The time-honored college tradition calls for spring break somewhere in Florida or California. Somewhere warm, with lots of girls in bikinis who shouldn’t have passed the eighth grade and guys in Speedos who shouldn’t really have passed the sixth grade, and lots of beer.
I might be drinking some beer this year, but when I do, it will be a darker, sweeter ale than Natty Light.
In a tiny country across the ocean famous for its chocolate and cursed for its frequent rain, my companion will be, not crowds of scantily clad beachgoers, but My Adorable Personal Francophone.
I am so very lucky.