Pack It Up, Pack It In
Empty boxes. Plus, bedbugs, The Sphere, Pam Anderson, and more!
Down, down, down, seven flights from my petit Paris apartment, I have a cave. In this cave—pronounced “cah-v” because this is France, and that’s what underground storage spaces in centuries-old buildings are called—there is a growing collection of empty boxes. Every time I buy or receive something new in a sturdy or reliable shipping container, I think to myself: You should keep this box. Maybe you’ll need this box someday to pack your stuff. Stuff that, after nine years of living in a country that I was not born into, I have collected in order to surround myself with the world while also attempting to make a home in it. Until, well, it’s time to move…on. Where and when is inconsequential, but at least there are boxes for the task! Small boxes for paperbacks and guidebooks. Big boxes for my Le Creuset that I’d wrap in large linen napkins from Provence. And medium-sized boxes for knick-knacks such as ceramic cherry bowls from Israel and salt and pepper shakers from the souks of Marrakech.
Funnily enough, I arrived in Paris in November 2014 with a couple of suitcases, a feather pillow, and a wall calendar. Items like my Carrie Bradshaw nameplate necklace, copy of Eat Pray Love and Wild, not to mention framed Kings of Leon concert posters, plus kitchen tools and Anthropologie bedding—all of which had supported me for over 10 years in New York City—were in storage. Stuffed in garbage bags or wrapped in newspaper, they were safeguarded behind duct tape inside a 5-foot-by-5-foot steel box of a closet in Queens and protected by a tiny padlock with a key I misplaced at least twice. Eventually, much of it made its way to my parent’s attic, and over the years I’ve gone through it, tossing or selling some and little by little bringing bits over to France.
At one point, I dug out the nameplate necklace. Much to my chagrin when I received it from my grandparents at age 12 for my Bat Mitzvah, it also featured my middle name: Gayle. Perhaps it was they who, from the start, saw something different in me. I wasn’t just Sara sans “h”—itself a difficult designation because of the unique spelling. To them, I was Sara Gayle. As a kid performing for my parents’ guests on a Saturday night, in front of our living room’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, different was entertaining! This Sara was a Star. But as a teenage girl, whose “friends” scribbled “I hate Sara Lieberman” in permanent black marker in the second-floor north hallway of my Middle School, different was a curse. No mirrors for that Sara. She wanted to ditch the Gayle, leave the phone off the hook, and hide.
These days, standing out is a commodity; the thing that catapults you from “just being” to a TikTok sensation. So who am I, Sara sans h Gayle, without being Sara Who Lives in Paris? Despite no longer being one to shy away from standing out, and working with a therapist for months to conclude that I’m Sara sans h Gayle—full stop, period—the time has come to find out further.
The irony couldn’t be any more Alanis Morissette than this: Just shy of two years into my long-awaited, hard-earned 10-year resident visa, and nine years since I first traded NY for Paris, I’ll be saying au revoir to my adopted city by the end of the year. Which, as it turns out, is right around the freakin’ corner. And no, this time I’m not fooling you. Also no, it’s not about the bedbugs.
Of course, with the exception of some framed artwork and heavy coffee table tomes that I admittedly bought with the intention of displaying as much as reading, much of my New York treasures are now with me in France. But hey, I’ve got some empty boxes to fill. I suppose, in a way, the mere act of saving them meant I always knew I wouldn’t stay forever. Whatever “forever” even means anyway.
The decision, however, did not come lightly and has been in the works for a while. (Kudos to you if you’re in the “didn’t-know-but-knew” camp.) It’s all still a teensy bit TBD at the moment, though, so I’m just going to say this for now: It’s time and I feel ready. (With a side order of weepiness whenever I think of leaving the dear friends I’ve made.)
Consider this letter an attempt to loosen the band-aid—for you and for myself!—rather than ripping it off once those empty boxes are filled and on their way to what’s next. Until then, we can experience the highs and lows of packing up an almost-decade of la belle vie in Paris together. I promise I’ll share more about where and when I’m going and—the real clincher, why—very soon. You’re welcome for this very thrilling cliffhanger. :)
Here’s to embracing irony and following the feels. Bon week-end, friends. And thanks, as always, for being here. xx — Sara
Clickable
Paris musings on aging and life. | The NY Times
What does “professional” mean anymore? | Business Insider
Rail travel in times of grief. | CNT
Where do you fit in the great Pandemic Skip? | The Cut
See? I told you. San Franciscans are OK! | The NY Times
August and Everything After turned 30. *mind blown* | Esquire
Waitstaff menu jargon has reached peak irritation. | Bon Appetit
Watchable
I can’t say I’ve ever been this enthused by the opening of an entertainment venue before, but I also don’t think there’s ever been anything quite like The Sphere, which debuted last weekend in Vegas. Probably helps that U2 opened it with a concert of epic proportions, but for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about this video is a great decoder. I think I may finally have a reason to go to Vegas, baby!
Let’s give it up for badass babe Pamela Anderson who unabashedly attended Paris Fashion Week sans makeup and sans shame. She did a GRWM (Translation for Mom: Get Ready With Me) for Vogue FR and shared her reasoning: “Something came over me…I thought, ‘I don’t want to compete with the [beautiful] clothes. I’m not trying to be the prettiest girl in the room. I feel like, it’s just freedom. It’s a relief.”
published a wonderful essay about the implications of this, why it’s taken so long, and what it means for women of a certain age. Currently Overthinking…
…when to drop the “I’m leaving Paris” news with you all…which song to use for Cal’s birthday Reel…fucking bedbugs…showerheads…
Souvenir: House of Style
After watching the limited docu-series, The Super Models, which I highly recommend (episode four is especially enlightening and quite touching), I was reminded of Cindy’s stint as a newly-dubbed “VJ” on MTV’s House of Style. The beauty-marked model gave us the “humans behind the visage,” and it was all so fascinating! In fact, it paved the way for much of what we see today on TikTok, Reels, and YouTube.
What a beautiful essay (as always) and I am so excited to watch this next exciting chapter -- you inspire me!
My friend, you’re also Sara Who Is Kind and Funny and Brilliant and Generous and so much more. Wherever you go next, there YOU will be, and that’s all that matters in the end.