Nice to the Abyss: The Beginning with Clay

I arrived in Nice like every tourist: dazzled by the glamour of the Promenade des Anglais, the charming old town, the Mediterranean sun reflecting off pristine facades. Here, Gucci bags were paraded, terraces filled with stylish people sipping espresso, and the scent of sea salt mixed with expensive perfume. My host mother’s apartment and the language school were located in the presentable neighborhoods, the kind of places that make Nice seem like a dream destination.

And then, there was Clay.

The first time I saw him, I was walking down the street after class, lost in thought, when suddenly someone called out to me:
„Excuse me, do you have a lighter?“

I shook my head and walked on.

„Wait, you’re not from here, are you?“

I stopped. Mistake number one.

The conversation that followed wasn’t remarkable. Small talk, nothing memorable. But what I do remember is that when I left, I already had his phone number in my pocket. And, more importantly, he had mine.

From Promenade to L’Ariane

Clay lived in a completely different Nice than the one I had come to know. And he wanted to show me that side.

Only a few bus stops away from the polished postcard version of the city, L’Ariane was something else entirely. This was no tourist destination. It was a gray, concrete maze of high-rise buildings, neglected streets, and an air of resignation that clung to the walls. It was a place where few outsiders ventured willingly.

One of the families Clay introduced me to lived on the 14th floor of a tower block, and the elevator was broken. My first task upon arrival? Helping Clay’s 14-year-old cousin carry groceries and three small children up fourteen flights of stairs. I remember thinking: How is this possible in wealthy Europe?

And yet, the people of L’Ariane were a stark contrast to their surroundings. The buildings may have been grim and worn, but life within them was vibrant. Laughter echoed through open windows, children chased each other through narrow corridors, and the warmth of these families made the bleak concrete landscape seem a little less oppressive.

I had stepped out of my carefully curated French experience and into a world I never expected.

Clay’s Stalking – A Shadow That Wouldn’t Leave

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the implications of my connection with Clay. It seemed harmless. A story to tell. An unexpected detour on my language-learning adventure.

And then I left Nice.

I thought that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. What followed was a long, exhausting period of stalking—something I never named explicitly before, but that’s exactly what it was.

Stalking is defined as a pattern of repeated and unwanted attention, harassment, or contact that instills fear in the victim. And Clay checked every box.

At first, it was just calls. Lots of them. His tone shifted unpredictably—from friendly to demanding to outright menacing. When I made it clear I would not marry him, he responded with threats:
„I’ll tell your parents everything.“

His persistence didn’t wane. He found ways to keep reaching out, pressing, demanding, pleading. It was suffocating. I felt trapped, knowing that at any moment, another message, another call, another attempt to pull me back into his grasp could arrive.

It went on for years.

And even though I was thousands of kilometers away, Nice never really let me go. Or rather—Clay never did.