
I ate my first crepe in 1999. My two friends and I were sophomores in college and, during winter break, we took a jaunt across the pond to be complete idiots in London. For a week and a half, we drank tall pints of cold beers and huddled around kebab shops after the pubs closed at night. We stifled giggles while chatting with a man in the breakfast room of our hostel who wore nothing but a sweater as pants, his twiggy calves shoved into the sleeves with the nubby, cable-knit turtleneck dangling under his crotch, as if it were totally normal to substitute bottoms with tops as nonchalantly as one might put socks on either foot. On the day we were supposed to see Parliament and Buckingham Palace, instead we ran around Notting Hill looking for a house with a blue door while yelling “I’m just a girl … standing in front of a boy … asking him to love her!” Repeatedly, I might add.
It was a glorious trip. (Also, I’m pretty sure my poor mom’s eyes are bleeding right now, because she probably still thinks I had a “marvelously cultural and life-enriching experience.” Sorry, Mom. It was marvelous, but none of the latter.)










