Back in Marseille: Part II

7 min. read

(image courtesy of Freepik)

(Part I)

The next morning, I have the opportunity to meet more of the advocates who have arrived intermittently during the weekend. I expect that many of them would be over-earnest middle class white kids, eager to prove their DEI credentials. To my pleasant surprise, the vast majority of advocates are of African, Middle Eastern or South Asian descent. All of us are migrants in the EU context. My heart swells with pride and tenderness to see my African brothers-in-activism looking especially dapper.

By contrast, most of the coordination team are Caucasian. During the plenary, I ask if there's a strategy to ensure that the baton is handed over to those who better represent the main beneficiaries of the Equality Pact. The project will otherwise be at risk of reproducing exploitative colonial practices, where brown folk do the heavy lifting and white people take the credit. On hearing my question, Suki makes an approving gesture, as does another moderator, Kellie, originally from Lebanon.

Advocates share stories of fleeing horrific circumstances, such as being a child soldier, only to be criminalised and imprisoned at European borders. One advocate was a successful reporter turned enemy of the state, after their country was plunged into war. There are heartbreaking stories of forced exile, individuals separated from loved ones for years that run into decades. They survive it all, navigating hostile bureaucracy in their adopted homes to set up CSO’s successfully campaigning on behalf of other racialised migrants. Moussa Bankare for instance (below), runs a boutique in Greece, alongside being a respected activist. I feel immensely humbled to share a platform with these advocates. My imposter syndrome kicks in. As challenging as my own migrant experience has been at times, it doesn’t compare. Within an unjust and stratified migration system, having a British passport has afforded me advantages others are cruelly denied. As I often say, only half-joking, it’s (borrowed) white privilege in document form.

Over the course of the first day of discussions and sharing ideas, the exchanges become more heated. From the outset, I politely object to being obligated to state my preferred pronoun whilst introducing myself. I am relieved when Rolando, a LGBTQ+ activist himself, agrees.

 

I disagree with another advocate, Alex, on the use of the term ‘sex work’, at least without first acknowledging that it's a contested issue. Alex and Rolando clash with Pippa, another delegate of mixed Southern-African heritage. She uses ‘black’ in the political sense to refer to anybody racialised as non-white. Alex and Rolando take issue with this definition. These two in turn have an even more emotive exchange over Europe’s reputation as a so-called upholder of Human Rights. There are tears and walk-outs. Other masculine voices, seasoned in negotiating with EU policy makers, try to dominate the sessions. There are myriad philosophical and ideological divergences… For certain, it’s intense but there’s also something sincere and therapeutic about it. We have spoken without filters and, one would hope, cleared the air.

We disperse again to decompress before dinner. Mélanie selects an excellent Palestinian restaurant near heart of Marseille for the evening meal; great ambiance, sumptuous food and good customer service. Most of the advocates and coordinating team are present. The tension of the day has all but disappeared. Alex and Rolando are back on good terms. Meanwhile, Mélanie and I listen enrapt as Margot recounts harrowing stories of generational trauma and her family’s protracted experience with a merciless Belgian immigration system.

I expect the second and last full day of consultation to be simpler. It’s not. Not at the start, anyway. Alex’ insistence on monopolising the space and being needlessly contrarian jars even more. I’m left rattled after an intense conversation with a colleague and my laptop charger has decided to give up the ghost.

 I also come to the realisation that the work on the Pact hasn’t taken the form I expected. Or rather, my expectations were unrealistic. The sessions are fruitful and by the end, we have the core of what the Pact will eventually become. I just overestimate how much can be achieved in a couple of days.

We spend a good deal of time strategising for the upcoming elections. Given the tight timeframe, in a way, this feels even more productive.

That evening, Pippa and I engage in a frank and extensive discussion about life as racialised women in mainland Europe, having the Christian faith in common and the minefield of relationships, platonic and otherwise.  We’re back at the Palestinian restaurant that evening for dinner. En route, Shaista regales me with more humour-rich stories of her erstwhile life as a political insider. She has an enviable knack for British regional accents.

La Palestine restaurant, Marseille

After dinner, a few of us pass by a food court-cum-Karaoke bar. It's a last hurrah before we have to catch our respective modes of transport back to our corners of Europe.  We haggle over what song to sing, finally settling on Madonna’s late 80s hit, Like a Prayer. It is warmly received, although the MC ushers us off stage when he's had enough (it's a long track).  Later that evening, my rendition of Tina’s What’s Love Got to Do with It? will bring the house down.

We return to the hotel in triumphant mood. We say fond farewells to those catching early flights or trains. Whatever the outcome of the Pact, some amazing connections have been made. 

In the morning, I’ll bump into Shaista, Suki and a few of the African brothers before departing. As we gather in front of St. Charles train station, Fidelis and I are baptised in beer, standing too close to a few drunks in the midst of an altercation.

I have a decent chunk of time before my mid-afternoon train. I'll participate in the tail end of Marseille's May Day protests, part of which is disrupted by yet another errant addict.

Before then, I’ll join Margot in the hotel restaurant for breakfast ahead of check-out. Both based in Brussels, we’ll be returning on the same train.

You know, I’m not sure whether to be sad or pleased that it’s all over. Margot observes It’s been quite a mix. 

You can say that again.

(image courtesy of 123RTF)

On the train back to Brussels, I'm rudely awoken from semi-slumber by a Customs officer. I feel something between a poke and a shove on my shoulder. Seeing my shock and consternation, he affects a faux-friendliness that is more sinister than reassuring. It doesn't help that he looks like he stepped out of a Third Reich-era poster. There appears to be no rhyme or reason for selecting me. My only 'offence' appears to be sleeping whilst black. Having chosen me at random, he interrogates me about the trip, asks intrusive questions about my luggage and insists on searching my handbag. The officer riffles inexplicably through my wallet. Probably suspects me of credit card fraud. He's especially concerned that I have two (non-smart) mobiles. Maybe he'd like to add 'drug dealer' to my imaginary wrap sheet. To expedite the process, I offer to show my British passport and my Belgian ID. (Privilege in document form, remember?). He initially pays no mind. In the meantime, his colleague half-heartedly interrogates the pale-skinned passenger next to me, perhaps to make things look more balanced.

When Officer Blondie eventually checks my ID, seeing everything is in order he has no choice but to shuffle off. Margot discreetly phones me afterwards. Our seats are parallel but her view has been obscured by the officer and his colleague. 

I feel a mix of irritation and pity. The officer is likely convinced that he's simply carrying out his duty without partiality; one of the 'good guys'. Over the coming days, my anger will increase at the thought of the incident. Should I have been more assertive? Would I have had the presence of mind? Would it have been worth it, knowing the French state's proclivity for violence?

Once safely back at Brussels-Midi, Margot is collected by her husband with their adorable tot in tow. Just before we part ways, we'll reflect on the bitter irony of that unpleasant interaction with Customs, in light of what took us to Marseille in the first place.

Back in Marseille: Part I

7 min. read

Gare St. Charles, Marseille (courtesy of Marseille Tourisme) 

My spring becomes more intensely busy, for the right reasons, when I’m headhunted for a pro-bono advocacy role in early April. I’m approached on LinkedIn by Mélanie, a project coordinator from human rights organisation, Avocats sans Frontières or Lawyers without Borders (ASF). Mélanie finds me via my previous volunteering with a group focused on EU migration policy; specifically concerning the legal protection of undocumented migrants.

Mélanie and I set up a call, where she effectively gives a presentation about the EU-funded project. If my application is successful (since I still need to apply for formality’s sake), I will be amongst a group of activists drawn from across Europe, invited to finetune the draft of a campaign document ahead of the European elections in June. The focus of the Equality Pact, as it is known, would be to address discriminatory law and practice, particularly around migration and structural racism. Sounds worthy, no? The project bears the handy acronym, TACKLE and involves a consortium of civil society organisations.

Mélanie informs me that, if recruited, an all-expenses paid trip to Marseille awaits at the end of April. Prospective advocates will gather in the southern French city for a few days of training, team-building and to start work on the Pact. I clear my diary, just in case.

Beady-eyed readers might recall my mixed feelings about Marseille, following my first experience visiting almost six years ago. I like the idea of being in sunnier climes and close to water but wary of personal safety. At least this time I would be in a group.

Fortunately, my application is successful. It’s a frantic rush to make sure everything is in order before I leave for Provence.

With no direct trains to Marseille on the date of travel, the ASF team books a connecting train in Paris. I will be travelling most of the day. I arrive at Gare de Lyon in plenty of time for the onward journey. Alas, I’m distracted by an older Togolese gentleman selling Afrodescendant-focused books. By the time I realise, it’s too late to board. Thank God, I’m able to take the next train, free of charge. I notice whilst boarding that I’ve been upgraded to first class without asking (not that I would, given my egalitarian values).

At the hour that I arrive at my hotel, there’s only time to shower and prepare for bed. I’ve stayed in better Accor establishments but it’s clean (enough), reassuringly close to St. Charles train station and has a great breakfast spread. Plus, if I ignore the car park immediately below, there's a pleasing view of the distant hills from my window.

The following day, myself and the few other advocates who have already arrived are expected to participate in a workshop. It's part of a weekend-long event organised by lead TACKLE coordinators, the European Common Space for Alternatives- or - ECSA (I know, I know, a lot of acronyms to keep up with).

I finally meet organisers offline with whom I’ve only had remote contact such as Suki, a Marseille-based Brit of South Asian origin. There’s also Giacomo, one of the founders of ECSA; a tall, wire-thin man with a shock of thick greying hair and cornflower blue eyes. He explains how he and his family were hounded out of the UK by the right-wing media for his work on migration rights. (It’s only at the end of the trip, that I’ll discover that one of his colleagues is also his significant other).

I have more of opportunities to learn of Mélanie’s peripatetic upbringing, her career trajectory and why her own experience of being in an interracial marriage has informed her work on migration rights.

La Friche de la Belle de Mai (c) Caroline Dutrey

The project is only a few months' old. The general organisation therefore has a ‘flying by the seat of our trousers’ feel. It’s all very lastminute.com.

ECSA decides to hold the workshop outside. As our activity gets underway, the weather is starting to cool and the wind is fierce. Not the typical Mediterranean climate we anticipated. Apart from competing with the chill and howling wind, there are a number of technical difficulties with which to contend.

Mishaps notwithstanding, the workshop is warmly received. I have the chance to meet other advocates like Margot, who relocated from Rwanda to Belgium as a toddler to escape the genocide 30 years ago. Rolando is a linguistic genius, originally from Chile and now based in France. Despite only having lived in the UK as a child for a couple of years and settling in the French capital a mere few years ago, he speaks excellent English and French with a close to native accent. Rolando grew up in a Right-wing family, going as far as to do a stint in the marines before becoming an activist in the LGBTQ+ movement. He fights back tears as he describes the homophobic violence he’s experienced in his adopted home. Rolando and I become fast conference friends. We have thought-provoking discussions about everything from Belief and spirituality to debates around pronoun etiquette and wearing an hijab. Whilst his views might have drifted left, it's a fool's game to assume he’ll hold certain positions just because of his sexual orientation and/or migration status. 

I’m also introduced to journalist, comedienne, former Labour councillor, veteran activist and all round powerhouse, Shaista Aziz. She was the first local Labour party official to resign over Keir Starmer’s appalling stance on Israel’s genocidal campaign in Gaza. Within a few minutes of chatting, I discover that she and another speaker are also mutual friends of one Prof. Danny Dorling.

Over the next few days, Shaista will take a no-nonsense yet affirming approach to sisterly solidarity. If she sniffs any self-doubt on my part, she assures me that I have earned my place in the room. 

Other workshop speakers include Ivorian activist, Solange Koné as well as interventions from myself, Margot, Rolando and his friend and fellow advocate, Amel; a painfully shy refugee from Iraq. 

I am glad to see that one of my new-ish Brussels-based friends, Brittany, has made it to the workshop. A fellow British passport holder and member of Belgium’s Worker Party (PTB), we met whilst volunteering at 2023’s Manifiesta festival . Over the course of the weekend, I’ll bump into other comrades from PTB.

Arriving the previous day, Brittany says our session is the best she’s attended so far of the ECSA programme. That helps to dispel any FOMO about the events I couldn't make.

In the evening, several of us reconnect for international-flavoured musical entertainment and a delicious two-course meal, courtesy of ECSA itself, at a converted factory. Rolando’s attempts to flirt with one of the waiters will eventually be thwarted when he turns out to be straight. 

On the following day, a Sunday, the main plan is to rest ahead of a full two day programme. A few of us nevertheless decide to participate in a pro-Palestine demo taking place mid-afternoon. We’re joined by newly-arrived delegate, Fidelis, a Nigerian based in Italy.

The weather is more propitious for the march than the morning rain would suggest. If the number of demonstrators is far less than I’m used to in London or even Brussels, Suki explains it’s because the protests are being held every Sunday afternoon. Participation varies from week to week. I’m surprised that Marseille’s local authorities permit the city centre to be shut down on a regular basis. They have no choice, says Shaista. It's Marseille. There’d be uprisings. Suki concurs.

Not for the only time, Shaista and I have a heated discussion about the current state of the British Labour party. She brings with her much insider knowledge, naturally.

As we approach the main destination of the City Hall near the Old Port, the protest is suddenly interrupted by fire engines. The crowd reluctantly parts, like the waves for Moses at the Red Sea. The other firefighters circumnavigate the demonstration altogether.

Just as we’re arriving at the Old Port, where we’ll encounter more comrades, we see billows of smoke emanating from one of the multi-storey buildings. Not a false alarm, then. Those leading the march point to the emergency as a sobering reminder of what is a daily reality for Gazans, except on a far greater magnitude.

I feel honoured to be partaking in yet another Palestinian solidarity demo in a fresh context. More widely, the city’s support for Gaza is immediately apparent; from graffiti to fly posters.

After the protest, we disperse to our corners in anticipation of an intense few days.

Dinner is some cheap-ish take-away in my room. I’m relieved not to fall ill with food poisoning, after ordering from an establishment whose hygiene practices leave room for doubt. By the time I start changing my mind, I’ve already placed my order. I politely ask the hotel staff to blast my food in the microwave en route to my room.

Soundtrack: Studies in a Dying Love by Aladean Kheroufi

(Part II)

Due South or La Vie Marseillaise (Part 2)

Vieux Port, Marseille (Guideopolis.fr)

The first full day of my Marseillais adventure, I leave the grimy streets behind for the lustre of the Riviera-style Old Port/Town Hall area.

As it appears is the case with any city apart from London (or Tokyo), local transport in Marseille is incredibly cheap. A 72-hour travel pass will only set you back 10.80 euros. I take the bus 60 to the Notre Dame de la Garde Basilica, perched on a precipice overlooking the City. This is far more scenic than your average bus journey. The view of the City from the Basilica is spectacular. The tropical-like heat hasn’t yet kicked in and there’s a welcome sea breeze.

The interior of the Basilica is more modern and intimate than I anticipate, with Eastern/Byzantine influenced décor. Judging by the freshness, it’s been well maintained and touched up over the years. This is not the antiquated, intimidating grandeur of its ugly/beautiful Strasbourgeois namesake. 

By the time I head down the hill, the sun is out in full force. The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle, further awakening my senses. I’m in good spirits. I do little funky moves to Benny Sings’ Beat Tape as I wait for the bus back into town.

Le Vieux Port is the best place to lose oneself. I feel much safer in this neck of the woods too. I detour into St Jean's fortress, commissioned by Louis XIV in the late 17th Century. It boasts more splendid vistas of the City from a different angle. I allow my curiosity to lead me down the side streets. I find another holy space to sit in tranquillity, Sainte Marie Majeure. Its striped dome caught my attention from afar. I stumble upon it fortuitously.

Inside the Notre Dame Basilica, Marseille
(image courtesy of Trover)

After some more roaming, I make use of the Ferry Shuttle service to cross over in style to catch my bus on the other side of the Port. All the buses are full to capacity. A fellow traveller suggests we take the metro instead. En route I come across a procession of Kurds demanding the release of political prisoner and nationalist leader, Abdullah Ocalan. These sorts of protests are a daily reality working for The Human Rights Organisation. A vigil is kept opposite The Chateau every day. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that I'd encounter the same Down South.

That evening, after my Egyptian fusion meal, I head to the Jazz bar I passed the night before. It turns out that Cédric, the proprietor, exaggerated. According to his more pragmatic colleague, the jam sessions of which he spoke are ad hoc and drop off during the summer festival season. Never mind. 

I decide to buy a tonic. I need the company and French practice. I pass an agreeable evening with Cédric and co. The chef, Etienne, is a bit of a muso. He schools me on the genius and cultural impact of Miles Davis. The conversation digresses to the nature of genius itself and the overlap with mental instability. I mention that with the exception of perhaps Stan Getz and a little Gerry Mulligan, I’ve never paid much attention to horns players. I’m more into piano, guitar and most of all, vocal jazz. Cédric asks if I sing. Why not? It’ll be good to revive the habit of performing for an audience, even if very modestly-sized. I do a rendition of Stella by Starlight, since we’re on the theme of Miles and Manha de Carnaval. 

I’m asked to do an encore for a patron, Khadija, her daughter and gentleman friend. Khadija buys me a drink as thanks. She speaks very good English with a British-y accent. She lived in London for five years. She and her polyglot daughter are affirming of my French efforts. Half-Moroccan Khadija shows off her knowledge of Nigerian pidgin English. She pronounces wahala with a guttural, Arabic 'h'. I don't understand what she's saying at first. The rest of the evening is spent in their genial company. It’s almost midnight. A fight breaks out at the bar next door. It’s our cue to head to our respective corners.

The following day marks the start of my 37^th year on this planet. I decide to indulge in a pastry-heavy breakfast. I catch the sprawling view of Marseille from St Charles’ Station on the lookout for a boulangerie. Back at my lodgings, I Skype sis briefly. It’s not a cheerful exchange although unintentional on her part. I’m in even more of a funk than before. I’ve been dreading this birthday for months. It’s not as if I’m not grateful to be alive and healthy. I have much to appreciate. Being able to City-hop and travel widely is a privilege in itself.

However, I also need to make peace with certain disappointments. I feel my age and I don’t. 40 is fast approaching on the horizon. I’m a disenchanted version of the hopeful teen/20-something I once was.

I hope a day at the beach will assuage my mood. A couple of my French acquaintances have sent me some birthday wishes, including muso Etienne to whom I have mentioned it in passing the night before. Most people here don’t know the exact date. It means a lot they’ve made the effort. God bless them.

Prado beach is more impressive than my unfairly low expectations. Families are out in droves. Shapes of all sorts squeeze into one and two pieces; defying the stereotypical beach body tyranny. I sit fully clothed on a rock like a mock-Kente clad mermaid. I watch as kids hurl themselves into the inviting aqua-marine waters. I wish I could join them. As a non-swimmer, I don’t take it further than paddling my feet. It’s a lazy afternoon of people-watching, eating overpriced snacks by the beach and a little diversion via Bolery Park. I pick up a delicious-looking tan whilst I'm at it.

Prado Beach, Marseille
(HomeAway)

On one hand it’s been a peaceful day but I’m still disproportionately irritated about my earlier Skype conversation. I send sis long, angry IM’s. She asks me what’s really wrong. I suppose my birthday blues are biting particularly hard this year.

It does me good to go back out. I’ve spotted a restaurant on TripAdvisor with rave reviews near the Old Port. I decide to walk when it looks like it’ll be quicker than waiting for the tram. I had no idea how close my accommodation is to the Port. The Google map print out the day before had me literally going round the houses. 

The evening sunshine and sea breeze calm my state of mind. Tom Misch’s Geography is keeping me good company. By the time I locate La Caravelle, my mood has improved exponentially. I am not even crushed to learn that they only serve food at lunch time. The walk to and from has been uplifting. Now I have the perfect excuse to check out a Lebanese restaurant very close to my accommodation. It’s lighter on my purse too. Throw in a handsome young waiter, I’d consider it a bona fide blessing in disguise. I try to ignore the quiet insolence of his callow female colleague. Not entirely successful.

After my meal, rather than go straight back to my AirBnb where cake and melted ice cream awaits, I decide to spend a mellow moment by an attractive nearby water feature. I’m lost in thought. A local Francophone African interrupts my reverie. My begrudging silence should make it known I’m not interested. He won’t take the hint and taps my shoulder. I react. He accuses me of being aggressive. The bloody nerve. Calm down, he says in English. I tell him I will not -and why not-in French.

But you don’t even know why I wanted to speak to you?

When I ask what he wants, no answer is forthcoming but he won’t let me rest. He proffers a belligerent apology and insists I accept. The epitome of male entitlement. He feels he has a right to my attention and whatever else. Silence isn’t getting through to him. Exasperated, I tell him again, in English this time, to leave me in peace. He wants me to be grateful for his apology. When he doesn’t receive the desired response, he swears at me and storms off. 

For safety reasons, I decide not to rush back to my accommodation in case the creep follows me. I drunk woman passes by and starts fiddling with my porkpie hat. A fine conclusion to my birthday.

Aix-en-Provence town centre
(Independent.co.uk)

I’ve set aside the last full day of my trip to visit neighbouring town Aix-en-Provence, the birthplace and stomping ground of painter Paul Cezanne. It’s a short coach ride from St. Charles station.

Of all the European towns I’ve visited, this is one of them. The Telegraph visitors’ guide I’ve adapted isn’t much help on closer inspection. It’s more of a gastronomical tour with some sightseeing thrown in. An abundance of road works mars the topography. There is the odd architectural feature that catches my attention. I chance upon the Pavillon Vendôme through sheer nosiness and pass a few serene moments in the shade. I savour the walk back from the Pavillon to the town centre. The clear blue skies, the heat and the layout of the streets puts me in mind of more exotic locations. It’s a somewhat underwhelming excursion but I’m not regretful. It would have been a waste not to visit Marseille’s famous neighbour whilst I’m down here.

On his suggestion, I’ve made plans to meet up with Etienne the muso-chef after dinner. En route I stop off to buy some phone credit at the Orange Shop. I meet two Asian-Caribbean missionaries now based in Marseille. Their French is currently negligible. The gamely sales assistant does his best in English. The couple are in conversation with an apparently Anglophone gentleman with a very ambiguous accent (I find out later he's a misanthropic New Yorker who hates everyone in his native city. 'Black and White. They're all messed up'). The topic turns to Venezuela, which they have all visited at some point in the past 20 years. My ears perk up, waiting for the inevitable western anti-Chavismo propaganda. I rather rudely interrupt when it comes, citing Chavez’ achievements (albeit acknowledging mistakes) and the current parlous situation being as much to do with US sanctions as it is with Maduro’s economic mismanagement. This aspect is conveniently forgotten in most Western media analyses.

So you’re a socialist?

Yes and proudly so.

What about the rigged elections?

What about them? There has been no official report of any shenanigans by international observers. 

My interlocutor takes my zealous interjection in good humour. He admits he hasn’t delved much into the details of the Venezuelan crisis. It's hard, I reply. You have to look hard to find even-handed reports on the country. The discussion turns to the lighter topic of soca (of which he’s not a fan) and the clever socio-political wordplay of old school Calypso (of which he is). We part company. I wish them all the best with their Divine Call.

After a hearty, good value Turkish/Kurdish meal, I meet with Etienne near the Old Port. It's quite the intellectual workout. 

Similar to our previous conversation at the Jazz Bar, we cover a lot of ground; his stint in the army (really doesn't seem the sort), being the oldest of several siblings with very narrow age gaps, how he came to be an honorary Marseillais of nearly 30 years, seeing Kool and the Gang live, his interest in cosmetology, the veracity of the Bible and the claims of the Gospel, his love/hate relationship with gastronomy, the paradoxes of human nature and his admiration for the writing of Yves Simon with which I am not familiar. He generously gives me a copy of Sorties de Nuit. 

Following a mini-bio he asks me to guess his age. I give my instinctive -and incidentally correct-answer the second time around (early 50s). I ask him to guess mine in turn. He knocks five years off. I don't resent that. Etienne is surprised I'm not married. I wish I have the presence of mind to interrogate him about the same. He thinks I should widen my search beyond Christian men. I explain that faith is not a question of inconsequential tribalism; like supporting different football teams. It's a way of life.

Marseille Vieux Port @ Night
(Getty Images)

After we finish our tonic (me) and cocktail (him) we promenade around the Port. I’m amazed how vibrant it still is at 11pm. The streets are full with revellers of all ages on a stroll, appreciating the view or participating in impromptu dance contests.

The Port takes on a different beauty at night. I can see the Basilica lit up in the distance. I mention to Etienne that I’d planned to go alone to watch the sunset from the hill. I've missed my window.

I squeal with child-like delight and gabble some Franglais at the sight of the large moon, turned blood red by a lunar eclipse.

There’s nothing intimate about our body language but judging from the quizzical looks I receive from a number of black folk, they seem to believe I’ve found myself a Caucasian sugar daddy. I already have enough on my plate trying not to give Etienne the wrong idea. A casual reference to my ‘pretty smile’ by text put me on alert that he might have misinterpreted our earlier discussion a tad. At the same time, I don’t want to overreact and miss out on stimulating conversation with an enthusiast for life, not to mention the French practice. Speaking of which, my brain is slowing down with fatigue. I’m finding it hard to string a sentence together or keep up with Etienne. By his own admission, he speaks very fast.

My shoe strap snaps and I drop the ice cream Etienne kindly buys me. He asks if I need to sit down. I decline. It’s late and I need to get back to my accommodation before the freaks come out in full effect. I also need to pack for my departure the following afternoon.

He offers to accompany me to my AirBnb to allay any safety concerns. His flat is en route in any case.

It’s an awkward farewell. I can’t work out what’s culturally appropriate; a French bise or an English hug. I don’t want a tactile goodbye.  In the end I opt for a German handshake. Etienne looks slightly confused.

The following morning I’m overtaken by a familiar bereft feeling. I can’t say it’s because I’m sad to be leaving Marseille as such. I’ve found it to be a rather taxing city, although I’ll take away some pleasant memories. 

I miss sis. We haven’t spoken since my Birthday mini-meltdown and I can’t reach her on Skype. Before check-out, I cheer myself up watching a French serial with the most outrageous storylines.

I am one of the first to board the train. Thank God for Air Con. I receive a text from Etienne wishing me a safe journey. He hopes to see me again soon in Marseille. I’m not sure, I respond frankly. I’m in no hurry. I’ve scratched that itch for now. Not sure if and when I’ll next have the urge.

This week’s soundtrack: Beat Tape by Benny Sings & Geography by Tom Misch.

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