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