Birthdays and a little house of dolls.

June 7, Vacaville.
Yesterday was Fridman's birthday. I threw him a party last night, and Shirly and her family surprised us by coming all the way from San Bruno. Angelo telenovela, continued.
Fridman turned 28. He didn't want a party, didn't want to do anything, not even tell his friends in the circus about it: the obsession of youth, feeling "old" when you're still in your twenties. I don't know whether it's related, but the Spanish language's love affair with diminutives reminds me of this youth fixation. There isn't a loaf of bread that isn't a "pancito," a little bread; a car that's not a "carrito," a little car; a dog that's not a "perrito," a little dog, as if all of Latino America were a house of dolls.

Ekaterina and Fridman's cake.