The Perfect Birthday I Didn't Plan: Four Days, One Celebration, and the Gift of Being Exactly Where I Am
Sometimes the universe conspires in your favor in ways you could never orchestrate. My birthday this year didn't just fall on a day, it fell on the eve of San Sebastián's biggest celebration of the year, gifting me a four-day weekend I didn't expect and a cascade of moments that reminded me exactly why I'm here.
When I checked my calendar in early January and realized my birthday would coincide with the Tamborrada, the iconic 24-hour drum festival that takes over this entire city every January 20th, I felt a flutter of something I can only describe as cosmic alignment. Not only would I be celebrating another year of life, but I'd be doing it alongside thousands of locals honoring their patron saint with drums, Napoleonic costumes, and the kind of cultural pride that makes your chest swell even when it's not your own tradition.
And because January 20th is a major public holiday here, the timing created an unexpected four-day weekend, a rare gift of spaciousness in what has been an intense semester of my master's program in Gastronomic Sciences. Four whole days to wander, to celebrate, to simply be in this city I've grown to love so deeply.
This is the story of how I spent my birthday: solo and surrounded, celebratory and contemplative, deeply grateful and achingly homesick….all at once.
When Your Birthday Becomes a City-Wide Party
I woke up on January 17th, my actual birthday, to the sound of anticipation humming through the streets. By midnight, the Tamborrada would begin, transforming San Sebastián into a thundering symphony of drums that wouldn't stop for 24 hours. The Plaza de la Constitución would fill with thousands watching the mayor raise the city flag as the Sociedad Gaztelubide led the opening drumroll of the legendary "Marcha de San Sebastián".
There's something profoundly moving about celebrating your personal milestone against the backdrop of an entire city celebrating its identity. The Tamborrada isn't a tourist spectacle; it's a deeply local tradition dating back to the 1830s, born from locals mockingly imitating soldiers' daily processions. Today, more than 147 companies parade through the streets, each with 20 to 50 drummers and 50 to 100 people playing barrels, all dressed as cooks and Napoleonic soldiers. In the morning of the 20th, over 5,000 children participate in the Children's Tamborrada, their small hands wielding drums with the seriousness of sacred ritual.
Living here as a gastronomy student, I've learned that food isn't the only way Basques express their cultural identity, it's also through celebration, through sound, through this collective act of joy that says: This is who we are. This is where we're from.
And on my birthday, I got to be a tiny part of it.
I started the day alone, and intentionally so. There's a particular kind of presence you can access when you're moving through a city with no agenda, no companion, no performative element to your experience. Just you and the streets and whatever you encounter.
I walked through the Parte Vieja, the Old Town, watching shopkeepers prepare for the weekend ahead. The cobblestones gleamed from the previous night's rain. The Cantabrian Sea exhaled its salty breath across La Concha Bay. Mount Urgull stood sentinel, solid and ancient, as it has for centuries.
I stopped for a coffee at a tiny bar where I'm slowly becoming a regular. The barista knows my order now: café con leche, por favor, and we exchange pleasantries in my improving but still clumsy Spanish. These small victories of integration matter. Each one is a stitch connecting me more firmly to the fabric of this place.
I thought about the year behind me and the year ahead. The courage it took to uproot my life in my mid-thirties and move to a foreign country to study something I'm passionate about. The loneliness I've navigated. The friendships I've built. The way my palate has evolved, my understanding of food culture has deepened, my sense of self has both fractured and solidified in equal measure.
Birthdays abroad are complicated. You can be standing in the most beautiful city in the world, doing exactly what you've always dreamed of, and still feel a hollow ache for the people who've known you longest. It's amazing how you can be grateful and homesick simultaneously, how those emotions don't cancel each other out but instead exist side by side, each one valid, each one true.
As I wandered, I let myself feel both. The gratitude for being here. The sadness that my family and closest friends weren't physically present. The pride in choosing this life. The grief of what choosing this life cost.
Kai Sushi: The Gift I Gave Myself
By early evening, I made my way to Kai Sushi in the Centro neighborhood for the reservation I'd managed to snag. (If you read my previous article about that omakase experience, you know this meal became something far more profound than dinner, it became a meditation on trust, presence, and self-love.)
Sitting at that sushi counter, watching Chef Sebastián Pincheira's hands work with precision and artistry, I felt the noise in my head finally quiet. This was my gift to myself: permission to be celebrated, to receive care, to occupy space without apology.
The txangurro gyoza, a brilliant fusion of Basque spider crab and Japanese technique, tasted like the intersection of cultures, the beautiful collision that happens when traditions meet with respect rather than dominance. Each piece of nigiri was a small act of reverence: for the fish, for the craft, for the moment.
When I mentioned to the chef that it was my birthday, his face lit up with genuine warmth. There was no pity for my solo celebration, only enthusiasm to make the experience special. That reaction, that lack of judgment, meant more than I can articulate.
Solo dining isn't sad. It's radical presence. And on my birthday, being radically present with myself felt like the most honest thing I could do. You can read more about my experience at Kai Sushi HERE.
After dinner, I decided to treat myself to one more indulgence: a cocktail at the Dry Bar inside Hotel María Cristina. The hotel itself is a stunning Belle Époque landmark on Paseo República Argentina, known for hosting celebrities during the San Sebastián International Film Festival. The Dry Bar, run by renowned mixologist Javier de las Muelas, occupies what was once the legendary Gritti Bar, its walls lined with black-and-white photos of famous guests.
I ordered a mezcal martini, because if you can't be a little extra on your birthday, when can you? The bartender crafted it with theatrical precision, the smoky agave spirit balanced with dry vermouth and a perfect citrus twist. I sat in one of the plush velvet chairs, feeling elegant and slightly surreal, sipping my cocktail and watching well-dressed locals drift through the lobby.
And then something unexpected happened.
The bartender returned with a small, beautifully plated slice of cake and a coupe of champagne. "For your birthday," he said with a smile. "From the hotel."
I felt my throat tighten with emotion. I hadn't told anyone at the hotel it was my birthday beyond a passing mention when I ordered. But they heard me. They saw me. And they chose to make my solo celebration feel special.
This is what I've learned about celebrating alone abroad: people don't pity you for it, they often admire it. There's a quiet boldness to showing up for yourself, to treating yourself well without waiting for someone else to do it for you. And when others witness that, they often want to add to your celebration, not because they feel sorry for you, but because they recognize the act of self-love for what it is.
I ate that cake slowly, savoring every bite. I sipped the champagne and felt its bubbles tickle my nose. I let myself cry a little…happy tears, grateful tears, homesick tears, all mixed together.
Later that evening, I met up with friends at Baga Biga Faktoria, a brewpub in the Gros neighborhood right on the banks of the Urumea River. The place has become a local favorite since opening in 2020—a spot where craft beer flows directly from the brewing tanks to the taps, where the food reflects San Sebastián's Michelin-star reputation but in a casual, welcoming atmosphere.
Walking in, I was greeted by warm hugs and genuine "Happy Birthday!" shouts from the small crew of friends I've made here: fellow students, expats, locals who've taken me under their wing. We claimed a table near the window where we could watch the river and the city lights shimmering on its surface.
The beer was exceptional, I tried their Bare Bare, a Kölsch-style beer with a beautiful cereal sweetness, and later their Bele, an Imperial Porter with rich coffee notes that warmed me from the inside out. We ordered gyozas and croquetas and shared plates of food while conversation flowed as freely as the beer.
What struck me most was how seen I felt. These people, whom I've known for only a few months, showed up for me. They asked about my day, laughed at my stories about the mezcal martini and surprise champagne and made plans for the weekend ahead. They didn't replace my family or my oldest friends, but they filled a space that needed filling. They reminded me that community isn't just what you're born into, it's also what you build.
One of the strange paradoxes of living abroad is that you can simultaneously miss your people back home and cherish the people in front of you. Both feelings coexist. Both are real. And on my birthday, sitting in that brewpub with craft beer and new friends, I let myself feel both without guilt.
The River Walk Home: Quiet Gratitude
Around 11 PM, my friend Dan and I left Baga Biga and decided to walk home along the Urumea River rather than take the quick route. The night was cool but not cold, the kind of January evening where the air feels clean and crisp in your lungs.
We walked slowly, talking about life and studies and the strangeness of being expats in our thirties. The river flowed quietly beside us, the tide rolling in from the Cantabrian Sea. The city lights reflected on the water's surface, shimmering and shifting with each small wave.
There's something about walking at night in San Sebastián that feels almost sacred. The city transforms: softer, quieter, more intimate. The streetlights cast a golden glow on the cobblestones. The facades of historic buildings are beautifully lit. You can hear the ocean in the distance, that constant reminder of where sea meets land.
Dan and I didn't talk much on that walk. Sometimes friendship is just being present with someone, walking side by side, needing nothing more than the companionship. It was the perfect end to a full day. Quiet, contemplative, grounding.
When I finally arrived home, there was a package on my doorstep. My heart leapt. I recognized the handwriting on the label. Friends from back home had sent a birthday gift, timed to arrive on my actual birthday despite the Atlantic Ocean between us.
I carried it inside, set it on my small kitchen table, and just looked at it for a moment. This is the thing about living abroad that guidebooks don't tell you: the small gestures become monumental. A package that might have been nice to receive at home becomes overwhelmingly meaningful when you're far away. It's tangible proof that distance doesn't erase love, that people are thinking of you even when they can't see you.
I opened it slowly, savoring the anticipation. Inside were thoughtful items that showed they knew me: a book I'd mentioned wanting to read, specialty coffee beans from my favorite roaster, a handwritten card that made me laugh and cry in equal measure. The card ended with: "We miss you, but we're so proud of you."
I sat at my table, surrounded by wrapping paper and the evidence of being loved from afar, and let the emotions wash over me. Gratitude. Loneliness. Joy. Sadness. Pride. Homesickness. All of it, all at once.
This is what no one tells you about pursuing a master's degree abroad in your thirties: it's not just an academic pursuit. It's a daily negotiation between the life you chose and the life you left behind. It's waking up grateful every morning for the opportunity and some nights crying because you miss your cat or your mom's laugh or Sunday dinners with friends.
It's both. Always both.
As I sit here writing this, a few days after my birthday and in the midst of the Tamborrada weekend, I'm thinking about how perfectly imperfect the day was. It wasn't the birthday I would have had at home. It was something else entirely, something I couldn't have planned or predicted.
I've learned that the expat experience, especially during milestone moments like birthdays, requires holding contradictions. You can love where you are and miss where you're from. You can be grateful for new friendships and ache for old ones. You can celebrate yourself solo and wish for the crowd of people who've known you your whole life.
And all of that is okay.
What made my birthday special wasn't perfection. It was presence. It was my willingness to show up for myself, to treat myself well, to let others add to my celebration, to sit with complex emotions without trying to resolve them.
The Tamborrada continues through the weekend, drums echoing through the streets at all hours. Every time I hear them, I'm reminded that I'm living inside someone else's cultural tradition, a guest in a city that has welcomed me with unexpected generosity. This master's program is teaching me about gastronomy, yes, but it's also teaching me about belonging, how it's both more fragile and more resilient than I ever understood.
What I'm Taking Forward
If you're reading this as someone pursuing studies abroad, or considering it, or navigating the particular brand of homesickness that comes with milestone celebrations far from home, here's what I want you to know:
It's okay to be sad sometimes, even when you're living your dream. Homesickness and happiness aren't mutually exclusive. You can experience both, and experiencing both doesn't diminish either emotion.
Celebrate yourself, even when it feels vulnerable. Solo birthday dinners, treating yourself to fancy cocktails, wandering cities alone. These aren't sad. They're brave. They're you saying: I matter. My life matters. I deserve celebration.
Let people love you from afar. Don't minimize the care packages, the video calls, the handwritten cards. They're lifelines. They're proof that love isn't bound by geography.
Build community where you are. The friends you make abroad may not replace the ones at home, but they fill a different, equally important space. They're the people who understand this specific journey because they're on it too.
Give yourself permission to feel everything. The gratitude, the grief, the excitement, the exhaustion, the pride, the homesickness. All of it is valid. All of it is part of the story.
As I close this reflection, I want to name what I'm grateful for, because gratitude and grief can coexist, and both deserve space:
I'm grateful for a birthday that fell during the Tamborrada, giving me a four-day weekend and a front-row seat to Basque culture at its most celebratory.
I'm grateful for the solo moments—wandering the city, the omakase dinner, the mezcal martini—that taught me I can be my own good company.
I'm grateful for the surprise champagne and cake at Hotel Cristina, for strangers who saw me and chose kindness.
I'm grateful for friends at Baga Biga who showed up, who made me laugh, who are building this chapter of life alongside me.
I'm grateful for Dan and that quiet river walk home, for friendship that doesn't require constant words.
I'm grateful for the package on my doorstep, for people 5,000 miles away who love me enough to send tangible reminders.
And I'm grateful for San Sebastián; this city that has given me so much. A world-class education in gastronomy. An immersion in Basque food culture that will shape the rest of my career. The courage to pursue what I love, even when it's hard. The knowledge that I can build a life somewhere new, even when I'm homesick for somewhere old.
I miss my friends, my family, my pets back home. That missing doesn't go away, and I don't want to pretend it does. But I'm also exactly where I'm supposed to be right now. Pursuing my master's degree. Learning every day. Becoming someone I like more with each passing month.
This birthday taught me that I can hold it all: the missing and the gratitude, the solitude and the community, the celebration and the sadness. And maybe that's the real gift: not the perfect birthday, but the capacity to be present for whatever birthday shows up.
How do you navigate celebrations and milestones when you're far from home? I'd love to hear your stories—the bittersweet, the beautiful, the complicated. Drop a comment below.
And if you're in San Sebastián and haven't experienced the Tamborrada, put January 20th on your calendar for next year. It's magic, the kind that makes you grateful to be exactly where you are, even when part of your heart lives somewhere else.
