Marseille

It’s O.K., We’ll Just Sit with the Luggage

So apparently the French don’t work. Ever. We left for Marseille on Thursday evening and got to the train station a little early. After a little panic at not seeing our train on the board, we were told that due to a strike, our train was cancelled. We could get on the earlier train, but didn’t have seats. It was a good hour sitting on the luggage racks before we actually got seats. However, once we actually got a seat, the scenery of the French countryside was really beautiful. Oh, and I ate a baguette sandwich with some suspect brie. Surprisingly, I turned out O.K.

Julien Lacroix, the Saint and his Tractor

Julien Lacroix is a friend of a friend. He’s a Marseillaise who studied abroad at Loyola and lived with my buddy Erik. While in Chicago, Julien and I met a few times and I when I knew I was going to Marseille, I asked him of some good places to see. He immediately became our tour guide. He “collected” us at the train station in his “tractor,” a tiny gray machine (it’s a car) that rattled when it idled and whizzed down tiny streets at an alarming speed. We drove through dark city streets in what looked like a typical, working class city until we got to our hotel. It was closed. We were told by another guest that no one at the hotel works after 8pm and we were pretty much screwed. It was then that Julien got on the phone and made our arrangements. We could stay at his parents’ house, but they spoke no English.

We made the 15 minute trip to his parents' house where they welcomed us in with, literally, open arms. They insisted we eat and gave us a salad of tomatoes, onions, green peppers and vinegar & oil; baguette; cheese and mousse in a plastic cup that was better than any I’d ever eaten before. We slept on mattresses on Julien’s floor. In the morning, we woke to a breakfast of French toast (made with baguette and sugar, instead of syrup) which is called “lost bread,” cereal, coffee and toast with jam. We took showers and made our way out for the day. These people might have been the nicest I’ve ever met.

On Friday, we toured the city with our new tour guide, after checking into our hotel and getting diesel in the tractor- something Julien wasn’t sure we could do, since there was a strike on gas. We first made our way to “the Palace,” a giant sculptured fountain built into a hill and surrounded by lush fields of grass and palm trees. It stood tall over the tiny city streets and pastel houses roofed with red terra cotta. As we looked out from the top of the fountain, we saw the city, the mountains surrounding it and the beautiful blue Mediterranean. Behind the fountain hides a lavishly green park- not what you normally hear about “dirty Marseille.”

Next we made our way to lunch on the Corniche, a road that follows the steep cliffs next to the Mediterranean where the rich houses sit. We sat in front of a beach and the bluest water I’ve ever seen, eating crepes and drinking wine. No lunch should be less than that.

Our tour continued as we wound up the giant hill to see Notre Dame de le Garde, the church which sits on the highest point in Marseille and which houses Bonne Mere, a statue of the Virgin Mary which the Marseillaise say watches over the city. The old church was gorgeous and showcased an amazing view of the entire city. Inside are intricate stained-glass windows which allow colorful light to seep in onto delicately laid mosaic flooring. On one outer wall of the church are huge bullet holes from the American effort to oust the Germans from the city. The holes still stand as a visible reminder of the city’s history and sit deep within the wall, as if the bullets were at least 20 calibers fired from large guns at the bottom of the hill.

Our final destination was the Old Port, a part of Marseille originally founded by Greek sailors as an economic port before the time of Christ. Large buildings loom over a small port with tall masts in long rows. This where the heart of Marseille is, with tiny shops, cafes and brasseries strung along narrow side streets, all with a link to the city’s maritime past. We sat and had a coffee at a café and made our way back to the hotel and parted ways with our amazing tour guide.

For dinner, we decided to save some money and head to the grocery store. On our tiny stove in our room, I cooked up some pasta with a sauce of oil, white wine, sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts. We also had some baguette, obviously, and lots and lots of wine. We sat around all night drinking, talking and laughing. It was a great end to the evening. Little did I anticipate the horror to come.

Look, the Calanques!

Saturday came with a headache and a queasy feeling. I found the wrath of the French love of wine. Casey had hit the hay pretty early so was her usual chipper self. Sean, ever the level-headed one, had made sure to drink plenty of water with his wine (and beer). I, on the other hand, woke up with a not so great feeling all about me. However, we had a big day planned and a showered up, rested a bit and then we headed down to the Old Port. We found a ship headed for the Calanques, a series of giant cliffs along the coastline which have been formed by thousands of years of a rough ocean. Before boarding we were told, as it translates, “it’s windy, the sea is agitated.” Oh well, we said, you’re only here once, and we climbed aboard. Bad call.

The trip through the port was nice and calm, we watched the city fade into the distance and saw the island which houses the Count of Monte Cristo’s prison. However, about 25 minutes into our 3.5 hour journey, the sea was indeed agitated. As the giant waves began to rock the boat back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, I started to realize what a poor choice I’d made. I took a seat inside with the rest of sea-sick sailors and began my immediate and painful descent into nautical hell. About half of the passengers sat inside with me, all of them clutching white paper bags (and brown bags after the boat ran out of the standard, white puke bags) trading off between just looking miserable and paying their stomach’s due to Poseidon. It was incredibly awful. The boat rocked up and down, back and forth, and the passengers spewed their guts out all over the place and the captain got on the P.A. and said useless shit about the big cliffs that nobody cared about anymore in a language that not only confused, but by this point enraged me. It wasn’t until I fell asleep on the table in front of me that I got a little relief. Thank you, Casey, for the support and the puke bags. Thank you, my fellow passengers, for going through that with me and not judging.

We later walked the streets near the Old Port and found a tiny little pizzeria, Le Marmite, which was nice and cute, but due to my foul mood, was nothing special. The night finished off while watching EuroVision, a European song contest where 25 countries send a contestant and each of the 46 European countries votes via text message to decide the winner. After 2 hours of songs that make your little cousin’s garage band sound good, Europe took about an hour to tell us the Russia’s Enrique Iglesias, his violinist and the ice-dancer that accompanied them, reigned supreme. It was amazing.

Rain Makes for Rummy

Finally, today, we all woke up ready for the beach and nature said “no.” After checking out of our hotel, which was a great little place, we made our way through the light rain and chilly weather, to Le Kilt, a Scottish coffee bar/restaurant where we whiled away the next few hours talking, playing a long game of rummy, and eating the richest food ever. I ordered a salad, which came with fries and what was easily a half-pound of melted, fried Camembert sitting prominently in the center. Needless to say, I didn’t get through much of the cheese. After we finished, St. Julien picked us up and drove us to the train station. He mentioned over and over how much he appreciated us hanging out with him (this guy is unreal) and how it “made my day, you have this expression?” to spend time with Americans and get to speak English with us. He also told us how much his parents loved us, though only Casey could communicate with them and that we had stay in touch.

We rode the train back to Paris, uneventfully, as the strike has since been settled. After a couple pints in the local Irish pub, we grabbed some surprisingly great falafel sandwiches and walked home. It was a great weekend, sans Saturday, in a place which surprised all of us. While Marseille is a bit rough around the edges in its more residential areas, the seaside is beautifully Mediterranean and sits peacefully as a mirror of its Italian and Spanish neighbors. Definitely a great part of France, vastly different from Paris. Tomorrow brings new adventures.