A Year in Retrospect

I thought that coming back to Menton would feel like a fever dream. Spending nine hectic, anxiety-filled months in this small town and then leaving two days after the final exam made me think that I would have built up some sort of resentment towards Menton. It made me believe that I would have been forgotten by my friends, my neighbours, the place —who I am here and what role I played. 

After burning out in the second semester, I was more than happy to be back in Prague, the city where I grew up, physically and mentally separating myself from Menton and Sciences Po. I spent my holidays travelling and working, trying to recharge and relax so that I could start looking forward to coming back. Despite this, three months later, as I was boarding the plane back to Nice, I wasn’t really excited to be returning. I was scared of being exhausted and anxious again, afraid of spending another year overwhelmed.

The moment I felt the warm air around me again, the moment I saw the sea, the palm trees and the beach, it felt like I had never left. As if I just hit the resume button on a long-untouched video game, which collected dust on the shelf for a few months. From the second I walked out of the Gare de Menton, on a humid night just a day before our summer school program started, because I really did not expect to be too thrilled to be back. I was with my friends, chatting away, laughing and sharing like it had been three days, not three months, since we had last seen each other. That we were only blocks away, not continents, for the whole time. It felt like placing the last piece of the puzzle —familiar, reassuring, and comforting. 

Despite the pessimistic introduction, I am happy to be back. I am a different person here – a bit freer, more social, even if more stressed and more chaotic. Here is what the last year taught me about living on my own and figuring out who I am outside of my home town.

My first day in Menton, exactly one year and one month ago now, will forever be one of the most chaotic and stressful days of my life. I remember arriving in Nice with my two suitcases and a bag at least as heavy as my carry-on. I spent only about two and a half hours in the air, which felt like too little for how far I felt from Prague, from my old life. It was sunny, with only a few clouds in the sky. No breeze; it was a bit stuffy.

I dragged myself and my luggage to Nice Saint-Augustin, taking the tram to Grand Arenas and then playing Tetris with my belongings to fit into the lift going up to the railway. I was already feeling too hot and questioning my decision to live in the South of France. It was a nagging feeling which would never really go away and something I still spend a lot of time pondering. I hate hot weather and I’m not the biggest fan of the sea. So really, what on Earth am I doing here?. 

The train ride itself was no less memorable – my valises and I were blocking the train door for my whole ride. Throughout most of the journey I was trying to apologize to angry locals and offended tourists in my broken French. When I finally got off and took my first breath of the Menton air, I realised that it was going to be me and my two suitcases against the rest of the world for the next two years. It sent waves of adrenaline, cortisol and serotonin crashing in my body in a weird mix of excitement and terror.

Excitement and terror persisted. It took me 40 minutes to find my apartment because Apple Maps decided to show off the true horror that living in Menton brings - constantly taking the stairs. I was dragged up and down, ‘given an unwanted introductory tour of the town through staircases that I never took afterwards, since I realised I could just walk straight ahead.

I managed to get to the place I had the (dis)pleasure to call home for a year, and I accidentally succeeded in turning off the water and electricity the moment I got into the apartment.  That was also the exact time I gave up on fighting the system and went to get a croissant, leaving the problem for later. With my first meal of the day at 4 p.m., I walked along the Riviera, sending a Snapchat video to my best friend, talking about how “I can become  someone who likes summer”.

I can’t. I tried hard for a year but now I know I really, really can’t. I would not change the decision to study in Menton; it helped me discover more about myself. But moving to another country cannot change everything about who you are. I am still the person I was a year ago. I may be a bit more extroverted, perhaps a little bit more knowledgeable and even a bit more obsessed with lemons, but I still don’t like summer, I still hate slow-walkers, and I still want to throw a rock at every seagull I see. Yet, I would not exchange the friends and the memories made here for anything. Living here is special and goes by too quickly, and I can’t believe I am already halfway done.

Accepting that “leaving one place does not mean that I leave my problems behind” is the biggest lesson this place has, accidentally or not, taught me. Being content where one is is a choice, although not an easy one. Life can be a lot of work, even when living on the Riviera.

Despite it all, already a year here has brought me the memories of a lifetime. Passing long lectures filled with mispronounced Arabic names said in a French accent; GeoGuesser; laughing hysterically after every session with our beloved history professor from Marseille—because there really was nothing else to do but cry-laugh and open Padlet to at least attempt to make sense of what just happened. Being promoted to a higher language level just because my teacher was desperate not to teach me anymore. Getting yelled at by the locals every Thursday. Although not always an easy place to live in, it remains special.

Photo Source: Rebecca Canton 2025