How am I celebrating my thirty-second birthday?

a. Eating imported turkeys, stuffing, and cranberry sauce with 30 Americans who have some connection to the nation of Niger.
b. Cocktails at Muammar Gaddafi’s hotel, followed by dinner and gambling at Bamako’s only casino.
c. Blogging in my pajamas.
d. All of the above.

Did you guess d? Good for you! It was a trick question.

Today -- Thanksgiving -- is my birthday. I never work on my birthday. My husband thinks this is very amusing, but why not? What other day of the year do you have such a good excuse to do only what you want, especially the things you never make time for? Surely, given the choice, you wouldn’t want to work!

It helps that I work Thursdays at the commissary, which is sort of part of the Embassy, and the Embassy takes the Thanksgiving holiday off. (They take all the American and all the Malian holidays.) No one’s expecting me and if I did show up, I’d have a hard time getting a lot done.

So I’m not working, and neither is Fanta, which is good, because it’s so much nicer to be home totally alone. It’s not that I dislike her; she leaves me pretty much alone when we’e both in the house. It’s just my very American desire to have some real solitude.

I slept until 8:00 a.m. and now I am sitting at my dining room table, in my pajamas, tapping away at my laptop. All the doors and windows are open and the ceiling fans are on, as they always are, and I’m barefoot, as I am almost all the time here, and I’m trying to convince myself that back in the U.S. it is Thanksgiving and it is cold. I’m not succeeding.

It’s funny about seasons. I don’t feel like I’m missing them; I just feel like they’re not happening. Other people have told me they feel this way too. Year-round, they imagine their friends enjoying the summer sun … No matter if it’s March and their friends are in Toronto. It’s just hard to believe that it’s below 90 degrees Fahrenheit anywhere in the world.

Anyway, I have the day off but my personal celebrations have been preempted by Thanksgiving ones. Yes, to all you who asked, we will be eating turkey, thanks in no small part to me, your capable Commissary Manager! I ordered them from South Africa and I see from their packaging they were little turkey-toddlers in Brazil. What a long way they’ve come! Butterballs they are not, and with the air freight (and the falling dollar) they are not cheap, but still they are preferred by most Americans over the $50 live ones you buy at the bird market by the river, then have killed and plucked.

Saturday evening will be Robin’s Birthday Observed, starting with aperitifs at the Sofitel l’Amitie hotel, which I’ve mentioned is partly owned by Qadaffi, then dinner at Fortune’s Club. After dinner we have our choice of blackjack, roulette, and slot machines. I can hardly wait! How do you say “hit me” in French?