Put Down the Blow Dryer: That Time I Ran Away to Europe for a Month - Part 4

Day 11

There is a very specific kind of freedom that comes with a private backyard, a hidden hot tub, and a solid 5G connection. After the "Deliverance" drama of Croatia and the literal "BAM BAM BAM" of that island-hopping boat, Nîmes was the universe’s way of saying, “Adam, you’ve suffered enough. Have some Rosé.”

​I kicked off the day with a dose of reality: the laundromat. I ventured around the corner to a local spot, and in true "Adam in Europe" fashion, I stared at the French machines like they were alien technology. I was a total dumb dumb in the face of those dials. Thankfully, my savior appeared in the form of a lovely older French woman in a flowered frock. She took one look at my confusion, handed me her own (clearly superior) detergent, and basically took over. While my wardrobe was being handled by a literal saint, I ducked across the street to grab a green juice, a banana and a pain au chocolat... the ultimate balanced breakfast.

​Freshly laundered and sufficiently fed, I headed back to my sanctuary. But Nîmes still had a welcoming committee I hadn’t expected.

​While soaking in that stunning, sun-drenched backyard after my laundry victory, I did what any single queer traveler does: I opened Grindr to see who was in the neighborhood. Somewhere between the first and second glass of Rosé, I chatted up a U.S. Naval Officer who had detoured from a family vacation in the U.K.

Now, I’ve had some interesting adventures in my day, but "Naval Officer in the South of France" was a new level of chic. A few messages later, the "private" backyard wasn't so private anymore.

I’ll keep the finer details for my memoirs, but let’s just say it was a very lovely afternoon. There is something incredibly grounding and slightly surreal about being completely unfiltered under the French sun, stripped of everything (wink wink), sharing a bottle of chilled wine in a hot tub with a man who looked like he stepped off a recruitment poster. It was the kind of scandalous, impulsive moment that makes a month-long "Great Escape" worth every penny. Just two strangers, one hot tub, and the kind of "distraction" that makes you forget you have a schedule to keep.

But as the sun began to dip and the stone walls of the nearby amphitheater started to glow orange, my "French Revolution" had to move from the backyard to the big stage. I bid my officer adieu (until I waved up at him in the nosebleed section from the floor of the ampitheater), traded the birthday suit for my Gen-Z-approved "cool" fit, and walked the single block toward the Arena.

The air was thick with the scent of lavender and expensive perfume, and the crowd was a sea of glitter and French chic. I was heading into a 2,000-year-old monument to see Dua Lipa, and honestly? After that afternoon, I already felt like the main character.

The moment the lights dimmed, the Arena of Nîmes didn't just feel like a monument; it felt like a living, breathing pulse. Then, she appeared...

​The crowd erupted as Dua Lipa hit the stage, and let me tell you, if you haven’t experienced a pop concert in an open air French arena, you haven't lived. Because it’s France, the air wasn't just filled with glitter: it was a thick, cinematic haze of cigarette smoke that caught the neon lasers and turned the entire bowl into a dreamscape.

​I’ll be honest: I was a little nervous about hitting a massive concert solo (I think I even recorded an Instagram story the next day shedding a tear about overcoming that new experience anxiety). But as the first notes of Houdini echoed off the Roman stone, that "lonely traveler" anxiety evaporated. There’s a certain Radical Optimism (see what I did there?) in just letting go... standing in a crowd of nameless faces, beer spilling over the edges of plastic cups and realizing that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

​We weren't strangers anymore; we were a sweaty, ecstatic collective. We danced well into the night, our hands in the air, silhouetted against the ancient arches. It was the ultimate "escape" moment; the kind where you forget about the blow dryer back home, the Croatian dirt roads, and the flight schedules. It was just the music, the smoke, the lights and the magic of a French night that felt like it would never end and I certainly didn't want it to.

Day 12

​Slow mornings are a currency you only truly learn to value when you’re a month into a solo trek. With a coffee in hand and the sun hitting that vine-filled backyard, I took a beat to just be. Just the sound of Nîmes waking up around me. I started mapping out my next moves, feeling that post-concert glow and the lingering magic of the night before.

​Once I was sufficiently caffeinated, I embarked on foot to "explore" the town. And by explore, I mean I snapped a few obligatory photos of the Roman architecture before meeting my cute Naval Officer for a quick, sun-drenched brunch. It was the perfect "au revoir" to a city that had treated me far better than the dirt roads of Split ever did.

​Then, it was back to the rails. Next stop: Montpellier.

​Did I know anything about Montpellier before I booked my ticket? Not a lick. My friend Natalie had raved about the town after living there during her university days, and that was enough of a glowing review for me.

​What I definitely didn't know was that I was timing my arrival with Montpellier Pride. I stepped off the train expecting a quiet French university town and instead walked headfirst into a city-wide celebration. I didn't know it yet, but I was about to experience the "Great Escape" at its fullest, loudest and most colorful.

​I walked from the train station toward my Airbnb, and right outside the front door, I saw it: a Canadian pub. There, sitting on a table like a literal beacon from home at the halfway point of my journey, was a Moosehead Pale Ale. If that wasn't a sign from New Brunswick that I was exactly where I needed to be, I don't know what is.

​But then came the catch.

​My "artist-inspired nest" was five flights up. Five. Flights. Around a spiral staircase. I lugged my suitcase... which was starting to feel like it was filled with lead and climbed and climbed and climbed. By the time I reached the top, I was breathless and sweaty, but there it was: a tiny, Matisse-filled sanctuary in the sky looking out over the terracotta rooftops of Montpellier. It was adorable, compact, and most importantly, it had a smart TV. Naturally, I signed in immediately to feed my Bravo addiction. A little Vanderpump Rules and Real Housewives was the only way to ground myself after the French rails.

​Once I’d sufficiently recharged, I ventured out to find a local barbershop. I needed a cleanup, but apparently, my "travel hysteria" had other plans for my dignity. On the way out, feeling fresh and confident, I walked.. no, I marched, directly into their glass door. FACE FIRST. The thud was deafening. I was so unbelievably humiliated I didn’t even look back to see if they were laughing (they definitely were). I just bolted. I ran a few blocks away, ducked into a grocery store to hide among the produce, and recorded the entire embarrassing saga for Instagram while hauling my bags back to the apartment.

​And yes, I had to climb those stairs allllllll the way up again.

​Safe in my nest, I faced the ultimate solo traveler dilemma: Do I eat the random groceries I just bought, or do I go out for a proper meal? The groceries lost. Back down the five flights I went, crossing the street for an incredible truffle pasta at a quaint little bistro.

​Stuffed, happy, and having survived the glass door incident, I made the final trek back up to the clouds, flopped onto the bed, and let the Bravo drama drown out the sound of the Montpellier night.

Day 13

​The day started slow; the only way a morning in a "nest in the sky" should. I leaned into the French breeze with a breakfast of granola, berries, and yogurt, punctuated by the mandatory pain au chocolat and a green juice. I was ready to take on the world... even if I was doing it with a fresh haircut and a bruised nose (and an even more bruised ego) from my run-in with the glass door.

​I spent the morning wandering through Montpellier’s winding streets, ducking into little markets and artisan shops to take in the sights. But the smells? That was a different story. I had somehow blocked out the fact that a great deal of the French population seems to view deodorant as a strictly optional suggestion. So, while my eyes were feasting on the architectural beauty of the city, my nose was being accosted by a relentless wave of B.O. at nearly every turn.

​Desperate for a literal breath of fresh air, I made my way to the meeting point and hopped into a Sprinter van. We were heading for the hills of Pic Saint Loup, and the "Great Escape" was about to get sophisticated.

​We visited Château Boisset and Château Lancyre, and "magical" doesn't even begin to cover it. These weren't just farms; they were outdoor laboratories of flavor. The winemakers explained the fascinating alchemy of how they manipulate the taste of the wine based on the "atmosphere" where the grapes are grown: adjusting for the soil, the wind, and the Mediterranean sun to create something entirely unique.

​As we explored the cellars and tasted our way through flights of incredible wines paired with local cheeses that would make you weep, I found myself seriously considering a career change. They told us about the prestigious university programs right there in Montpellier dedicated to the art of being a sommelier. For a few hours, I wasn't a hairstylist from New Brunswick; I was a budding connoisseur of the liquid gold, ready to trade my shears for a vineyard in the South of France.

By the time the Sprinter van started its hour-long trek back into the city, I was sufficiently tipsy on Rosé and more than ready for a strategic nap. On my way back to the "nest," I made a quick stop for the essentials: a bag of delicious Camembert chips (don't judge, they’re life-changing) and a bottle of souvenir rosé tucked into my day bag. I climbed the five flights one more time, cracked the wine, and FaceTimed my friend Kathryn back home to debrief on my trip thus far while I contemplated my evening plans.

​The night belonged to Fierté Montpellier! I headed out to meet a new friend, Tim, a Russian guy who had moved to France specifically so he could live his life authentically. We started with a beer at a lively outdoor restaurant, the perfect jumping-off point before making our way to the festival grounds.

​As we arrived, I found myself digging deep into the "French cortex" of my brain. I was straining to translate the speeches and performances on stage, occasionally catching a sentence or two and feeling like a local. Tim and I grabbed more beers and wove through a literal sea of colour; queer friends from every corner of the world and drag queens who were serving absolute face in the Montpellier heat.

​We spent the night wandering the grounds, chatting about our lives, and occasionally giving in to the music and dancing like nobody was watching. It was the perfect celebration of everything this "Great Escape" was supposed to be about: freedom, connection, and being exactly who you are. Eventually, I bid Tim adieu and made the long trek back to my Matisse-filled sanctuary to finally get some sleep.

​The Great Escape was in full swing, and honestly? I never wanted the party to end but when traveling, I make a point to know my limit.

Day 14

The next morning, Montpellier didn’t just wake up; it exhaled.

​I woke up in my nest in the sky, the French sun streaming through the windows, feeling that specific Pride glow: a mix of exhaustion, inspiration, and a lingering headache that only a very large coffee could cure. I took my time getting moving, watching the city below from my Matisse-filled sanctuary.

​Once I managed to navigate the five flights of stairs (which, by day three, my calves were officially protesting), I headed back into the heart of the city. The energy was softer today, but I could tell it was about to come to life. I spent the morning wandering through the Place de la Comédie, grabbing a crêpe from a street vendor and simply people watching.

​I found myself reflecting on what Tim had said about living authentically. In the middle of this "Great Escape," I realized that Pride isn’t just a party; it’s a reminder of why we travel in the first place: to find the versions of ourselves that don't always get to come out at home. Between the wine tours, the "naval" distractions, and dancing with strangers under a French moon, I was starting to feel more like me than I had in years.

​Then it began. The Fierté Montpellier grounds were filling up with more people than the eye could see. I met up with another new friend, Jack, and we lined up with everyone else to start the parade. No, the march. It was a march to remember the queer community of our past and pave the way for our future.

​Jack and I held each other close as we moved through the streets, surrounded by a sea of incredible outfits, music from every direction, and protest signs that hit home. It was a symphony of love in the air for our queer universal family. Jack and I danced through Montpellier, joining in on various chants, navigating the campy butt-pinches from drag performers, and catching air-kisses from onlookers. Fighting back tears and soaking in the sun, we marched.

​I had arrived in this town knowing nothing, and I was leaving with a bruised nose, a lighter heart, and a phone full of memories that defined what "Pride" really means.

I’ll leave the rest of that chapter to your imagination, but it was incredible, beautiful, and the kind of fun you only find when you stop looking for it. As the sun set on Montpellier, I knew I was leaving a piece of my heart in those marble streets. But the road was calling, the next morning I was off to Barcelona to catch a flight to Mallorca and if I thought the French were experts at a 'Great Escape,' I was about to see what the Spanish had in store.