Today is my birthday. I am 27 years old.

Nine years ago, I became an adult by the usual reckoning. I wonder when I will start feeling like an adult. Maybe I do already. I wonder too about what my 18 year old self would feel about me, about where I am, what I've done in the past nine years. I don't think I would have expected the difference between 18 and 27 to be so much smaller than the difference from 9 to 18. Still, places were seen, friends were made, diplomas were gotten, romances were had; and I guess that's enough. I realized a while ago that I had three markers that I would summarize my life by: the year of school, the place I was living (in the years since 18: parents, dorm, house with Kate and Ben, the slanty shanty, house in the backyard with Claudia, parents again, africa, grandmothers, current apartment), and the girlfriend of the time (Brianna, Sylvie, Sierra, Claudia, Ruchi, Dolly). These are my eras. What I've realized too is that through all that my friends have been remarkably constant, and consistently wonderful. I guess the after school movie cliches were true.

What else do people mark time with? Maybe some can say--"That was my goth period" or "those were my preppy years"--marks of music or fashion respectively. Maybe some have years of drug abuse or depression or general loss they use as a marker against times of happiness. Marriage, Kids, Jobs, too. Maybe those will be my markers later when I get around to them.

At the moment, however, I am feeling very hung over. That has something to do with the amount of alcohol I consumed last night, I suspect. I also suspect that my 18 year old self would be very disappointed in the alcohol consumed/severity of hang over ratio.

Heterodoxy in no particular order

I have swam in the Pacific Ocean and laid in the sun on a Californian Beach. I have gambled in Las Vegas in a recreation of the Grand Canal in Venice. I have given a presentation to some of, no strike that, the biggest names in my field, arguing a radical shift in perspective and lived to tell about it. I have learnt that Santa Ana is in Orange County and that expedia.com thinks that Orange County is "nearby" San Diego. I have also learnt that saying San Diego is nearby Orange County is somewhat like saying Ottawa is nearby Montreal, or alternatively, that at rush hour, SD is nearby OC as Ottawa is nearby Toronto. I further have learnt that one should check their airplane ticket earlier than three hours before their plane is scheduled to leave from somewhere "nearby." I have been seriously humiliated in a bench-pressing contest with, my admittedly very buff little sister, Rachel. I have discovered my minimum necessities for business-type traveling: a bed, a bathroom, and an iron. I have discovered some little luxurious that make travel better: king-size beds, bathrobes, internet access via television so you can check your email with a wireless keyboard from your bed, and an alarm clock that plays your own CDs. I have attended an ultra-orthodox bar mitzvah and found that this version of "religiousness" apparantly consists of mumbling, swaying, and a profusion of wigs. I have met random Peruvians in a bar in both Ottawa and Toronto. I have been again to Canada's Wonderland and have affirmed my joy in the stomach churning.

All in all-a busy week.

things that shouldn't amaze me

The airport in San Diego has an escalator.
Outside.
How cool is that? I ask you, how cool is that?