The Age of Jesus

I turned 34 recently, and for once I was looking forward to turning older. Until this month, whenever someone in Angola would ask my age, the unanimous remark was that I was “the age of Jesus.” This always led to an awkward moment – what do you say when someone has just compared you to someone who was crucified at your exact age? Turning 34 was a relief in that sense – turns out I’m not the savior of mankind either (its own separate relief). On the other hand, my country’s constitution still considers me too young to be president, so I figure I have at least another year to consider myself too young for serious responsibility. After that it’s pretty much downhill until the AARP benefits kick in, so I hope to enjoy it while I can.

I’ve never been one to make a fuss over my birthday – being a summer day I never celebrated it in grade school and my family always seemed to be on vacation when I was a kid. I never got in the habit of having parties, and even a short blog entry seems a bit indulgent. In any event, it was nice surprise when a group of friends invited me out to dinner and drinks this year. The pepper steak at Fortaleza Restaurant was tasty and the house party afterwards festive. Too bad I had to get up for a 6a.m. flight to Soyo the next day. More on that later - for now a big thank you to my Luanda friends for making

It's not a party until you rearrange the refrigerator magnets:


A promising sign for the evening:


Thank you!