baguettes no more!

After a morning walk in 1898, an anonymous flaneur of the 19th century was rather astounded by the number of “housemaids who were hurrying homewards with long sticks of bread, a yard or two in length, carried under their arms”. The French began to eat baguettes long before this, and have yet to tire of them. I, on the other hand, have only been consistently eating these long flutes of bread for the past 68 days. Though deliciously intoxicating to all senses, sometimes one just needs a break. Sometimes one needs to escape the wonder that is French cuisine.

Yes, croque-monsieurs are fantastic, and croque-madames even better, but after a while, one just needs some Pad Thai, a quesadilla, or a Grey Dog’s number seven. There really is only so much rich sauce, crispy bread, and melted cheese one can take. I know this sounds ludicrous, but you, my friend, have not been in France for the past two months.

If there is one thing I have learned about the French, it is that though they are widely engrossed by American culture, they have more pride for their own than anything I have ever seen. They are ecstatic to come in contact with an American, but have no problem in making a quick departure back to their mother’s kitchens, back to the comfort of home. Interestingly, they seem to have a fear of accepting foreign cultures for commercial use. Everything breathes French; the essence of all products reeks of cheese.

Living in New York, one has access to absolutely everything. China town. Little Italy. Indian Row. It is all just steps away. A willingness to embrace the other is instilled in us from the beginning—it is completely necessary. Thus, as one who welcomes, and even prefers, variations in cuisine, Paris is a difficult city to conquer. Of the 40,000 restaurants in Paris, roughly 20 percent are French cafes—this does not include upscale French restaurants and bistros. We are talking sidewalk cafes. It is nearly impossible to find anything the least bit exotic, and at the same time the least bit decent. Sushi, something that has become so trendy in the States, is actually laughable in this part of the globe.

It really is ironic; it really is hypocritical. Please, restaurateurs of Paris, do not broadcast your obsession with American culture, yet reject our culinary habits! It is not appreciated by the 200 American students at NYU Paris.

So it looks like I have two options: starve, or accept the fact that French cuisine has caused me to gain ten pounds in the last ten weeks and go buy another croissant. Looks like it is option two for me—but can we make it a pain au chocolat aux amandes? I mean, why not just go all out?  

(a great scene from Twin Peaks- ironically involving the French Baguette)

the ghost who walks/she's on the prowl

It’s Halloween in Paris and I am completely indifferent to celebration. Not that I am against the whole masquerade, I just could not care less. I am perfectly happy sitting in my candyless apartment waiting for trick-or-treaters that are certain to never come.

Last year, I was excited to dress up and embody someone else for a single night. Today, I am fed up with masquerading. I shall pass the hours contemplating reading the Roland Barthes article tucked away in my bag, or possibly starting my response to Jean Rhys’ Good Morning, Midnight. I will leave my hypothetical costume hanging in the closet.

Halloween, along with Valentine’s Day and New Years Eve, is a recipe with disappointment. And this year, disappointed I shall not be. Indifference is not conducive to disappointment.

Rewind ten years and I am dressed as Frankenstein, eager for sunset and the subsequent menagerie of candies. Isn’t it funny how time changes everything? Happy Halloween.

a night train/midnight/bags gathered round my feet

Over the past few weeks, the weather patterns in Paris have been so haphazard that it has been nearly impossible to decipher just what season we are in. Last week I could not wear the lightest of cardigans without breaking a sweat the moment the unguarded sun touched my skin, yet two weeks ago there was nothing but tempestuous rain. I thought it was only in Atlanta that the expression, “don’t like the weather, wait twenty minutes” was applicable. I guess not.  

And then there was last night: the first night that held the tiniest hint of winter. It was the first night when breath was visible, completely molecular in the air. Outside of a bar at 2:00 AM, I took a breath, and then I exhaled, and with this exhale I saw the release of particles—oxygen, hydrogen—into the Parisian atmosphere. It was such a weird sensation. It was so unexpected. When did it become winter?

Winter, no. A particularly frigid fall night, yes. But still, there was something so serene about this image that even my friends seemed to acknowledge. It was as if we were taking part in this great natural shift; we were witnessing something that had always gone unnoticed. And yet this morning, waking up and drinking coffee with Julia, you could feel the change. You could feel the shift.

All day I have been sitting in my currently heatless apartment, scarf wrapped around my neck, listening to Bonobo and making my way through Jane Eyre, and honestly, I could not feel more cozy. I mean, after last night, the first night of visible condensation—how romantic when put scientifically—I feel like we are allowed to use the word “cozy”. Cozy: such a wintry word, so suited for my current state of being. It doesn’t really fit any other season.

So here is to the months ahead—to Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and everything else that the first frigid night alludes to.

Oh, and postscript: Happy Birthday, Mimi. I love you. 

defeat? hell no

The French have a long history of succumbing to surrender. Starting with the surrender of Gaul to the Romans in 52 B.C, and followed by the surrender to the British at the Battle of Crécy during the Hundred Years War, it seems as though when things get rough, the French flee. Even Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor and commander of the Imperial French Army, surrendered and abdicated during the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. What ever happened to going down with the ship? When did it become acceptable to take the easy way out, to wave the white flag when we find ourselves treading water?

That look of defeat doesn't
flatter anyone!

For the past few weeks, it seems as though I have spent most of my time in search of a white flag, in search of a way out from all the struggle that France has imposed upon me. But when I take a step back, what struggles am I speaking of, and can they even be defined as such? What do I think this country is inflicting on my everyday life? Nothing, well at least nothing uniquely directed towards me. Everyone else in my situation is experiencing the same thing. Call it “mal du pays” if you want, but I think it is more a state of discomfort. I am out of the downtown New York bubble, and out of my comfort zone. How ludicrous would it be to surrender to discomfort? Entirely.

So my mission for here on out is to try my hardest to forget about my life in New York—not my friends, my life. My life is in France. My potential inspiration is in France. People have been mentioning my lack of writing recently, and I attribute this to the fact that I have found nothing to write about. But the truth is, I wasn’t looking for anything to write about. I had given up on the ability of Paris to induce creativity in my own mind. Tragically, I even considered surrendering this very blog.

No! One shall not wave a white flag! One’s residence in France does not require one to take on the precedent of surrender! I am the exception. I will induce the flow creativity, despite Napoleon’s soft whisper in my left ear. I must take influence from the Joan of Arcs of France instead. In them, I will find my subjects. In them, I will find my comfort.

Would you call me pathetic for calling my mother last night at 1:00 AM and requesting a care package of sour-patch kids and Reeses cups? Judge if you want, but I have a feeling that with these little pick-me-ups in my bag, my eyes will be opened just a centimeter wider, and that Napoleon will be forced to find someone else to taunt. In the words of Dido, a musical favorite from way back in seventh grade, “I will go down the ship. I wont put my hands up and surrender.” 

watching a rescue from above

Maybe it just has something to do with being in a big city, or maybe it is just all in my head, but I have noticed that in Paris it seems as though no one acknowledges their neighbors. Granted living in an apartment building makes it particularly tough, it would be nice to have some interaction every once in a while with someone from the same quartier. I would like the 9arrondissement, or at least the Place de Clichy, to give me some sign that she is aware of my temporary existence—most likely she does not really care.

The best picture I could get from my balcony,
it didn't feel appropriate to disturb him

There is one resident, however, that everyone seems to know. On the Rue de Clichy, just down from the newly renovated Place de Clichy, there is a homeless man who has created a kind of abode out of blankets, clothes, and paper. He spends his days sleeping under a tarp and his nights wandering around, reading the day old papers littered on the sidewalks. Over the past few weeks, I have often seen baguettes neatly placed next to his mat by the local Boulanger, and leftovers on paper plates taken down by tenants in the surrounding buildings. He has, in a way, been adopted by the people of my quartier.

When I first looked over my balcony and saw his dirty pile of fabric—his home—I was a bit suspicious. What this strange man? What my neighborhood, a neighborhood notorious for drug deals and whores? A few days ago, I found out just why he calls this place home.

From my bedroom window, I saw a man around twenty pull up on a motorcycle, park next to the mat, and start tearing it apart. In the homeless man’s absence, the man on the bike began to pull the tarp off and spread the clothes, food and blankets out onto the sidewalk. It was truly a horrific act of human behavior.

Upon seeing this, a woman, who must have been about sixty, ran out from across the street and took to the absent street dweller’s defense. She pushed the lowlife aside and started places her unnamed friend’s belongings back on his mat. She was protecting a man most people would look down upon. She did not care that the man was homeless; she was doing what she knew was right.

After an exchange of inaudible words, the man remounted his bike and drove away. A crowd had formed and several people began to help the older woman reassemble man’s only version of a home. At this moment, I knew why the man chose to stay on the Rue de Clichy, and my in humanity slightly increased. Though I knew nothing of these neighbors, I felt comforted in the possibility that if they were willing to help him, maybe they would be willing to help me too. Maybe people were actually inherently good?

He starts reading the day old paper

Later that night, as I stood on my balcony once more with a glass of Bordeaux and a Gauloise, I watched as the man walked back and saw for the first time the remnants of what has taken place earlier that day. I watched as he stopped, looked, and without any expression whatsoever, started to carefully rearrange everything he had come to collect. He did not even acknowledge anything had happened. After this, he sat down and read a dirty newspaper. As I watched him, all I could think of was how much I wished the boulangerie was still open so that I could go and buy him a sandwich. 

different names for the same thing

the port of Cassis

Spending this past weekend in Cassis, a small resort town forty-five minutes from Marseille where I took part in an exchange program five years ago, served as a much needed break from the chaos of Paris. Though I have only been in Paris for four weeks, I have begun to feel the effects of the city, and must admit that last week, I was beginning to become a bit homesick. I was longing for the feeling of family, of being in a home rooted in love. 

the lovely Laffitte home

Since my return from this short weekend vacation, I can honestly say that I feel as if I am a part of two distinct families—my own family back in Atlanta, and the Laffitte family, who are lucky enough to call Cassis their home. Five years ago, they opened their doors to a fourteen-year-old American boy from Atlanta. Now, after experiencing the tragic loss of the father who treated me like his own, they welcomed me back with many a bisous. Time had passed, life had changed, but their love for me remained strong. 

After the death of a beloved father and husband, Brigitte, Antoine, and Victoire Laffitte have formed a bond so strong it is visible to the human eye. In the presence of these wonderful people, I found proof that there is such a thing as life, and even love, after tragedy. Following a farewell dinner on the shores of Mediterranean, Antoine and Victoire shared with me their favorite pictures of the late Jacques, and the strength in their eyes while doing so was more than moving—it brought me to tears.

my french mother, Brigitte 

At this moment, I knew I was witnessing an act of genuine human love, an act so rare that when it occurs, one is speechless. In my case, there truly were no words to express the honor I felt during these precious moments. All I could do was sit, and watch, and listen.

Here I was in this small house on the hills of this tiny French town on the vast and beautiful Mediterranean, and I was entirely and fully surrounded by love. Despite our different languages, despite our different cultures and backgrounds, the four of us, the three Laffittes and I, were connected by something so much bigger. We were intertwined by something that transcends borders and barriers. We were neither American nor French. We were human beings opening our hearts to one another and that was all that mattered.

No matter the language, no matter the place, there really is no difference in genuine love being two people. L’amour, love: it’s all the same. And this past weekend, the Laffittes showed me that love, no matter where you go, truly is all around.

the beautiful Victoire

my dear friend, Antoine, and I 

le mystère du papillon

While my morning coffee began to wear off during the second hour of today’s French workshop, I found myself entering the typical student mindset: uninterested, unaware, and entirely unenthused. As my hand moved further up my cheek and my head fell closer to my chin, I was stirred by something that can only be described as completely surreal. 

In front of my glazed eyes was a flickering butterfly, just floating in mid-air as if waiting for some form of acknowledgement. Before I was able to fully comprehend this rather peculiar phenomenon, the entire class seemed to be on its feet, sending the poor butterfly into a panic. After an unsuccessful search around the room’s exterior for an exit, the butterfly flew to my desk, where it sat on my paper, seemingly asking me for guidance. At this point, I scooped him up into my hands, took him over to the window, and set him free.

My teacher, having the heart of a French woman, encouraged me to think of this as an omen for some sort of romantic exploit. I, being, well, me, couldn’t help but take her advice. I left class feeling as though my romantic visions of France were about to be fulfilled, and as though I was soon to experience my own version of a fairy tale.

I took one step out of the NYU building and found myself to be standing in a massive, and quite fresh, pile of dog shit. My visions of romance dissipated immediately; my hope was shattered. 

At this moment, I could not help but notice, and even laugh at, this complete juxtaposition of sentiments. I had just been in the realm of total surrealism, captivated by the beauty and romance of my butterfly friend, only to be ripped out of it by something so foul. Was this some kind of sign that the surrealism of romance and I just aren’t meant to coexist? Were the heavens trying to tell me to plan my life accordingly? I was completely dumbfounded.

People say that romance is dead, something of past generations, and that perhaps we, ourselves, have killed it. If so, why does it seem as though everywhere I look, it is staring at me, laughing at my inability to take part. Couples on vespas. Lovers on the banks of the Seine. Jeff, the lone one. What do I get when I have the slightest bit of faith in my future romantic endeavors? Dog shit.

Being the person that I am, I in no means want to believe this. And deep down, I know that romance is alive. It is just much more of a phenomenon than we like to think. One just has to realize that love, like the fluttering butterfly, is much more of a mystery than the world makes it out to be. 

stop for pedestrians

NYU in Paris is located on a rather busy road, and granted that the Starbucks we American students find so attractive is on the opposite side of the street, one will often see a study abroad student much like myself peaking out on the Rue de Passy, waiting for an opportunity to cross. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention that Parisians have little to no respect for the everyday pedestrian. We wait and we wait to cross, and though we always do, it sometimes takes a bit more time than expected.

In New York, the pedestrian rules the road. Illegal jaywalking is just plain oxymoronic. However, Paris seems to be entirely indifferent to our survival. We dart across the road with our eyes almost closed, just hoping to make it over in one piece. It truly is survival of the fittest.

All of us at NYU have surely experienced some state of overwhelming frustration, stuck at a kind of crossroads, waiting to cross onto the side of the street where our new and concrete relationships are located, but seemingly unable to find the right time to do so. The great thing about being in an absolute limbo is that were all in it together, and no one knows just where to go. Walking around in the Oberkampf looking for a bar, a friend of mine told me he had not felt this feeling of being completely unaware since those sweet first weeks of freshman year.

This pseudo-reincarnation of the spirit of freshman year has been the enabler for such a conglomeration of friendships. We are all so lost that we are up for just about anything. When you know no one, you are willing to meet anyone. In New York, we are so quick to cross the street that other pedestrians often go unnoticed. We look only at our friends, the people with whom we are familiar. We often thwart the potential for the breeding of a new relationship.

Here, however, we were all forced to stop and stand-alone for a little while longer. This necessary loneliness induces in us a willingness to take a second look around and an excitement to try building relationships with people of a different sort. I am blessed by the amount of uniquely interesting people I have befriended over the past ten days, and suddenly the trek across the street to Starbucks isn’t so scary. In fact, it is actually quite fun. Because I took the time to get to know the people standing next to me, I now have plenty of hands to hold while making the not so dangerous crossing, but frankly, I don’t see why we can’t all join hands and make the trip together.  

Some pictures of a little gathering I had last night with new friends:

Katie rocks some great bangs.

Katie and the lovely Iris

Will, with a creeping Julia

ceci, c'est paris

One of the most difficult parts of adjusting to the difficulties of the study abroad experience has been learning to differentiate between my fantasy of such experience and the reality of it. Not that I am by any means disappointed with NYU in Paris, or with the people I have met, it has just been an interesting adjustment of thought processing.

This whole idea started when I began to tack these quite lovely replicas of Victorian shadow puppet cards onto my wall for some much needed decoration. I started thinking about shadows, and the concept of the real vs. the illusion, and how different the illusion is from its reality. Furthermore, when put in the context of myself, I thought of my expectations of Paris as a kind of shadow, and the reality of it as the card itself.

I can never choose a favorite, but the turtle is always up there. 

I started this semester with what one could call a certain fantasy, just as I started last year with a certain idea about NYU in New York, and similarly to the fall of 2009, the fall of 2010 was quick to spit in my fantasy’s face. I realized that I had this glamorous, and even by definition romantic, vision of what Paris would be like, and when I found myself alone in a room above a street clustered with whores, I felt nothing but sheer disappointment. Then there was a moment where I thought to myself, “what am I doing”?

From this point on, I shook this fantasy out of my mind, embraced reality, and ventured onward. I have begun to meet the most incredible people and have recently become part of the most real, down to earth group of people, and could not be happier. Just as René Magritte’s “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” is truly not a pipe, my fantasy of Paris is not realistic, but that does not mean the reality of it cannot be just as fantastic.

When we hold on to such high expectations, we are often the greatest contributing factors to our own disappointment. After I thought about some of the times I had been disappointed most, I came up with a rather disturbing conclusion: I was most disappointed by the failure of promises coming from myself, not from others. I was my greatest weakness. I was the key contributor to my own unhappiness. In just a short week, I have come to realize that one of the steps to overall satisfaction is to avoid focusing solely on the shadow, or fantasy, of life, and learn to appreciate the quite lovely qualities of the card from which the shadow comes. 

  

My surprisingly comfy futon

My cluttered desk and full closet, expected

cool like spidey

Now that I have an apartment in Paris with two cool roommates, I guess I am considered an official resident of the City of Lights. Set in the heart of the 9èm arrondissement, our three bedroom apartment is an old artist’s studio with awesome views of Sacre Coeur and la Place de Clichy. All in all, it’s sick. The six foot tall crouching Spider-Man statue at the top of the spiral staircase is just the icing on the cake.

Our Friend Spidey

Seeing the apartment for the first time really made this whole thing real, and kind of made me freak out even more. But with the reassurance that I am living with two of the nicest guys I have yet to meet on the program—and the bottle of Xanax in my Marc by Marc messenger—I was able to relax just a bit. I was able to put things into perspective, and realize just what is ahead: a whole lot of fun.

I spent yesterday studying the Paris metro map, and making the effort to take as many possible trains to various parts of the city. When trying to meet my parents for lunch on the Ile-de-la-Cité, I took a wrong turn and ended up in a dodgy suburb 15 minutes outside of the city—Fail. No worries, just a quick transfer and twenty minutes later and it was Bordeaux and beef bourguignon.  All was good. I still have a few metro kinks to work out, but I am sure I will be a natural in no time.

If only I could learn to navigate the routes of my life here in Paris as easily, and as quickly, as the Paris public transportation system. Learning the nooks and crannies of a Parisian social life will undoubtedly take much longer. There is no place to purchase a guide with mapped out lines telling me where to go and which direction to choose. I must make those choices on my own. Much like my experience on the subway, I must get lost—I must make mistakes—in order to learn.

Before I was given the keys to my apartment, I knew I would spend a great deal of time stumbling before I truly felt settled in, but I was completely unprepared, and absolutely terrified. Now that I have a home, a place to go back to once I find my way out of the land of the lost, I am a bit less anxious. I feel much safer making the step into the unknown, the uncharted land.  I mean Spider-Man does live in my apartment, and I am assuming that makes us friends, so I am considering myself one lucky guy. 

Living/Dining Room

Kitchen

View of the Place de Clichy

View from my bedroom

    

the circles of paris

I have only been in Paris a short while, and this being my first chance to grab a bit of Internet, I have a lot of thoughts running through my head. I have not become nearly as acquainted with the city as I would like, but what I know of it, I love.

I have learned that Paris is a quiet city. Not much happens in the streets between the hours of 1:00 AM and 9:AM. However, one must not be fooled, for within the walls of the old and beautiful buildings, there is much action. I keep finding myself comparing Paris to New York in almost every arena, and notice that it is in their energies that I find the greatest difference.

New York is not in the least bit modest; everything about her is out on display. Paris, on the other hand, is a bit more modest, a bit more private. A cute store clerk in the 1er arrondissement was talking to me about how closed off Parisians tend to be, especially when it comes to groups of friends. She mentioned that it is particularly hard to find an inner circle, to find a group of people who love you unconditionally. Reassuringly, she spoke of how much stronger she felt the love of a Parisian to be. Once you’re in, you’re in for good.

As I sit in a Starbucks, something tragically so American, watching my Internet credits dwindle, I cannot help but consider the possibility that I will spend the next few months searching for an in, finding nothing. Jeff, the wallflower.

The thing about New York is that it is so superficial that it can make one feel as though he is welcome, as though he is appreciated. Paris is completely indifferent. She almost wants you to feel alone. This afternoon I am going to meet the NYU group at the hostel, and maybe I will find an immediate connection? Maybe I will be offered an immediate in? If not, I guess I have plenty of time, and plenty of beautiful Parisian streets and boulevards, to search for one. 

Here is a picture of a door to the apartment building we are staying in, the inner courtyard, and the street (Rue de Bac). It is in a very beautiful location on the Left Bank. 

  

leaving for paris

I leave tonight for France and I do not really know just how I feel about it. Of course, I am unbelievably excited, counting down the moments until the car arrives and I am off to the airport. But there is such a bittersweet element to this whole process. There is the smallest bit sadness that is hard to explain, a sadness that is coated in a sweet anxiety, which makes it seemingly illegitimate. However, I must not be somber, for I am on the cusp of such a remarkable journey.

As I am preparing to leave my home behind, it is strange to think that I will not return for 112 days, which is the longest I have ever been away. Sure, there will be much missed, but I just cannot contain my excitement. I feel as though I am about to become acquainted with a part of myself that has yet to be found.

The goodbyes have been extremely difficult, much harder than expected, much harder than last year. But goodbyes are natural. You cannot stay forever. People have to go.

Goodbye friends. Goodbye Atlanta. Goodbye Home.  

a fitting flashback

I was looking through my drawers this morning and I found this note. My mom left it on my mirror the morning of my first day of middle school. I thought it funny how after 8 years, what she says perfectly applies to where I am in my life now. There really is not much else to say about it. The note speaks for itself. 

childhood is gone, what remains?

I have begun the process of packing, and fortunately, it has not been nearly as difficult as I originally expected. I have turned my sisters bed into a kind of sorting station, throwing all potential sweaters, jackets, shirts, scarves, and pants into something that now resembles the sale section of Urban Outfitters around 7:00 PM. Tomorrow, I am hoping to go through this mess and decide what actually deserves to be placed in my suitcases, which will hopefully be just three—decisions, decisions! 

Last night, however, I started thinking about what sentimental objects from my room I wished to bring along to adorn my future Parisian abode, to make it feel a little bit more like home.

With Thievery Corporation playing softly in the background, I found myself in a sort of trance, placing items in a small Hermes box, taking items out, putting them back in. I had one very small box to fill; yet I was choosing items that I hadn’t looked at in years. When I looked back in the box this morning, I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt the urge to bring such random pieces of my past.

You would think I would want all the little gifts people had given me over the last few years, and granted I did pick a few of those, but for the most part, I didn’t. I was reaching deep in the back of my bookshelves, past my highschool diploma and framed pictures from Prom and back to where the Harry Potter Legos once were. It was my childhood that I was planning to use as comfort in Paris.

I have always been one to latch on to things from the past. My bed is still covered with stuffed animals, who to me, are some of my oldest friends. Weird I know. But Meiko, Ducky, Old Bo, and Donald have been with me for years, how could I abandon them?

I keep these treasures because they ultimately remind me of something I miss, and this reminder brings me a sense of comfort. And I am assuming that it is this same reason that after a year in New York, I some how ended up with a My Little Pony collection on my desk. It has to be more than just a love of toys and an inner playfulness, it must be something to do with how I handle stress, how I get through moments of darkness. I draw on the lightheartedness of childhood. The innonence of the past brings me peace.

It is only after writing this that I realize just why I filled the orange Hermes box with toy soldiers, a travel journal from a trip to 3rd grade trip to London, a wild animal pencil fun pack, Victorian shadow puppet cards, and somewhat ironically, a flask. I want to surround myself with items that have spirits of innocence and peace. Because, if you think about it, isn’t that really the only way for us to relish in the tangible memories of our childhoods?   

oh, the places i will go

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go”

I decided to pull out some old books this afternoon and found that this particular passage from Dr. Seuss’ classic, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!, resonated especially well with my current state—the kind of limbo that I have found myself to be in the last few weeks. 

For starters, I am literally going places. Therefore, I can put Geisel’s book in context of the many Parisian landmarks I will see and the various countries I will travel to. I am about to begin a European expedition. The hard part is deciding just where to go. I want to see it all, but at the same time, I want to devote my experience to truly infusing myself with Paris. How do I balance travel and Parisian explorations when I have a limited amount of free time? Oh, how hard I have it.

The other possible context is a bit more ambiguous, a bit more in the dark. Just where will I go emotionally, morally, spiritually? Who will Jeff Jackson become while abroad (assuming that I even change at all that is)? Dr. Seuss advises us to step with care and great tact, and remember that life is one great balancing act. He seems to be fully aware that I am going to make plenty of mistakes, like I did my first year at NYU. But the mistakes I made as a freshman were incredibly valuable. I learned, and I moved on. And I am sure the choices I make while in France will be the same—inexplicably valuable.

No matter what is in store, I know I am in for something truly special. I am off to great places. I am off and away. 

to bring or not to bring

When Carrie Bradshaw went to Paris to live with the Russian, she took four suitcases: two Luis Vuittons, and two Vivienne Westwood numbers. Might I remind you, girlfriend was planning on spending an indefinite amount of time in the City of Lights. Now what I want to know is how on earth did she managed to fit her wardrobe, particularly that Versace ballgown, in just four bags? Are we supposed to believe such an extortion of reality? I would be down right insulted if HBO thought we were that naïve.

I have been asked lately if I have started packing yet, and I always try to come up with some excuse to justify my avoidance for starting the tumultuous process. In fact, I have not started; it is just too overwhelming. I just have too much stuff! I find myself standing in the doorway of my closet, gazing at my clothes—“Hello, Phillip Lim leather jacket”—wondering how I can concoct a plant to get them all safely to Paris. They must be there. I must have them all.

Realistically, there is no possible way for me to take my entire wardrobe with me. It simply will not fit. But knowing me, I will want—no, I will crave—the pair of shoes I leave behind. I will obsess over my omissions. That is just the kind of person I am.

So this weekend, I am placing it upon myself to evaluate each piece and make the careful, and inevitably painful, decision: to bring or not to bring. I will just have two keep important two things in mind while doing so: 1) There are plenty, if not more, fabulous shopping opportunities in Paris. 2) If Carrie Bradshaw can edit her wardrobe down to four measly suitcases, despite the fact that they were Vuittons and Westwoods, there is certainly hope for me. 

la madonna del flatos tortillas

I have a reputation for being a bit of a control freak, especially around my best friends. I just like things to follow a specific order. If dinner reservations are at 9:00, we need to be in a cab by 8:45, no exceptions. I know it can be frustrating for those around me, but it truly is out of my best interest for the collective. I simply want things to go as planned. I just want everyone to have a good time.

I have tried to put reason behind this constant demand to be in control and have come to believe that it is partly derived from my wishes to protect those around me. When my girlfriends are under my command, for lack of a better term, I feel as though they are safe. I feel like their protector. This undoubtedly is a result from my position as the only boy, sandwiched between two sisters. I know these girls tend to find my antics a bit irritating, but its all generated from concern.

Anyways, many months ago, Alanna, Dianna, and I found ourselves at this little Mexican joint in Meatpacking—long story, longer than anyone has time for. This particular restaurant, being the geniuses that they are, paired pitchers of margaritas with watercolors. I know, amazing. Somehow, around three drinks in, I came up with my own rendition of the Virgin Mary. After much insistence on my part that Dianna cram the wet picture into her Louis Vuitton clutch, the picture soon found a place on Dianna and Alanna’s wall. We soon began to think of her as our protector, watching over us as we prepared to go out and take in the wonders of New York. She was our own patron saint: la Madonna del Flatos Tortillas.

When the year ended, la Madonna came home to Atlanta with me, and on my desk she still resides. With me in Paris, and the girls in New York without either of their protectors at their side, I can’t help but be a little apprehensive. Both of us, la Madonna and I, will be watching from afar. We will be keeping an eye on our ladies, just to make sure that everything, well almost everything, is in order. I am sure the girls will be able to keep up with their everyday, and not to mention fabulous, lives, filled with classes on the square, brunches at Pastis, and nights in the Lower East Side. I mean, how could they not? They are just too damn fantastic.

a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

I often find myself thinking a great deal about change, which I suppose is normal human behavior. However, just how safe is it to focus on the idea of change? When you dwell so much on surrounding transitions, is an obsession inevitable, and even worse, an obsession that manifests itself in the form of fear?

Think about where you were exactly a year ago. Now try to point out everything that is different. It is absolutely impossible. Too much has changed. Terrifying isn’t it? I know my own life is a far cry from what it was, and I am not saying this with a heavy heart, it’s just a simple fact. I went and spent a year at NYU and things changed.

So why have I been so concerned lately—one could even go as far to say obsessed—with the idea that things are going to drastically change in the next few months? I am prepared to handle the obvious—change of address, change of roommate (moment of silence for the wonder that is Aaron Cohen), change of daily habits—so long, Space Market.  But am I ready to face up to the truths behind these seemingly simple changes? Change of address means I will not see my very best friends until January. Change of roommate? Cut to me traveling to Paris with no knowledge of my housing status or who I will be sharing a closet with, which is obviously a top five concern. And the test of all tests, will I be able to give up my sometimes twice-a-day phone calls with my mother back in Atlanta? God only knows.

I guess this is when I turn to the easier-said-than-done phrase, just go with the flow. Whatever fears I have are ultimately the results of excitement, my anxiety to take the journey across the Atlantic. Besides, there is nothing I can do. You cannot fight change. Sam Cooke said it was coming, and it came. Let’s just hope that after a few months in Paris I don’t turn into this guy, for that would be truly tragic.