Whoever Doesn’t Jump is Not From Marseille. (football song)

 

The train strike was cancelled so, only an hour late, we boarded our train to Marseille.  Gaz had read somewhere that the French always take a picnic on board, so he made big rolls and added a bottle of Picpoul and despite my reservations (not of the train kind, the etiquette kind) we excitedly unpacked our goodies as we sped through lovely French countryside.  Farms and flamingoes, vineyards and freight yards whizzed by.   “Glasses?” I enquired.    “Forgot,” he replied.  Despite my embarrassment we sipped daintily from the bottle.   Classy or what?

Marseille station is a thing of ultra modern beauty.  They have even copied the St. Pancras open piano which was being effortlessly played by a young Frenchman.   Outside, Gary once more sought the advice of Miles (worst French accent in the world) Satnav.   Now.   Either  Miles has taken against us because of all the times we have shouted “Shut the (swear word) up.   How can we return to the bloody route if we don’t know where the bloody route is!”; or some malicious person has slipped him an internet version of a psychotic drug.   He’s being weird.

Off we set in high spirits.  “This way, darling,” says Gazzie merrily.   We started down a perpendicular cobbled road, our cute  little cases clippety clopping as we went   ………… into the jaws of hell.

I’m not saying it was a rough neighbourhood, but I feared for my very fillings.  Even the sun was a luxury not to be afforded amongst the mountains of debris that spilled from every opening.    Men sat in groups on the ground smoking and throwing dice and we jumped three feet off the ground when one said, “Bonjour.  Ça va?”

 

Every conceivable surface was covered in graffiti.   I have never seen such a proliferation of this questionable art.  Walls, doors, windows, shop fronts, cars -all covered.   Animals too, I suspect.   Through chattering teeth I said to Gaz, “Don’t stand still or you’ll find a Banksy  on your bottom”.

When thinking on this later I was a bit sorry we hadn’t stopped.  I thought, “Mmm.  Banksy on bottom;  remove Banksy with several layers of bottom.   Sell Banksy and keep bottom reduction”. A silver lining can be found in most things.

Finally we saw light filtering through the darkness and came out onto  a sunny street.   Totally ungraffitied people sat in groups chatting in Arabic, drinking coffee the colour of tar and making families of their Arabic speaking friends.

Unbelievably, like a man seeking advice from someone who has just directed him into a burning building, Gazzie once again sought advice from Rat Face ( worst French accent etc).    “ Straight up here, darling,” he said, a little less gaily than last time.   Up was right.   You almost needed a ladder to walk “up” this road.  “Only another 5 minutes”.   An hour later, while I was strapping on an oxygen cylinder and adjusting a face mask, he said.   “ I think Miles has told us wrong”.

We turned and made our way back down the road.   My face was set in a rictus of pain caused by a two hour walk on arthritic joints.  We had passed our hotel twice.  We checked in and fell on the bed and slept.

On waking, trying not to “seek out the poorer places where the ragged people go” (thanks Paul Simon), we found ourselves (no, you are absolutely never going to believe it, actually Miles found us) in an area,  just by the Metro, of sullen  streets and silent  strangers.   By this time though, hunger made us immune to danger and in this, the second largest city  of France, home of the Bouillabaisse, we had a delicious Indian meal.

Like mornings in all the best stories, our morrow dawned blue and gold.   The hotel was ideally placed in the shopping area and only minutes from the old port, where we sat and ate our omelettes in the 100+ year old restaurant “La Samaritaine”.   We sat transfixed looking at Norman Foster’s masterpiece Miroire Ombrière, built to shade visitors to the port and reflect the lives of those who visited.  Being an artist, like,  bet  he didn’t think of the poor souls who have to clean it.   Several contortionists  were attempting to do so as we watched.

 

As we try to do, whenever visiting a new town, we took the Big Bus Tour.  We were driven  right up to Notre Dame de la Garde which stands high above the town,  via  a hair raising route through narrow urban streets, bullying small cars out of  our way as we went. We held our breath as the bus seemed to teeter over the rocks above the Frioul archipelago and sighed with relief as we dropped down to drive along  the elegant corniche of the  sea front,  past  the town’s diverse architecture and back to the old port.   Too full and frozen  to eat the Bouillabaisse being served at most of the port side restaurants,  we returned to the hotel to thaw out.

 

In France, sales in retail shops are only allowed for 6 weeks from mid-January.   We felt it our duty to support the local economy and tried our best to buy.   Only to find that (apart from a pair of pink patent leather brogues that called to me) even the sale prices were beyond our budget.

Our last evening and Gazzie, working without Rat Face, found a delightful Bistrot in the Opéra region, just two blocks back from the port.  Named l’Horloge, it was narrow, with one line of tables,  giving close access to the neighbour’s food, and their dogs, should you be extra specially hungry.    The staff of youngsters were absolutely delightful, with huge smiles and a nothing-too-much-trouble attitude. We were using Google Translate to decipher the menu when, to the amusement of all our neighbours, the nice waiter pointed out there was an English translation beneath the French.

Gazzie had the octopus,  which he pronounced delicious and I had a gourmet cottage pie with pulled beef cheek and almonds.   We shared a plate of fromage, as yummy as a very yummy thing, and a pichet of  quite quaffable dry white wine.  All this for a princely 30 euros a head and more people-watching and story-making than your heart could desire.

 

The lights of the port lit our way home.   Perfect.

Despite security alerts at the station, and a thirty minute delay, the journey home was very pleasant.  And there was our foster mum, Bassie, waiting for us in an illegal parking area, ready to take us to our foster home in Roujan.

We light the fire;  Gaz turns on the rugby; I groan;  we home.