It's snowing like December. The city is buried in white. Cars look like small hills guarding the perimeter of the hotel. Fifty is the new forty. Fifty is fifty, any way you count the years. And I am grateful for every year. I have run away from home for this birthday, to a day of art, independent film, French cafes and Thai food, and great company. The marble floor is slick and cool under bare feet. I have an urge to draw a great stag on the striped lemon and sage wallpaper next to the large gilt mirror. The wind is pushing snow down at an angle.