It began on July 8, a solid 24 hours before my big day, with a long drive up north (made even longer by the fact that both driver and passenger lack all navigation skills). Anat and I were on our way to go (wait for it) lychee picking! The sign welcoming us to the farm, located outside Kibbutz Matsuba, a few km north of Nahariya, informed us that lychee picking is an excellent activity for kids ... we can add to the list single women nearing the end of the their 20s (me) and expectant mothers (Anat). 
Now you may be wondering how one even comes up with the idea of lychee picking? The answer is obvious: one must have a friend who is 38 weeks pregnant and has intense craving-induced dreams that wake her up and propel her to the internet to google "where to pick lychees in Israel." And then one must simply go along unquestioningly with said friend's pregnancy-inspired whims. (Incidentally, this dream was fairly harmless compared to the one in which she gave birth to a doughy Yemmenite dish known as jachnun... wrapped in tinfoil, no less.) As we rolled into the farm, the view was well worth the three hour drive (it should have been two hours, by the way). Absolutely stunning. The weather was scorching hot, such that we couldn't last for much more than half an hour, but it was incredible. You've never seen a sight more wonderful than a woman who is nine months pregnant squatting to pick lychees. It's like a fully ripened fruit picking a fully ripened fruit!
The real festivities took place on Friday. Anat picked me up with a crown of flowers in hand, a birthday tradition in Israel...as you can see by the way in which it is precariously balanced on my evidently oversized head, the tradition is supposed to come to an end after the age of 6 or 7. Together with Anat, Reut, Efrat, Natalie and Noam, I ventured deep into the Judean hills to Rama's Kitchen for a fabulous meal in a place that transports you to ancient Israel. Rama, who herself looks wholesomely organic with her long, silvery braid and glowing skin, offers simple, fresh and delicious Mediterranean fare, most of which is prepared in the taboon, a kind of clay oven that dates back to biblical times. 
The savory highlights were the baked quail eggs and the taboon bread with minced lamb, tomato, pine nuts and green tahini, but the desserts were also outstanding. Noam, the only male among us, fearing for his life when he saw five desserts appear before five excitable women, snagged one bite and then turned the plates over to his female companions (who collectively licked them clean, I might add).
That evening I rejoined Noam and Natalie at yet another pastoral spot: their house on Moshav Beit Yehoshua. Noam went straight outside to pick sabras off their tree. (In case you haven't heard the nickname, Israelis are known as sabras: prickly on the outside, sweet on the inside.) Having gorged myself on steak (a prelude of what was to come on Saturday), I headed out to dance some tango at the Milonga, where I was greeted cheerfully by my friend Pablo Finkelstein (hands down the best name ever), a 5'3'' 65 year old Argentinian who kindly invited me to dance (sweet), then to a glass of wine (charming), and finally to continue celebrating with him in Jerusalem the following evening (uh...creepy). Needless to say, I obliged him on the first two propositions and respectfully declined the third.
I also danced with my Russian friend Yakov, with whom I have such a strong tango connection that he has actually professed his love to me. Now if only I could find men who are not multiple decades older than me and with whom I share a language other than the international language of tango, I would feel much better about this whole turning 29 thing. But hey, at least the current men in my life know how to move!
As if the lychees, the taboon and the tango weren't enough, I continued to celebrate myself into a proper food coma on Saturday. Smadar, who was unable to attend on Friday, made up for her absence by treating me to an incredible dinner at a place called "Rak Basar" (it means Just Meat...yes, subtle). The concept is brilliant: you order your cut directly from the butcher and are charged by weight. My entrecote was tender, perfectly cooked, amazing.
On the way out we took a stroll down the new Jaffa boardwalk and explored all the new haunts that have recently popped up down there. As we turned around we realized the road had been blocked, which could only mean one thing: a suspicious object. Israelis don't let this sort of thing phase them. Being in no particular hurry, we sat down on the sidewalk and watched the sun set. As the red sun began to sink below the horizon, we heard the requisite "boom" indicating that the object had been destroyed. And we were on our way.Having absorbed a weekend's worth of sunshine, stunning views and a solid 300 grams of steak, I went to bed that night a 29 year old woman ... and slept like a baby.
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