more often than not i find my eyelids settling at half-mast on monday afternoons as i’m faced with nothing more inspiring than a dry to-do list and a my finger mindlessly tapping on open tabs on my computer. it’s in these moments when i allow my mind and my heart to wander back to places that have captivated me, if not for inspiration just to salvage my own sanity. this past monday, as it often does, my heart led me back to the algarve region of portugal, one of the most beautiful and enchanting places i’ve ever visited. my eyes began to consume image after image when i finally landed on a thorough and inspiring conde nast “introduction” to the area. and as i drank down every word and explored every pixel and breathed in my own memories, again and again and again, i came across a fascinating anecdote of a historical conquest that occurred in the area, that has found itself legendized as a common term in portuguese- sebastianismo. a word that was born from a story of exploration, of desire, of hope- lost.

king sebastião embarked on a crusade to battle the moorish kingdom of morocco, hopeful, willing, and determined, and soon after embarking the entire undertaking was a disaster– outnumbered, outsmarted, and out of options, they were defeated and Sebastião himself was lost among the sandy shores; a revered and promising king met his untimely demise in the craggy, unforgiving intercontinental coastline. from that event was born the term sebastianismo, meaning a failed venture or forlorn hope. such a palpable, fragrant term, born from glory and ending in failure and

what gives us, in all it’s 6-syllable complexity, one very tangible reason why we travel. because to have hope in itself is a rare gift. to believe in yourself, to put a dream in motion, to invigorate your senses, to contain within yourself the unshakable belief in a mission, to seek the unknown, to move, to try. and then even if you fail, if you find yourself lost, if you lose that hope that blindly mobilized you to begin with- at least you had such a gift to begin with. because stagnation, and not some easily defined nemesis- stagnation is the enemy.

and that- sebastianismo– in all of its regal peril, is why we travel. 

for paris.

i hate the feeling that some people will never see paris- it is truly unthinkable. paris is so indescribably beautiful; there are no sufficient words- not for the homeless man on the corner smiling as he plays “la vie en rose” on a cracked accordion. not for the harmonious way you are greeted as you enter even the most crowded boulangerie. not for the residual beatnik vibe and underground speakeasy-style cafes of montmarte. not for the contagious, jubilant celebration that is beaujolais day. not for the inside-out architecture of the centre pompidou, a museum that so boldly keeps all its treasure hidden discreetly inside of a surly exterior. not for the eiffel tower, that greets you so surprisingly every time you turn a corner, sturdy and vigilant over the winding streets. not for the way the light slowly and boldly illuminates the city as you look out from the top of the arc de triomf. there are simply no words that even begin to invoke the feeling that is to be in paris.

and so for this, as chaos and tragedy unfolded last friday night, there were no words. just the instinctive reaction of your hand grasping your chest as your heart shatters beneath it.

there is no way to know how we are supposed to think about senseless acts of violence. there is no way to make sense of terror. there is no way to tell our minds and our hearts to feel about paris, about beirut, about peshawar, about sandy hook, about aurora, about virginia tech, about 9/11. about columbine. there is only the knowledge that we must grieve and that we will be strong enough to move forward.

just as the lights illuminate the streets every evening, slowly, as if asking permission. so will our hope grow, hesitant at first, then steadfast and strong.

when your sanctuary is destroyed, you do not build a bigger wall. when your heart is broken, you cannot lock the door. when your sense of trust is taken from you, you must not vow to never give it again. the only hope we have is found in the purity of humankind- and the most beautiful way to experience that is to travel. let us not watch from afar, from the false security of our homes, let us not hear the news and wonder what it’s like as blue light reflects onto the blank stares of our faces. let us not close our doors and our minds and our hearts. let us not stay put, out of fear and racism and ignorance. let us show our support by continuing on. let us strengthen our fortress by crossing borders. let us renew our belief in the good of humanity by communicating beyond barriers with the languages of humility, of laughter, of a kind expression and human touch. let us be stronger than this because we are stronger. and so as we weep today and continue to grieve, let us realize how delicate this balance is and how limitless and powerful human connection can be.

let no one disrupt the beauty that is our home, our freedom to move, our ability to exist- to fight is to refuse to be stagnant out of fear.

so grieve. and cry. and heal, together.

in the absolutely poignant words of ms nikki giovanni-
we are strong enough to stand tall tearlessly. we are brave enough to bend to cry. and sad enough to know- we must laugh again.

let us not succumb to this. let us not be afraid. let us travel on, for paris. for the beauty that is to be discovered there, for the tragic disruption they have suffered, for the need for us all to show solidarite, pour Paris.

and that is why we travel.

i have $1000 from selling my most prized possession (a 1998 Jeep Cheerokee), a passport, and a map. I have the knowledge of the places I must go- Madrid, the keeper of a significant piece of my soul; Istanbul, a city whose mysterious appeal has taunted me for the past three years, and Cappadocia, a place that with one photograph captivated me enough to relentlessly haunt me in my dreams, sleeping and waking. and with those resources I hope to create enough displacement, enough momentum, enough moments of pure awe to last me until the next. to follow along with me, sign up to get Brooklyn, I’m Trying updates delivered conveniently to your inbox or look to my instagram feed for views of the world through my lens. and if you have any advice for the 6 days to fill in between the places I am using as anchors, please leave your suggestions below. or, you know… come along. in any capacity. come.

this clock was made in 1410 and is the oldest working astronomical clock in the world. it can be found in Prague’s Old Town Square. and if you happen upon it when the hour change, (which I recommend you arrange for that serendipitous occasion to occur), it is something truly awe-inspiring to witness all of it’s intricate parts moving in a perfectly synchronized pattern. anyone standing in the presence of such a masterpiece would likely recognize it as such, but would appreciate it even more to know that the maker never made another like it. not because he considered it his life’s best work, not because he was afraid of never making anything as brilliant again, but because, as legend has it, he was blinded with acid just after it was completed- to ensure that no other city could claim one of his clocks. such a story could make the traveler grow weary or sad, but instead consider it a responsibility. to ensure that this man was not blinded in vain. to recognize his masterpiece, to be humbled in its presence, to pay tribute to his craftsmanship and to the mindless vanity that has entombed it. this, this is why we travel.