Happy birthday to me...

Turning 21 was rather anticlimactic, actually. I was having a drink in a bar at 11:59, and I was having a drink in a bar at 12:00. It'll be a bigger deal once I'm back in the US, but even then...there are over 700 pubs in this relatively small city; am I really gonna get excited about finally being able to go to The Press?
The Scots I know have told me that 21 is, historically, the age you get the key to your house. This turned out to be accurate, give or take a couple of days: I moved into my new flat on Monday. Late Tuesday night I met the first of my new flatmates, Jack, who took me out to the nearest pub when I mentioned it was my birthday. He's nice (not to mention an excellent musician from what I can tell--he's playing at T in the Park, the Scottish version of Coachella) but our schedules are, for the most part, diametrically opposite. Sad.
The next day, a couple of the people I work with took me out to lunch, and I got cake and a card signed by everyone in the office--not bad, considering it was only my fourth day there. In the evening I had some of the people I've managed to meet here over for drinks and the World Cup semifinal (disappointing; we were all gunning for Portugal). It ended up being a good-sized group once my new flatmate Gary showed up with a couple of his mates. I had to cut things short--work the next day--but overall, it was a nice birthday, even if I didn't get as debaucherously drunk as is expected of a newly legal American. Planning on making up for that in the near future, though...