There was a part of me that assumed that once I reached France, I'd just know what to do. I've always thought of France as my spiritual home. I don't know why exactly, it's just, whenever I'm there, no matter what part of the country I'm in, I always get that feeling, that I'm where I'm meant to be.

Now don't get me wrong, I've had my ups and downs with France. For starters, after two years of French class, my ability to speak the language is still embarrassingly poor. Then of course, there is, I feel, this slight elitism about the French. In Italy, if you try to speak Italian, even if you are piss poor at it, they love you for trying, they embrace you. Yet, in France, if you try and speak French, predominantly speaking, they still seem to dislike you.

Of course, I don't want to tar an entire nation with the same brush. I’ve met plenty of French people who’ve been wonderful and who I call my friends. It can just be very frustrating, and often somewhat isolating, when you're in a country that you love, trying to incorporate yourself and you feel as though you're somehow being rejected.

So anyway, there I was in Nice, waiting for the feeling, that feeling of direction to wash over me and it just wasn't there. I started to feel more lost than ever. Was I doing the right thing or had I just rushed leaving Italy. I suddenly wasn't sure and my indecisiveness took hold and spun me into a black hole of self-doubt. The kind that sends me off into self-destruct mode.

Having made friends with a Chilean guy in my room, we caught the number 100 bus from Place Garibaldi and spent the day in Monaco. For €1.50 and a forty minute ride, it seemed madness not to. It was so warm and sunny, it felt like spring. The pair of us walked around in nothing but our T-shirts. It was bliss. For a brief period, I actually allowed myself to stop thinking about what to do next and actually just enjoy the moment.

The pair of us walked up to the Jardin Exotique to sit and eat lunch overlooking the city, with the sea glistening, outstretched in front of us. I felt happy. If not just for a moment. Chilean asked me what I was going to do next, where would I go after Nice. I couldn't answer. I hadn't thought further than getting there.

For once, I wasn't worried about money. Or worried about having somewhere to stay. I was worried about doing the right thing. Asking myself, what exactly had made me come traveling in the first place. It's so easy to sit at home and think the grass is greener in the Mediterranean. That life would simply make sense somewhere else. Somewhere warm. But what happens when you get there and come to realise, it's not about the place, the issue is you.

That evening, panicked by my own indecisiveness, I sent frantic messages to my friends, posted statuses of distress on my social networks and then, gave in to the hostel's Happy Hour and got drunk on €1 beers. I could actually sense myself falling into a spiral of incomprehensible madness. I couldn't think straight. I'd forgotten why I was there. Lost all that inner peace I'd found in the monastery. I was a mess.

Hungover the next day, I packed up my things, checked out and wept into my complimentary breakfast in the hostel's bar. An American guy I'd spoken to the night before, in my drunken depression fueled fog, came to join me. He was about as clueless as I was. There's something about New Yorkers though, they radiate this sense of overbearing wisdom. Consistently psychoanalysing you and reducing you to tears.

Yes, I cried.

Strangely though, quite despite myself, I found that through my hatred, I somehow ended up quite liking him. It was a clear cut case of a love-hate relationship. Leaving our things in the hostel, we took a stroll through the streets, along the beach, ending up at the castle, overlooking the sea. There was a busker playing L'Autre Valse d'Amélie on the accordion, which practically gave me chills. When he then started playing La Vie En Rose, I closed my eyes and I could almost believe I was in Paris. It was a perfect moment in time.

Returning to our hostel, it was time to make a decision. I could travel along the coast and work my way up to Paris, or I could head to my friend Kate's in Chabanais. One was logical and the other intuitive. I chose the latter; head to Kate's. Unfortunately, having been spoilt in Italy, with cheap and easy public transport, I was completely naive when it came to getting around France. Looking into the train to Limoges, I was shocked when I saw it was going to cost over €150!

This revelation threw me into a panic. Cue another meltdown. Thankfully, Jean, one of the guys working at the hostel, who I'd made friends with, came to the rescue, pestering me into looking at BlaBlaCar, a car share website, a few people had mentioned to me. I hadn't really liked the thought of it at first, so hadn't bothered to take a look, but ended up being so glad I did.

Essentially, people making long car journeys across country, sign up to the site and advertise seats in their car for a set fee. All you have to do, is pick someone going your way and contact them to reserve a place. I managed to find someone who was leaving Nice and driving directly to Limoges, for €50. Saving me over €100 on train fare. Only issue was he wasn't going until the following day.

With Villa Saint Exupery now fully booked, because of the impending carnival, myself and New York, who'd decided to head up to Lyon on the train the next day, found another hostel round the corner and checked in for a night. Perhaps some time with friends was what I needed, to shift me back into reality.

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