TI haven’t written in a week because there hasn’t been anything to write about and because I’ve been in what I believe psychologists officially diagnose as a “bad place”. I’ve been in Nice, France. Dope city. The water is gorgeous and French people are a lot less terrible than I was led to believe.
I chose a law school. I realize you don’t care. I’m going to Tulane. This is the type of uninspired and all-too-logical decision that I was hoping Europe would stomp out.
My days have basically consisted of eating as many baguettes as I possibly can and then downing a bottle of Bordeaux. I’ll occasionally go read on the beach and sometimes fling myself into the freezing waters of the appropriately named Côte d’Azur (what a phenomenal name for an area. French is so much cooler than I thought). The high point of every day has been my nightly walk along the coast. The water is bordered by countless 5-star hotels that are all uniquely and beautifully lit up. I walk past and see all the rich people at the over-the-top bars and restaurants and I feel like I’m staring into the looking glass of a late-era Fitzgerald story.
The only real event of note occurred at a random bar on one of my walks. The bar was almost empty save for eight French girls and me. We had all been there an hour with a merciful lack of communication. Almost done with my second old-fashioned (small but not terribly made), the mediocre Spotify playlist decided to liven up the bar. Britney came on and implored us to hit her once more. Everyone in that sad little bar belted that motherfucker out like it was our job. Then we returned to our respective bubbles. The 90’s were a simpler time when all we had to worry about was our President getting the occasional blowie in the Oval Office. One more time indeed…
I leave for Paris tomorrow. I refuse to be boring in Paris so as not to upset literally every author I love. Here are pictures from Nice. You should come sometime.