I'm on the talus slope high on a peak in the Pyrenees, nine years old, and the grey rubble is knit together by emerald heather. We've driven from Ireland across the UK and down the west coast of France, and it's this detail that I notice because I can feel the sprigs scrunch between my toes; I'm trying to restore the circulation in my feet after sitting them among the pebbles in a stream of fresh meltwater for a few minutes. The sensation returns like flame.

A ribbon of road bisects the slope, and though we're in the mountains there's nary a large boulder to be seen under the blue vault of sky. I've no idea yet that I'll move to California, nor any hint that I'll fall in love with the mountains and deserts of the West. And yet the memory is so stirring that I can no longer tell: is it the life that followed that gave acuteness to the recollection afterwards, or did the remembrance of it subtly nudge me to where I am now?

Fast forward 26 years, and now I've two boys of my own. I hope they'll have similarly vivid memories of childhood in a quarter of a century, and that they'll get a kick out of sharing those stories with strangers in the name of a laugh and a new-forged bond.

I spent the evenings of about two years writing books recently, and I'm thrilled to be taking a break.

I'm teaching my kids that men do the laundry, give hugs, bake cupcakes, and build kick-ass cushion forts. I amuse myself on the guitar, and wish I had room for a piano.

I am consumed by rock climbing, both by the mountains and the characters I run into. On my last climbing trip to Yosemite, I formed a trio with an economist at the World Bank who told stories about her escape from the Russia-Georgia war last year, and an unemployed concrete cutter. Good times!

Ferreting out the best deals just before the farmer's market closes, then figuring out what to cook with them. Being a fount of one liners and stupid puns. Sipping those enormous margaritas at the Latin American Club slowly and with care. Listening. Telling tall tales with lush language and vivid imagery.

My large viridian eyes. My wiry frame. My hands waving as I talk.

You have to get a bit closer before you can see the early grey hairs and the laugh lines, but I think they're pretty cool.

Books: Ismail Kadare, Italo Calvino, Barbara Kingsolver, Amin Maalouf, Louise Erdrich, Iain Banks, Mary Roach. I'm an omnivorous reader.

There's always a melody running through my head. I'll tend to like most any music that was made with an abundance of talent and heart. Let's hop a few genres! Electronic (Burial, Biosphere); folkier stuff (José González, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes, Plants & Animals); alt rock (Neko Case, Frightened Rabbit, Shearwater); Slavic oddities (Beirut, Devotchka, the Bulgarian State Television Women's Choir); and classical (Khachaturian, Górecki, Roach, Pärt).

Food: Indian (North and South); North African; Peruvian; French; and plenty more. I'm a decent cook, and I like to bake. I'm fond of cooking with pinquito beans, and using shallots instead of onions.

Movies: "Once", "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind", "Lost in Translation", "Amélie", "I Went Down", "Cidade de Deus", "In Bruges", "La Cité des Enfants Perdus", "Amores Perros", "Moon".

Vigorous and engaging friends.

An outlook that is pulled in many directions all at once: considerate, sarcastic, contemplative, funny, loving.

Hiking, climbing, and camping on the coast and in the mountains.

Obscenity in thought, word, and deed.

Music that gets the hairs on the back of my neck rising (apparently this is called "elevation"). Books that do the same. My taste in lovers runs that way, too.

A french press, a grinder, and fresh roasted coffee beans.

Kissing. It's an underappreciated art, one that deserves long, languorous study.

The tension in a series of unresolved chords. The anticipation in an unresolved flirtation. How delicious each is.

Packing for the mountains. Cracking up with friends over a whiskey in a dive bar. Digging into a novel with a mug of cocoa.

On the wholesome side: I question my assumptions a lot. More shamefully: I kind of liked "The Da Vinci Code". The plot was crap, but who couldn't love priests flogging themselves?

You are equally handy over a Scrabble board or a mossy log across a mountain stream.

You need a buddy to learn Spanish.

You've sat in the high-plains hot spring by the green church, off 395 north of Bishop; you've watched the moon rise over the White Mountains; and you want to go back.

You have a strong sense of who you are. You're whip-smart, funny, energetic, loving, talkative, grounded.

You savour a good kiss, or a sharp nip.

You dig an Irish accent.