The French Twenty Fifth

Yesterday, astoundingly, was my third birthday since moving to France. Incidentally it was the best one thus far and not so surprisingly my oldest yet- 25. I'm officially half way through my twenties and there's definitely a shift of consciousness that comes along with it. The pre-25 20 birthdays were all very fresh, sexy, and dangerous. This one feels significantly more serious. 

I treated myself to a bike ride to the Parc de la Colombière where I visited the spring baby goats. So tiny! The size of cats and springing and jumping like popcorn. Little French kids were reaching their hands through the fence and feeding them bread and leaves.  In the evening, A took me out to a pretty extravagant dinner of six courses: escargot, tartar de beouf, echine de chouchon with heavenly mushrooms de Paris, a ridiculously rich cheese platter, avocado and citron sorbet, followed by a perfect port wine with a terimisu. Not to mention several to-die-for wines. Poor A, I clearly saw him break a sweat when the bill arrived. Luckily I was too tipsy and happy to feel guilty. My birthday present: a calcedoine ring. It's beautiful and it fits.  

Anyone who has been following this blog from its beginnings will know that this birthday is a vast improvement to the lonely lamentable situation of my first birthday abroad.(Entrapped with B in his messy, monk tower apartment questioning the decisions of my life- followed by dinner with some seriously unpleasant company which I payed for.) Ahhh. It's so true what the say about needing the bad to appreciate the good, though. Had I never suffered a birthday with B, or five years of mediocre relationship with K, for that matter, I'm not sure I'd know how good my situation is now.