Thanksgiving is my favorite American holiday; Thanksgiving is quite certainly the day of the year I miss California the most.

This year again, Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to do any of the Thanksgiving things I used to do on Thanksgiving. I didn't go to the pub in the afternoon yesterday. I didn't sleep in this morning. I didn't have any eggnog. I didn't spend the day cooking, didn't move furniture around to set up a dining area, didn't made any pomegranate sangria, didn't ate too much delicious food, didn't play cards and didn't sing and didn't pretend to watch American football.

Nevertheless.

Today I did not celebrate Thanksgiving, but last Saturday I had two friends over at my place. The three of us pushed the furniture against the walls and put together a delicious Moroccan-inspired dinner, which we shared with nine other guests. There was laughter and music and quality conversation.

Today I did not celebrate Thanksgiving, but I wrote messages to my American friends. I thoroughly enjoyed my day at the office, from the quiet morning to the hours of fruitful meetings to the musical recommendations of my office mate to the 6pm chats in the hallway. And this evening I had to refuse an invitation to hang out and play poker so that I could attend my weekly orchestra rehearsal, laugh with the other violists, and make Haydn happen.

So, following the purest of Thanksgiving traditions, I put aside the long November nights, the hand-wringing reflections on the shortcomings of my character, and the heartbreak I gave myself once again while leaving Paris, and I raise my cup of orange blossom tea to my new European life; to my excellent friends on the other side of the ocean, to those across the Rhine river, and to the ones I am making here; to the lab I am so pleased to have joined; to the orchestra that made me realized how much I missed playing in one; and to the six or ten of you, dear readers, who are still haunting these pages.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.