So you may have heard rumblings that I’m studying abroad in France. Or that it was my day of birth this past Wednesday. Or that I’m not particularly in the greatest of moods.
Perhaps this lesser-known last will be revealed through my less than entousiaste descriptions, but please forgive me. The details of the whims of my mind are irrelevant not to mention childish, but suffice it to say my writing might begin to slightly resemble whiny teenaged diary scrawl. Apologies.
Although (what my sister would categorize as) my “pout reflex” deeply longs to crawl into a comforting nook of French grammar and vocab and mindless brain distraction, I shall instead ruminate over these photos and attempt to climb–slowly, step by wretched step– out of the smelly funk.
Let us begin with a bright, colored description reeking of self-indulgent adjectives detailing the most important piece in any birthday celebration worth its stuff- the nosh! Le Caveau 30, a French restaurant in downtown Cannes, was the epicenter of the evening. The service was impeccable with every server happily conversing with that odd vegan with the less-than-parfait French, even amongst a rancorous group of no less than 45 university students.
For someone with a laughably arduous love towards vegetables, this salad did everything right. I would diagnose any vegetable suffering of low self-esteem to apply itself in the dressing et voila! The issue would be put right in a matter of seconds. Pure bliss, ah yes, and I happily devoured the whole lot. That’s saying something as it was a mountain of veggies of monumental proportions far past its “first course” moniker.
I must admit that the entree was rather underwhelming. While almost each component was of satisfactory taste, the infamously vague title of “Mixed Vegetable Plate” mirrored the chef’s mediocre attempts at vegetarian creativity. I say almost because, amongst a sea of consensus among the vegetarian diners, the stack of boiled zucchini, tomato, and eggplant was fairly vile. No matter. This allowed me to develop quite the relationship with my artichoke hearts, which I gleefully stole from my friends’ plates in good measure.
And now on to my personal favorite: the wine. Although I’m rarely one for alcoholic binging, sometimes I let the wine flow and take me where it will. Soaring high while swaying to the rhythm of the night, that’s the goal.
You were my buddie, little unassuming bottle of red, and I’d like to offer my deepest expressions of appreciation. No one understands you like I do. À votre sante!
Were I back in the States I would have gladly face-planted in a vegan cake of elephantine proportions, but no such luxury here. Instead all went black. Awkward seconds of anticipation passed. Then! out came an erupting candle of birthday flames atop a bowl of luscious raspberry sorbet, artfully encircled by achingly sweet pineapple slices. O-la-la, I’m glad my lovely friend (right) recorded the whole shebang, for my wine-flushed face was far too overwhelmed with the pyrotechnics to contemplate such nonsensical ideas as picture-taking.
And there you have it: the night of twenty-one summarized in four photos of meager significance. I’m hunching that this year is sure to top the last as I say adieu to college and do… whatever it is I’m going to do.
Please don’t forget to enter my wee little CSN $40 giveaway before next Wednesday. Scurry over there posthaste and comment your hearts out.
