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. 

laura starts a journey

Today was my little sister's first day of highschool. I remember how nervous I was walking into the building that day, thinking of the seniors as absolute anarchists. Funny how much things change and how fast time flies. Here I am, worlds away from that day in 2005, getting ready to go to Paris, watching my little sister about to start one hell of a journey. Good luck, Laura. You are about to have the time of your life.

Highschool is one of those experiences that is nothing but surreal. So much happens in such a relatively short period of time, that you leave wondering if it was all just a figment of your imagination. But it was real. It did happen. And we all survived.

Sometimes I reflect on the boy I was at my sister’s point in life, and I cannot help but laugh. I was so naïve, so unaware of what I was to become. I look at pictures of myself and I see someone else. This is not necessarily sad, its just life. People are supposed to grow up. People are supposed to move on. People are supposed to go to Paris (cough- Lauren Conrad).

fez: the aristocat

Much like the rest of the world, my older sister and I spent much of our childhood watching classic Disney movies, and The Aristocats was one of our very favorites. I just loved Duchess and her three darling kittens, though Marie was always my favorite (figures).

Out of sheer boredom, I decided to have a little photoshoot with my very personable tuxedo cat, Mr. Fez, and he seemed to be enjoying the chance to model. Next thing I know, he jumped up on the piano, and started striking his strongest pose. I could not help but think of that iconic scene, where Duchess is serenaded by her kittens to "Scales and Arpeggios". It is just too adorable. I bet Fez would have fit in with Duchess and her kittens just fine, if he were an early 20th century Parisian aristocat that is.

But in all seriousness, if I were you, I would go brush the dust off of your old VHS copy of this film and take another look. It is well worth it. Not only is the story adorable, but the imagery is just beautiful. It truly paints a portrait of Paris aristocracy at its best.

to the next venture

“What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”

-Jack Kerouac

Making the decision to go to Paris was not an easy one—ludicrous, right? Who wouldn’t want to go spend a year abroad, in Paris nonetheless? But it was not that simple; it was entirely last minute. One evening in late April, maybe early May, Maria and I were having our usual dinner of cereal and chocolate chip cookies, wondering how the year had escaped so quickly. Our first two semesters at NYU were soon to be over, and it seemed as though I was still waiting for them to begin. Like many nights before, we were spending that one planning our future—next week, next year, 10 years down the line.  We were restless.

Per usual, I was in a daze, deep in world of my thoughts, when she turned to me and asked, “Why don’t you just go to Paris”? Thirty minutes later, and two months too late, my application was submitted. A month later, I’m in. This was when the truth hit me. If I accept, I would be leaving the life I had spent the last two semesters building and the people I had spent the last two semesters loving for a city I had never known. Indicated by this blog, I decided to go.

People ask me if I am nervous—and they are almost always surprised when I respond with a quick “no”. The truth is, I am really not all that scared about being in Paris. I’m excited. What scares me is what I am leaving behind. As my departure date approaches, I begin to feel more and more this feeling that Jack Kerouac so eloquently speaks of.  As my friends speak of apartments on St. Marks and classes on Washington Square, I can see them becoming smaller and smaller. I feel the world vaulting me, the life I know beginning to say its goodbyes. 

But at the end of the day, it’s Paris, and its beautiful and mysterious and I just can’t wait. Sure, a part of me is heartbroken that I am willfully missing out on so many memories back in New York. But I, along with Mr. Kerouac, am leaning forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies, and though I am unsure of what I will find, I am ready to take on just about any Parisian curveball.