We are packing for a weeklong holiday. With a mild obsession for organization and an adoration of lists that borders on kink, packing has traditionally been one of my favorite activities. Then there’s the fact that packing is the act of preparing. Not just preparing, but preparing to go somewhere. I like those things. When I finish packing, I will close my bag. When I open the bag again, barring any unforeseen airport shenanigans, I will do so on a bed in a hotel in a place whose restaurants have a wholly different cuisine, whose language sports different idioms, and whose residents enjoy a completely different cultural-neighborly rivalry.

It was excitement embodied in a menial task.

But at some point, almost without me noticing, I got a bit older. This reality began rearing its head in my packing. Packing used to be straightforward: underwear, socks, pants. Now it’s my good underwear, compression socks, pants with elastic waistband. The number of creams, medicines both preventive and reactive, and things which provide comfort is rising with each year. As if Italy doesn’t have medication that can counteract the effects of a headache or an upset stomach. In effect, I try to bring my home with me abroad.

Today, as I pack, creams and digestants are the least of my problem. What I have noticed is that the pants I am planning on bringing with me are nearly perfect. They are light, cool, perfect for walking. The waistband is elastic and therefore flexible to the whimsical approach I plan on taking towards gelato and anything that includes the word ‘crema’. But the pockets are short and don’t provide the protection one wants when touring a city. And since while traveling my pockets must also house a passport, this doesn’t bode well. These are the pants I am bringing. But this pocket is problematic. I sit down and consider my options.

In 1991 two German hikers in the Ötztal Alps on the border between Austria and Italy came across something extraordinary and disturbing: a dead body. They reported it immediately. Due to storms, authorities couldn’t get back to the body for a few days. But when they did, they realized the body was not a tourist or a mountain climber come to a bad accident. In fact, the body was about 5,000 years old.

It was Burke’s birthday. She is blurm-bling-years-old and so a day of enjoyment was called for to celebrate this inauspicious number and event. The idea was: zoo, cake, burger, cake, air conditioning.

The pluses with a summer birthday are clear. Your range of activity is way open. You can drink outside, go outside, walk outside, play outside. When you’re an October birthday like me, your range of places to drink are limited to: a pub.

As far as I am concerned, the problem with a summer birthday is the heat. But this doesn’t seem to be a problem for the summer-born people. Those people born in summer seem A-okay with the sun activities. They enjoy the feeling of baking shoulders and prefer their beverages to be consumed in the al fresco. The summer people are like human charging ports, a day in the sun energizes them and allows them to glow warmly and happily. They are psychopaths.  

I am an autumn-born person. My idea of fun is avoiding the sun at all costs. I drink my beverages indoors and with a wall or even a few walls between me and the orb of discomfort. Most of my shots are quietly dedicated to the fact that I live in a place which the sun avoids for six months of the year. I get a charge from the shade.   

But it is not my birthday, it is Burke’s. And she has decided on the zoo.

It should be mentioned that I am for this plan in theory. I like walking, animals, and beer and hotdogs. All of these things can be found or done at the zoo. But in practice, and as an autumn-born, what I really want is to hide in my coolish flat for this hot day and watch movies. Maybe we could just let me hang out at home, eat, drink, and watch 30 Rock while animals pass by the flat and watch me. I would be OK with this. Nevertheless, when it’s your partner’s birthday, pitching these fanciful (read: stupid) ideas are not an option. Also not an option is going along with the plan and being miserable. You have to sell it. You have to be into it. I shower. I practice my smile. I remember there will be beer and elephants and my smile becomes genuine.