Celebrating Diwali with International Friends in the South of France
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September 30, 2022. This night felt like a glitch in my life- full of love, dance, music and freedom.
Nights like these make me hold on to hope that I can keep these friends and have nights like this many more times. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. This post is going to be very different from my others. As a writer, I can write myself endings that are happy for me, and I will do that in a book- *maybe one day. Regardless, I must face the reality that those happy endings or beginnings where everything works out only exist within my writing, my notes app, and the delusion in my mind (lol) + Hallmark Movies.
So today, I will be telling the happy beginning, and ignoring the rest. I enjoy itineraries and writing about France, but I would be lying if I said I would go again on my dime. Actually, I’m sick of promoting and pretending I want you to go there, because selfishly I don’t (you should visit but not reside). I definitely need a vacation somewhere vastly different. Until then, let me give you a glimpse of why I don’t intend to go back to the South of France.
Diwali is a holiday largely celebrated amongst Indians as a celebration of lights and femininity. Two of the girls from my university, one from India and one from Pennsylvania with Indian heritage, wanted to throw a party to celebrate with our friend group. They planned on cooking and dancing for us, and I was over the moon when I was invited. I love to learn and celebrate other cultures, and this holiday was new for me.
That afternoon, I met up with Rachel (that is not her name, but I don’t have clear consent to write about these people so Rachel or whatever name I write is what it is) from Taiwan, and Amy from Switzerland. I was moving to my apartment that day (for context I was in a temporary one from September 1st-30th) and they volunteered to help me. I had a lot of stuff so there was no way I could take it all via public transportation. Looking back, Uber would have made more sense but regardless they wanted to help.
The problem was my apartment was up a flight of 100+ stairs. I remember I looked at them and with guilt on my face, “dinner will be on me”. Amy helped me mostly, but we were hot and exhausted when it was all done. It was well past 8 by the time we finished, and the party being held by the two girls was along the promenade in Nice, and I was in Mount Boron (40 minutes away via transit). We decided since we were already late to head down to a burger shop at the foot of the stairs, across the rail line. It was by far the best burger I had there solely because I felt surrounded with support from these girls. That was a rare feeling in my situation at the time.
We got to the party around 9:20pm, I think it started at 8- omg. It was in a nice apartment hosted by Juliet (again not her name), a student in the French version of the same business track I was in. It sat on the promenade, facing the ocean. It was “small” to American standards but a pretty nice size for Nice. The host, Juliet, was so sweet and I thanked her for hosting before walking into a room of some familiar faces from the English track, and some new faces from the French track. I think there were no more than 20 people at this party but in that apartment, it felt crowded yet full of love. The feeling of carefree bliss practically slapped me in the face the further I walked in.
I was so happy to finally be there, I wore by favorite black turtleneck dress, thigh highs and my Steve Madden “doc martens” that are currently collecting dust in my closet. I had planned it out since 7am, and I did my makeup in orange and pink colors (Diwali colors), as suggested by the girl from Pennsylvania, Jane. I was feeling confident and a bit nervous but the smell of samosas and curry drifting from the room quickly dissipated any anxious thoughts. Jane and the girl from India, Henna, were working hard on plating seconds and thirds for people. Others were playing guitar, some smoking by the open windows. Many people at my university made friends by going clubbing so that wasn’t an option for me upon moving, and I was a bit behind on getting to know the other people in my class. It was very frustrating but at this moment I wanted to let go of all the social anxiety I had been feeling since I arrived in France.
Eventually, Arman, who I believe was one of the few queer people I met there, started encouraging people to dance. I danced to Nicki and some cheesy American 2000’s pop songs Europeans go crazy for. A storm was brewing outside, and it started to rain which only made everything feel more cinematic. I mostly danced alongside Amy, her being a few years older she always felt like an older sister to me. For the first time, in a very long time, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about how I looked or if my dancing was good (which I mean, come on, I’m sure it was). For the first time since I landed, I was IN the moment as cheesy as that sounds now. I wasn’t seeing myself from the outside and overthinking my position.
Three large open windows lined the left side of the room, the kitchen on the right, and we were in between dancing. There was a couch against the middle window where the boring ones go to not dance, and the table on the far wall where some people were still eating. I didn’t need to eat, I just needed to be there. Singing with Arman, throwing my head back and synchronizing with the other girls. I mean I’m here, now, dancing with all these people from the different corners of the Earth as storms were stirring over the French Riveria without a care in the world… could it be any more surreal?
Now I’m going to step a little far outside of my blog’s content. A very tall boy was on my left, he wore a linen button up, something out of a Pinterest board he was. He was tall and slim, a few buttons open, like he was about to go sailing in Cannes. His style was simple, clean, a little disheveled, but ironically it made him seem more put together. He had blondish brown thick hair that swept back perfectly from his face. I cannot describe to you how this boy looked to me that night, all I can tell you is I would kill for his hair.
He saw me and smiled down towards me, “Hi! What’s your name?”. Me being deaf I had to ask a few times, but he leaned down and I said in his ear, “Lauren, and yours?”. I cannot tell y’all his name, but after I asked him many times because the music was roaring, he asked me, “are you an American”, a very common question I never thought I’d ever be asked as much as I have. I remember looking up in his brown eyes and laughing quite *sarcastically, “yes, why?”. He exclaimed, “I love Americans!” and gave me a hug. This was the most not French boy I had ever met.
Somehow, he started dancing with me, him taking initiative. His French accent was thick, but I got used to it. Even if he didn’t know the words, he tried to pretend, which never failed to make me laugh. I was shocked when he grabbed my hands and started spinning me around. We danced and sometimes we would lose contact, but we kept finding our way back to each other. Amy noticed, and being the amazing friend and wing woman she was, she always pushed me towards him while throwing me a supportive wink here and there. Our chemistry was instantaneous, but as I’ve learned, flames that burn that bright, burn out fast (future me: that line hurt to read :’).
I was slightly selfishly upset when Jane and Henna changed into sarees to dance for us. Not because of them, but because the dance circle cleared, and it was time to watch them perform. They looked absolutely stunning in flashes of greens, pinks, oranges, and golds, dancing together with so much energy and flexibility. I was secretly shazaming songs (my form of passive cultural immersion) because everything about their dancing, and music, was perfect. I am so grateful they decided to do this because “house” parties are so rare in Europe since the apartments are so small (see why they rather go clubbing?) and difficult to clean up (plus angry French neighbors). After they danced for about 15 minutes, they gathered everyone together to teach us. I was smiling and joining hands with random people as we all danced together in celebration of Diwali.
As the night winded down, Kevin from Bulgaria wanted to take pictures. Kevin has been known for carrying a disposable camera with him to every event. I hated how much of a social butterfly he was, but maybe I was slightly envious. He went to different people, the ones smoking, eating or lingering around and took some amazing photos. I would put them below but I’m not sure if I have the right to publish them here yet (this blog would be updated but don’t hold your breath for this article). One of my favorite photos from that night was with that French boy. He grabbed me and pulled me close to him. With his clear comfortability, I leaned my head on his shoulder, hoping my lazy eye was at a minimum as Kevin snapped the shot. Then someone else took the camera from Kevin and got a picture of all three of us. (Fun fact: the three of us hung out later and it was so much fun, but we never hung out after that second time. It was and still is confusing me, but I wanted to include that for anyone who is curious).
I’m now looking at that picture sitting on my dresser. I think about that night often, but I don’t hope. Experiences like that happen for a reason (especially when traveling), but that does not mean that they will last through your life. You take the feelings and what you learned, you keep moving, and that is what will be everlasting.
*Post blog note, it isn’t my usual form of blogs but if you liked it leave a comment and let me know what you think! I star*d the areas where I laugh at my writing a little because for me it sounds a tad cringy, but it was fun to write. Now, this is one of many stories I could share with y’all about why I left. Sometimes things don’t last and that’s okay. I consider it a redirection, and now I look forward to future travels and sharing more stories like this!
– good luck and safe travels<3!
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