Turning 30 is a big deal for me. But it’s not for the same reason as most people. As I always say, aging is a privilege–so I never despise or fear it. I welcome each new year of life with open arms of gratitude. Thirty is very meaningful and important to me. Because many people living with cystic fibrosis (CF) don’t make it to 30. In fact, when I come across someone who knows about CF it’s usually because they knew someone with it–knew being the key word. The story they share usually ends with the person dying in their 20s. I don’t enjoy hearing that, but it’s a stark reminder of the reality of the disease as well as how fortunate I am. When I was first diagnosed at age 6, the average life expectancy was 30. Now I’m there. I survived my 20s. And that deserves one hell of a celebration.
I knew I wanted to celebrate not only for myself, but for all the people with CF who weren’t able to see their 30th year. I wanted to do something special but I had absolutely no idea what. By early September I still had no plans. Until one day when I was talking to my co-worker and it hit me.
“I think I want to go to Paris for my 30th birthday,” I blurted out.
“Paris is never a bad idea,” she replied. “I have a friend who lives there. She’ll have you over and show you around. It’ll be great.”
Once I said it outloud, I knew I had to do it. I hadn’t left the U.S. in six years. I hadn’t been to Europe in almost 10. I was sick and tired of waiting for other people to be ready or have the funds or vacation time to go with me. So I made an executive decision to go solo. I finally asked myself ‘what are you waiting for?’ Life is too short and time is precious. Now, I had only done a solo trip once before to San Francisco–which was an absolute dream, by the way. Even though I studied abroad in London, I never did a trip abroad alone. But I had been to Paris once before, I knew the language a little bit, and it was a huge city. I figured I’d be all right. A few days later I booked my flight and an Airbnb near the Eiffel Tower. Then I had to tell my parents.
I waited to tell them until after I booked the trip because I was worried they’d try to talk me out of it. But they took the news surprisingly well. The only thing my dad asked was, “Are you going to take your Vest?”
Admittedly, I did hardly any preparation for this trip. This was actually on purpose because (based on my successful solo San Fran experience) I wanted to be super lax in my plans and go where the wind took me. True to her word, my co-worker connected me with her Parisienne friend–our exact meeting day and place TBD. I booked a three-hour food tour off the recommendation of another co-worker a few days before I left. And lastly, a friend who just finished her master’s in Paris sent me a long, detailed list of recommendations. In an ironic twist of fate, my best friend’s friend was also going to Paris for the week alone to celebrate her birthday. We planned to meet up once we both arrived.
The only must-do things on my list: finally go to the Musée D’Orsay, see Sacre Coeur again, get a crêpe and macaroons, drink loads of wine, eat loads of cheese, wander quaint city streets, and sit leisurely at a café to people watch.
So with all that in mind, I jumped on a red eye and hoped I wouldn’t be taken.
Life After a Quarter-Life Crisis 