Student Reflection by Tulus Lidia Iasmina (C’28 W’28, French target)
This summer, I spent two transformative months in Antibes, France, attending immersive French language courses at the Centre International d’Antibes. My official role? Student. But in reality, I was also an observer of culture, a seeker of hidden stories, and a participant in the unpolished, everyday life of the French Riviera. I sought out this experience because I wanted more than to “learn French,” I wanted to live it. Language for me has always been a doorway, not just into new words, but into new ways of seeing the world. After years of studying French in classrooms far from the Riviera, I wanted to test my skills against the hum of a real street, the rush of an open-air market, the quiet of a beach where every conversation carried on the wind.
From my very first day, I realized this experience would go far beyond textbooks. My airport-to-Antibes Uber driver launched into a passionate discussion about French politics and local infrastructure. It was only my second time seeing palm trees, and while the beautiful roads lined with them kept catching my eyes, my mind was fully absorbed by what he was saying. It was an unfiltered introduction, one that contrasted sharply with the glossy Riviera images on travel posters. He spoke about seasonal job insecurity, housing shortages, and how tourism shapes (and sometimes strains) the community.
Life in Antibes revealed itself in layers. Yes, there were the postcard-perfect beaches and pastel-colored buildings, but there was also the 
pace of real life: fishermenchatting on the docks, neighbors debating local issues at the corner of narrow streets, and shopkeepers greeting regular customers by name. The people I met at the Centre were far from “typical students.” I had coffee with a Swedish diplomat about to be relocated to Morocco, who was learning French for work. I practiced with Moroccan classmates who taught me the “unpure” French, the real conversational expressions you’ll never find in grammar exercises, laced with regional slang and warmth. These interactions expanded my vocabulary, but more importantly, they expanded my cultural awareness.
My French improved not just in the classroom, but while weaving through these everyday exchanges: in bakeries, on buses, and especially during quiet afternoons reading on the beach. On weekends, I wandered through Monaco, dazzled by its polished wealth; strolled along Cannes, where cinematic history meets vibrant streets; and discovered Nice’s unique blend of French elegance and Italian charm. Somewhere between these trips, I had the best tacos of my life in Nice and the best poke bowl in Monaco, small reminders that global flavors thrive even in famously French places. I visited Cap d’Ail, navigating its rocky beaches, and I still remember taking the same early train there with my friend while commuters in crisp work clothes boarded beside us, heading to a very different kind of day.
One of my favorite moments came on July 14th, Bastille Day, the day after I turned 20. I spent the night barefoot in the sand, watching fireworks explode over the sea along with one of my best friends. The air was warm, the beach alive with voices and music, and I felt the weight of having stepped, if only briefly, into a rhythm of life that was not my own, yet somehow felt familiar.
There were also smaller discoveries: stumbling into a local shop where I tried a new pastry I couldn’t even pronounce; spending far too long roaming through the two endless rayons of cheese at the supermarket; and, in a small act of rebellion, staying true to myself as a vodka person even in the country of wines.
What I am bringing back is more than a sharpened command of French; it is the instinct to dive beneath the surface of every conversation. I learned to wade past the safe shallows of B1-level phrases and the neat, pre-approved “words from the textbook,” to swim in deeper waters: the France whispered by immigrants over coffee, the France shaped by locals in markets and on buses, the France that smells of sea salt and fresh bread but also carries the grit of lived experience. I have learned to read a place the way you read a novel in a language you love: not just skimming the lines, but hearing the pauses, the unsaid, the music between the words. That curiosity, to listen until the story changes shape, to question until the truth tilts into view, to truly see, is now stitched into my way of thinking.
I will return to Philly and Penn not just fluent in more French words, but fluent in the art of looking beyond the postcard: knowing that glamour and authenticity are not rivals, but two sides of the same sunlit coin, and that the real beauty lies in holding both in your hands.
