Saint-Etienne this morning, I smiled and accepted with an enthusiastic "Oui, oui, merci BIEN!"

Éleonore and Benjamin actually live and work in Grenoble which is a little under a 2-hour drive from Lyon. Their reason for being in Lyon on my arrival was, coincidentally, a family gathering in Saint-Etienne. Benjamin's older sister, Raphaelle, lives in the center of Saint-Etienne with her husband, Ferréol, and her, as of today, two-year old son, Martin, who shares his birthday with his grandmother, Marie Hélène. Ferréol looks like his name sounds: he is a thin, balding thirty-something with round red-rimmed glasses and small teeth that endear you to him immediately.

And so, I hitched a ride with Benjamin and Éleonore, who followed Marie Hélène, Daniel (Benjamin's father), Marie (sister), amd Laurent (sister's boyfriend) to my soon to be new home.

I get very mixed reactions when I tell people I will be teaching (and living) in St. Etienne. The general consensus seems to be that it is a primitive town ("Saint-Etienne? Bah, c'est primitif.") I was comforted when Marie Hélène described it as a quiet town of very kind and friendly people and a certain quaintness that bigger-city dwellers tend to dislike. I assured her that this sounded exactly like where I wanted to be this year (and hopefully that will prove true).

We arrived a bit before one and made our way up the three flights of stairs to Raphaelle's apartment. Initially, the plan was to get a map and get me oriented so that I might venture forth and find some place to live. I figured I would come across a bank and a cell phone provider en route. Only the entire clan of Benjamin insisted that I stay for lunch, which is just as well since I later discovered that none of these tasks was feasible on a Saturday. Banks close, as do cell phone stores, and the student residences I hoped would open their rooms to me were also unavailable (all four of them).

But none of this actually mattered to me. The minute I bit into the fig and foie gras toasts appetizers Rapha served as an opening to the birthday lunch, all I could think about was how I'd tasted just about the most delicious morself of food that has ever passed my lips. That is until I tried the mozzarella and basil. And then the blue cheese, honey, and balsamic vinegar. All washed down with a sparkling wine that made me question why I've all but forsaken wine for beer in the last couple of years.

When I wasn't stuffing my face with French delicacies, I was trying to translate my belly's affinity for all things French into my tongue's ability to mobilize on behalf of the French language. Which went more or less well until jetlag caught up to me and I began to fuse Spanish words into French. The entire family still understood when I used the word "compartir" instead of "partager," and "orientacion" instead of "information." At least I didn't confuse my neck with my ass ("cou" versus "cul"). I'm sure something like this will inevitably happen to me in the next month, so stay tuned for "quand je fais la cagade."

I've failed to mention that Marie Hélène's father (Benjamin's grandfather) is a pâtissier - a pastry chef. He'd prepared a tarte de poires (pear tarte) and home made vanilla ice cream in honor of the birthdays. Rapha made the cake, built like a train with licorice wheels and licorice train tracks.

In conclusion, Martin is one lucky two-year old. And if I continue to neglect my to-do lists for my other great passion, I won't be able to button my jeans.