Vingt.

Today is the first day that I am twenty years old. I am in my twenties. My mom had been dating my dad for a year when she was my age. That's weird. I am the same age as Elizabeth Bennet. She is supposed to be older and have a level of maturity that i will not attain until fifteen years from now. And now anything I accomplish seems like it will be expected, because I am twenty, and no longer a teenager. It feels like there aren't really excuses anymore.

This morning I awoke from my bed that leans against a wall facing my wardrobe where my clothes face me, instead of facing the sides of the wardrobe. "It's my birthday today," I told myself, and I smiled. Because it really didn't feel like my birthday. Last week felt like my birthday when my family went to the coast

and then a few days later my mother made an ice cream cake with the smoothest real banana-ey flavored ice cream and brownie chunks. possibly my favorite ice cream in the world. They sang happy birthday and I got a camera to take to Paris, and they wrote me beautiful cards. But today was my real birthday, and I knew that the situation was less than ideal, even though many girls felt jealous that I was spending my birthday in Paris. Angela even told me she almost came to Paris next semester just so she could spend her birthday here.

But alas, it is the curse of having a birthday within the first week of school that really makes this all so strange. Birthdays in the past, I have invited people to my party whom I would like to be friends with, whom I think I will be friend with, and then by the end of the year, it's awkward that they were at my birthday party. Especially when I wasn't invited to theirs. I have since given up raising my expectations, and things usually are great! Last year I planned my birthday party at the tumbling gym, and I made people dress up like super-heroes and do embarrassing things.

This morning I smiled, looking around at my old wardrobe that requires an old key (that will be REALLY hard for me not to take with me and make into a necklace), to old wood dressers (one of which requires a key as well), an old desk with wooden drawers that have holes between the slats, and my favorite part--a window that overlooks the street, and a market area which was filled with people and food and clothes this morning. Wearing my white, cotton pajamas, I walked to the window, slid open the curtains, and stuck my head out into the street, leaning on the iron rail, looking at the huge monument of the Bastille that marks the place where the revolution started, and feeling a nice, cool breeze on my face. I felt like Lucy Honeychurch in the adaptation of A Room With a View with Maggie Smith, and I almost wanted someone to come tell me to get dressed dear, or the better part of the day will be gone.

I decided that a beautiful picnic at Versailles and bike rides would be a beautiful birthday. But alas, no one brought a change of clothes to church, so we decided to go to the gay bakery (and I am not just saying that, they are proud of it, with rainbow balloons, and wedding cake toppers of two men or two women, and "baguettes magique" that are pretty much the grossest shaped bread I've ever seen.) and then to the Eiffel Tower for a picnic. On the metro on the way there, there was a girl dressed in the most ridiculous pink dress, and a huge pink bow on top of her head, and her friend wore a black dress and cat ears. I heard them talking with american accents, and I wondered if there was a party, or a special bar they were going to, and hearing people speaking english after three hours of straight french, I was bold.

I leaned over because I was standing right next to her, and said, "Why are you dressed up like that?"

And she looked at my with an annoyed face and said, "I always dress like this."

All I could do was say, "oh! that's cool." And I looked away, spawning responses from my future friends such as, "way to go, Emma." I didn't look at the pink girl the rest of the time, and almost changed to the car behind us.

There was another mishap, where no one got off at the stop that someone at church told us to get off at, and so it was just me and Amelia walking to the Eiffel Tower by ourselves. I felt a little bit angry, the way I always do when I believe people when they say everything should be perfect on my birthday. This was not what I planned, and neither were the ominous clouds above the eiffel tower. I struggled to find something to talk about with her, until I found out she was also an English Major. We ended up talking about her advanced writing class--Technical Writing, which I didn't really know about, and it turns out it is the most boring thing on the planet. I was intrigued by her taking a whole class on it just because it was so boring. She said she had thought about doing it as a career. People, technical writing=writing manuals, not manuals for writing, but actually writing a manual. And I remembered all those directions I've read for my camera, computer, everything, and that is what technical writing is. I imagined Amelia revising, "Place camera lens cap on lens by squeezing the the tabs on the sides of the cap," over and over until it was perfectly clear, precise, and direct. It baffled my that any english major would want to make that a career. Apparently, she figured out what seemed obvious to me after taking the class and doing an internship. And that's what I did while I ate my birthday lunch--three fourths of a baguette, next to the eiffel tower.

After about a half hour, I wondered why the rest of the twelve or so people were not looking for me. I reminded them in my head that we were only here because it was MY birthday. Finally Amelia and I got up and they were sitting just fifty yards away, not having the slightest inkling to look for me. I was annoyed, but you can't get mad at people you've met three days before, or else they hate you for the rest of your life.

When Cami, my roommate and I, got back from this, we both took two and a half hour naps, which was one of my favorite parts of today. And I don't mean that sarcastically at all. Other parts of the day were great, or normal, but I really do love napping, and I have been jetlagged. I closed the curtains again and then opened them when I woke up, and heard the bells from Notre Dame ringing out across the old buildings and markets and pidgeons and probably that girl dressed as a giant pink toddler. We walked around and got egg, ham and cheese crêpes, and a gelato-filled pastry. All of this was right next to our metro stop. Dangerous. We walked around and found that a street next to ours is a very popular place for bars, and we found some ghetto super markets.

I don't think I have ever not cried on my birthday. I didn't mean to, I really didn't want to, but I did. While I was video chatting with Lauren, and she was talking to my mom on the phone, and my mom told me there was a heat wave in Eugene, so their internet hasn't worked at all since I left. That explains why they have not yet responded to the three emails I have sent them since I have been here, and that I haven't heard from them at all today. It's okay. I really really am not wanting you to feel bad for me, or anything, and I don't mean to say that I am a spoiled brat either. And I don't want you to try to comfort me, or tell me that you understand but that I'm in Paris in a lofty tone people usually adopt. I really am fine. It was a good day. It's just another birthday.

And instead of going to the tumbling gym, or the coast, or having a swim party and a cereal bar, I went to the Eiffel Tower with some people I basically met last week, and ate delicious food. Cami insisted on buying my dessert after dinner, and it was fun to walk around and talk to her. But birthdays are weird. And I don't know if I'm ready to stop being a teenager.