Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Briefly Want To Be Laurel Or Hardy

May 5, 2008 by Mike

Marseille

Two days in the big city.

Bit of beach. Bit of a wander and a bit of a gander.

The museums are tiny: the Marine Museum - two side corridors (albeit in the gigantic Bourse building); the Roman Docks Museum - one moderately sized room; the Marseille History Museum: three rooms, that leap from the time of Julius Caesar to the 17th century with *nothing* in between, leastways an explanation;

I walked past this today. Thought about it for a moment. If it's good enough for Stan and Ollie... :

The basilica of Notre Dame de la Garde has great views over the bay and it's a good, stirring walk up steep streets to get there (oh, and it's very popular with Catholics too.)

What's more, as I got lost on the way there (quite hard to get lost when the basilica is clearly visible from just about every street in the city), I found myself rambling through quiet, narrow roads on the hills east of the basilica -- Marseille's 7th Arrondisement. Really lovely. No traffic. No sounds or smells of traffic.

An old man looks up from across the street and smiles: "Are you looking for anyone?"

Anyone. Not anywhere or anything. This is a neighbourhood where people know each other, and look out for each other, and are welcoming to strangers.

And.. here's another house I could move into. The picture doesn't capture the intimate, rustic, serene quality of 34 Rue Alfred de Musset, 7eme Arrondisement, Marseille. Utterly charming (and there's a violin maker next door. As long as s/he doesn't practice on them late at night, I can't imagine anything better.)

The Youth Hostel filled up with kids yesterday, which I suppose is fair enough. That meant us wrinklies regrouping in different rooms and I found myself sharing with Laurent (that rarity, a Frenchman in a French Youth Hostel), a young American called Jordan and a mysterious fourth man.. possibly The Fourth Man?.. who was asleep in his bunk the whole time. Nobody knows where he's from or what language he might speak.

Jordan, a budding actor and blogger from something called Iowa, said enough nice things about my trip to qualify for a free copy of the book, if I ever write it.

(Actually, Jordan, I'd be giving you the book so you don't have to read Dan Brown ever again...)

If I'm ever going to get another tattoo, I'm coming back to Marseille and the funky looking parlour closest to the Legion Etrangere. I figure the in-house tattoo artist to the French Foreign Legion just has to be good. I mean, he wouldn't dare be bad, would he?

Two notes of caution when I start falling in love with France all over again, so soon after losing my heart to Spain.

1. It's bloomin' expensive. My start-the-day cup of coffee was 1€ in Spain, maybe 1€20 if I picked too smart a cafe. Here, the shoddiest place starts the bidding at 2€50.

2. The French are all tucked up in bed at a time when the Spanish (and me) are starting to think that maybe we should consider starting to cook the evening meal. And there's no siesta.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Briefly Want To Be Laurel Or Hardy

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