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?