a boy with a story to tell

My very very very favourite place in Nice is the walk-in fountain in the central promenade. The water of the floor magically reflecting the architecture of Southern France upon a perfect sky simply beckoned us in. Within minutes we found ourselves dancing in soaking wet clothes in the middle of the fountain and having the time of our lives. Splash wars were had, people were thrown unsuspectingly into exploding water fountains, and we had the time of our lives. 

Then came Nice, the city where I being the pretentious bum I am, constantly ranted over the nostalgic excitement I felt to be back in the city I lived in during a short-term exchange 2 years ago with 100 other students from my city. There were a lot of “I’VE SEEN THAT”s and “I ATE THERE”s (I get really excited about food ok), and a very pleasant sort of bittersweet feeling to be back in a place that seemed so familiar yet in such a different situation.