A few months ago, while studying abroad in England, a friend I had made there--though, "friend," feels inadequate to really describe how much we depended on each other--booked three weeks' worth of trains and hostels all around Europe. One of those locations was Nice, France, just outside Cannes, the home of the film festival. It made sense with our route and the pictures we had seen online depicted a paradise on the French Riviera, so we packed up our bags in Barcelona and set out for Nice.

We arrived late at night: All the store lights were out, the streets were all but silent on certain blocks, but the architecture of the city, especially the The Basilica of Notre-Dame de Nice, was breathtaking. We awoke the next morning to find views even more beautiful than we could have imagined they'd be as we had trudged through the streets, weighed down by our huge backpacks.

The water is impossibly blue, like so blue that you can't even believe that it's not been colored in by a child with a crayon or dyed with food coloring. When the sun shines on the sea, it sparkles like it's been covered in diamonds, and the water-slicked rocks glisten, freshly polished by the saltwater. In every definition of the word, Nice is a paradise, a fantasy.

An intricate carousel, full of children playing; I wonder now how many of those same children have lost parents, siblings, or even their own lives in the senseless tragedy.

An orange tree growing up among he sturdy palm trees lining the beachfront; it has been splashed all over my phone screen, television, and internet browsers.

The modern art museum housing a sea glass chandelier that captured my attention for what felt like an hour and a canvas declaring an ultimate truth. Something is always happening. Unfortunately, something terrible seems to be always happening these days.

My mind has not stopped racing since I heard of the attacks. I cannot stop picturing the families and groups of teenagers I saw enjoying a sunny, warm day on the rocky beach. I wonder what has become of the workers at the hostel I found comfort in or the elderly French woman who lived in the room we shared with her in exchange for her work in the kitchen. I cringe at the annoyance I had with her for turning on the lights in the middle of the night now that I know she has experienced such heartbreak and horror.

It feels impossible to focus on the positives, yet there are stories circulating of those who risked, and often gave, their lives to try to lessen the effects of the attack. Nice will always remind me of my connection to the sea, as well as the healing powers of European lemonade and long talks with great friends. Its residents are the type of people who will find a way to heal -- this is a city that will never be ruined by hate.