Due South or La Vie Marseillaise (Part 1)

Cours Julien, 6th Arrondissement of Marseille (courtesy of Ark 3)

Marseille has been on my destination hit list for some time but I’ve been put off by various warnings about personal safety. 

I feel differently now. I have a couple acquaintances who either come from that neck of the woods or live there. They’ll know the City better than most. From a travel perspective, there’s the also practical advantage of now living in France. It feels as good a time as any. My getting-old day is also fast approaching. If possible, I like to spend that time of the year in a part of the world I’m yet to discover, ideally with fine weather. It provides me with the perfect excuse to head South.

I find a decently-priced train ticket and a good deal on AirBnB a couple months in advance.

The day of my departure, France is in the throes of a serious canicule; as is much of Europe. I hear even the UK is atypically enjoying a consistently hot summer.

Strasbourg and Marseille's soaring temperatures are pretty much parallel. Marseille at least has the benefit of the sea breeze.

I arrive at St Charles station after six hours on a relatively comfortable train journey.

I’ve been blessed to find lodgings conveniently located in the heart of the City. It turns out that Cours Julien is one of the recommended tourist hotspots. I’m close to the main train station and the attractions on my itinerary are not far away.

My first impressions of Marseille is that it has a lot of...character. I'm surprised how much the Centre reminds me of Paris. It appears to be what the French euphemistically refer to as a Quartier Populaire. I like to believe I’m a woman of the people but I’ve evidently been spoiled by Strasbourg’s orderliness.

A colleague has mentioned she finds Marseille to be on the grubby side. I’d hoped she was just comparing it to the Germanic-style cleanliness of Alsace. But no, she has a point.

I am very conscious of my surroundings. My attempts to inconspicuously locate my accommodation are pointless, what with my travel gear and clearly not knowing where I am going.

Thankfully, my Airbnb digs are clean, tidy and welcoming even if the communal area wouldn’t fit that description. My host Réné makes a cameo appearance whilst his dad, Léon, shows me around.

One of  the decorative stairwells in Cours Julien, Marseille
((c) Tourisme Marseille)

It’s still only early evening. I have time to pop out for dinner at the Congolese restaurant recommended by my honorary Marseillais chum and erstwhile TV crush, Johny Pitts.

I unintentionally end up taking the scenic route on the way to the tram stop. On the plus side, I become more familiar with that corner of the city.

On first sight, I am not impressed with my immediate environs. Cours Julien nevertheless seems to come alive when I step out once more. I just needed to venture deeper into the neighbourhood. There are a glut restaurants of all descriptions; traditional Cuisine Francaise, Italian, Middle East and North African, Cape Verdean…

I walk past a restaurant-cum-jazz-venue. Mick Hucknell’s voice is blasting from the stereo. It’s from the more credible Simply Red era so it’s all good. The Senegalese/Lebanese proprietor notices me taking interest in his establishment. He introduces himself, asks where I’m from. He invites me to check out the jam sessions that weekend. Gladly.

Further up the road a bassist and drummer are playing in the street. The steep incline of the roads, music and diverse populace feels like I’ve walked into some idealised version of a Favela. There’s a Brazilian Restaurant around the corner and a graffiti image of the Redentor overlooking Rio.

I have an impromptu chinwag with a lovely Haitian, sporting the most amazing jet-black Afro, and her mum who help with directions. 

I’m chased down the street by an obnoxiously persistent young man loafing outside a Ghanaian restaurant. All those warnings of safety issues in Marseille for a solo female traveller come frequently to mind. Léon has advised I make it back to the studio before midnight. Moreover, round these parts it gets darker earlier than in the North East.

I eventually find my bearings. Locating the restaurant is another mission, thanks to my bad sense of direction and a blocked passageway. It takes me roughly an hour and a half to reach it, despite only being about 15 minutes from my accommodation. Marafiki Coin Tropical is situated at the top of a winding hill, tucked away a little distance from a bustling restaurant district. My inquisitive mind is already wandering down the romantic-looking side streets, tempted to take more diversions. No. I must keep my wits about me. Plus, I am famished.

Marifiki Tropical Corner (courtesy of Trip Advisor)

The view from the restaurant is picturesque. Sitting on the terrace, I see traces of the sunset behind a dome that looks over this pretty residential area.

Marafiki’s diverse workforce is reflective of the city. An amicable Congolese waitress attends to me. She enquires of my background and mentions that the chef is also of Nigerian stock. She doesn't hide her mild surprise that I am dining alone. I order some lamb. My favourite. JP recommends the fish but I don’t fancy taking any chances with seafood.

I could get used to this life; some kind of rugged idyll. I remind myself I am far removed from the reality of those on the grind in France’s ‘second City’; who live the hardship and not just observe it from a distance.

The food is unspectacular but I am hungry enough to clean my plate. I settle the bill and rush home to avoid being accosted again by aggressive suitors. I’m looking forward to spending the rest of the night in the company of some good old French TV. I watch a documentary on John Travolta (he really was a beautiful young man!) and fall asleep in front of a news report of a scandal involving one of President Macron’s aides.

Soundtrack:  Beat Tape by Benny Sings