After a night of French sirens (and, at least for me, an angry French breakup outside my window), the musicians woke up. The day started with our early wakes—if you couldn’t sleep, I’m sure you heard the wave of 7:00 alarms throughout the halls. Stepping into the 1st floor buffet-style breakfast were hungry, jetlagged musicians, shocked by the croissants—croissants the average Frenchie would scoff at—and by the small amount of coffee, which, unbeknownst to them at the time, was espresso.

After surveying our friends’ hours of sleep (or in my case, none) and enjoying the freshly squeezed juice, much to the chagrin of anti-pulpers, we made our way down to meet our Nicoise tour guides. To sidestep the sounds of passive aggressive French drivers, we were given mid-2000s earphones to hear the information. With three groups overall, we each got a unique, personalized perspective. For instance, group A—the best group—visited the waterfall that the luckiest of hotel rooms were prior able to see. This was accompanied by a rather opinionated, brutal review of Cannes (she said it had nothing but movie stars).

Amidst our walking tour, we struck gold—in the sense of luck, at least. Despite 360/365 days of clear weather, MYO was lucky enough to hit one of those 5 days. We continued with neurotic rain: massive drops to sudden sun. However, students had the privilege of watching the everyday markets swiftly fold up, protecting everything from their fresh fruits to their mango/coconut smoothie coagulations.

Yet, between the wave of color from market florists, the musicians were given the opportunity to eat Nice’s most iconic dish: Socca, a chickpea crepe—a French peasant special. The tour guide each gave us strips to try—prompting me to later grab one myself.

After seeing a now-nonexistent castle destroyed by Louis XIV and being tempted to swim as we walked along the Promenade des Anglais, we had a few hours off to eat and explore. I chose to go off with some friends and get a classic salade nicoise, topped with anchovies, tuna, and olive oil—all from Nice. However, I was able to get a taste of what others wanted, as I watched several groups of wandering MYO kids lusting after a macaron.

Coming back, we went to rehearsal in a neo-Baroque Cathedral (it has been redone in recent years). The choir didn’t go first and were left to bet on whether Mr. Stickley would take up our rehearsal time. Most were scrambling to remember their queues, while others, tired, took a more cavalier approach and just went with the motions, sometimes resulting in pieces… ‘exceeding the speed limit,’ I’ll say.

We rushed back to the hotel and found that our buffet-style dinner was rather a sit-down, 7th floor, three-course dinner, each with portions that would shock anybody living in the US for more than a year.

Then the performance came. Antsy, yet relentlessly exhausted, the choir came to position and things began. With that mix of nervousness and tiredness, the choir produced an melange known to anyone who’s performed before. While the actual students may say that it went horribly—speeding and losing our places—the crowd and orchestra loved it nonetheless.

Then came the orchestra. I first watched Anthea attempt to herd languid, unresponsive students, shouting, “BASSOONS AND CLARINETS!” but then the choir finally got to hear the orchestra. With much anticipation from listening through rehearsal doors and some miscellaneous practice, we were all shocked. From Dvořák to Borodin, the choir was able to gain a musical education unknown to them prior to this experience.

At the end of each song, the orchestra would stand in applause while unaware audience members got up to leave, thinking it was over. The choir, in the back, heard a faint Mr. Stickley yell… “It’s not over! Don’t move!”

Finally, after hearing an extended edition/no lyrics version of “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah,” (haha, please laugh), the choir and orchestra conjoined for our Donizetti piece. With days of being told to smile and get excited, what it seemed to really take was a very joyous Mr. Stickley. We all lit up and began to staccato every word all the while the orchestra held back their own love for the piece—forced to self-restrain out of respect for the singers.

After immense applause, the orchestra rushed to sort out their instruments as the choir stood cluelessly—some bonding over hopes for a MYO Instagram takeover (Future me in post: It never happened). As we eventually gathered, one saw flashes of Anthea pacing from each end of the church, bringing new information every time, as, simultaneously, her group awkwardly clung to her like baby ducklings to their mother. I’m telling you—Anthea must’ve come from a line of sheepherders, because her handling of the students was impeccable.

By this 3rd day, most of us were no longer just “Strangers in Paradise,” (haha, please laugh), but acquaintances and friends. That’s all for now. Cya in the next one.