Maybe it’s living perched on the vast Mediterranean Sea, or the rich cross cultural currents, but despite rumors to the contrary, I found aloha in Marseille.
The citizenry is comprised of a mix of native Marseillais, French transplants, Africans, Arabs, Indians and Caribbeans to name only a few. Unlike Parisians, the Marseillais are mostly a cheerful bunch who really try to be of assistance and don’t mind that you speak only the most rudimentary French. When I encountered someone who doesn’t speak English, as is often the case, I dawn an apologetic mien. But it’s sincere as I truly wish I spoke French but despair of ever being able to pronounce it. I find sign language helpful and toyed with the idea of presenting myself as a mute and simply writing down what I wanted to say. Drawing pictures works well as I discovered while trying to purchase band-aids.
The citizenry is comprised of a mix of native Marseillais, French transplants, Africans, Arabs, Indians and Caribbeans to name only a few. Unlike Parisians, the Marseillais are mostly a cheerful bunch who really try to be of assistance and don’t mind that you speak only the most rudimentary French. When I encountered someone who doesn’t speak English, as is often the case, I dawn an apologetic mien. But it’s sincere as I truly wish I spoke French but despair of ever being able to pronounce it. I find sign language helpful and toyed with the idea of presenting myself as a mute and simply writing down what I wanted to say. Drawing pictures works well as I discovered while trying to purchase band-aids.
My first glimpses of Marseille are a bright, hot confusion of narrow streets lined with cars parked half on the sidewalk as if a cruise ship had missed the port, cutting a swath inland. And yes, buses use these streets too. Owning a car in Marseille means to accept the surface imperfections of close encounters with fellow travelers. It’s perfectly acceptable, for instance, to do some bumper nudging to get into a rare parking space. Operating a car in Marseille requires a firm grasp of “jungle driving” as rules are really just suggestions.
If you are a pedestrian in Marseille, you get to see jungle driving from a different, more vulnerable perspective. When pedestrians venture out into the streets they will find a mix of motorcycles, bikes, small cars, buses and trolleys all moving in a kind of improvised jazz arrangement. Lights, street signs and other guides are only the bare bones. A walk sign only means there is a possibility to cross the street but is no indication of safety. Crossing unscathed is often a group effort. As the minutes pass in the sweltering heat, an impromptu curbside union begins to grow and each approaching driver is calculating their chances of making it through without committing manslaughter. Critical mass and an unspoken consensus is attained and the pedestrians surge forward as one, into the strike zone. Making it up as you go is a charming aspect of Marseille life.
Perhaps this is why there are multitudes of law enforcement present in several guises. They travel in packs on bicycles, Segways, motorcycles and riot police vans. One Saturday night we counted a line of 15 vans, each with about a dozen officers, ready for action, sitting pensively or lounging and smoking cigarettes. Laissez faire has a price.
Because you have to plan your restroom needs carefully here, I became a bit obsessed with toilettes. Many older style buildings have toilettes that are a toilette seat set into the floor with 2 metal pads showing foot placement. The next upgrade is a toilette with no seat, then a toilette with no seat and toilette paper. Then there’s the toilette with a seat, which I was thrilled to find at the Alcazar Library. But was disappointed after searching all the stalls for toilette paper. It wasn’t until after the fact that I discovered 5 large dispensers hanging on the wall between the women’s and the men’s. On a few occasions I’ve had to ask myself: How badly do I need to go?
Because you have to plan your restroom needs carefully here, I became a bit obsessed with toilettes. Many older style buildings have toilettes that are a toilette seat set into the floor with 2 metal pads showing foot placement. The next upgrade is a toilette with no seat, then a toilette with no seat and toilette paper. Then there’s the toilette with a seat, which I was thrilled to find at the Alcazar Library. But was disappointed after searching all the stalls for toilette paper. It wasn’t until after the fact that I discovered 5 large dispensers hanging on the wall between the women’s and the men’s. On a few occasions I’ve had to ask myself: How badly do I need to go?
I spent the first couple of days here getting lost. Many of the maps here, like the traffic signals, play only a peripheral role in navigating the city. They’re just a suggestion. First off, the Vieux Porte, which is a major land mark, is oriented north to south on the map, when in reality, it faces east to west. Street names in actuality (if you can find them) do not correspond to the names on the map, as if the map maker simply used his own history and memory of the place when labeling streets, rather than what is actually there. So you find yourself juggling two or three different maps and using the visual patterns of the major streets and whatever corner landmarks you might remember. Wasn’t that the samba shop we passed an hour ago? Taking sun sights are also useful.
Our fifth floor apartment is in a fairly new, high security building, a block from the sea. The balcony looks out on a row of buildings of various vintages. Three old buildings with half clay pot roof tiles and chimneys are sandwiched between newer high rises. One can just imagine, Little House style, the multi-generational residents stalwartly refusing to yield to big money developers.
Being so close to the sea, there is a quite large seagull population and the old roof tops provide a brooding ground. A mistral wind and thunder storm swept through on our first night in the apartment. Always loving a good storm, we noticed two seagulls crouched on top of the chimney covers, seemingly unaware of the downpour. But the next morning dawning bright blue, we understood why. Perched on top of a flat square of roof patching were two seagull chicks.
These provided entertainment and some worry over the next few days. The young chicks are grey fuzz balls with a jutting beak and stilt legs ending in oversized swim fin shaped feet. These they used to trundle precariously up and down the roof, wings lifting, seemingly of their own accord, for balance. One or both parents perched above while the bolder of the two explored freely and cheeped at his sibling who remained huddled on the safety patch. Some mornings I had a few moments of maternal panic when I couldn’t spot both birds, convinced that the timid one had somehow took a slide to the cement below or that the bold one took an early, unsuccessful flight. A couple of weeks later, they had been moved to the other side of the roof, which I can only assume was the staging ground for their first flight.
I can only hope their first flight was as happy and successful as my first flight in Marseille. Walking along the water front, entertainment can be found in the form of gangs of boys who are challenging each other to jump or dive from jagged rocks of various heights. Not quite as thrilling as watching surfers on a northwest swell but every bit as joyous. There are island hearts here in this easy going, multi-cultural place, so is it any wonder we felt at home here?
Our fifth floor apartment is in a fairly new, high security building, a block from the sea. The balcony looks out on a row of buildings of various vintages. Three old buildings with half clay pot roof tiles and chimneys are sandwiched between newer high rises. One can just imagine, Little House style, the multi-generational residents stalwartly refusing to yield to big money developers.
Being so close to the sea, there is a quite large seagull population and the old roof tops provide a brooding ground. A mistral wind and thunder storm swept through on our first night in the apartment. Always loving a good storm, we noticed two seagulls crouched on top of the chimney covers, seemingly unaware of the downpour. But the next morning dawning bright blue, we understood why. Perched on top of a flat square of roof patching were two seagull chicks.
These provided entertainment and some worry over the next few days. The young chicks are grey fuzz balls with a jutting beak and stilt legs ending in oversized swim fin shaped feet. These they used to trundle precariously up and down the roof, wings lifting, seemingly of their own accord, for balance. One or both parents perched above while the bolder of the two explored freely and cheeped at his sibling who remained huddled on the safety patch. Some mornings I had a few moments of maternal panic when I couldn’t spot both birds, convinced that the timid one had somehow took a slide to the cement below or that the bold one took an early, unsuccessful flight. A couple of weeks later, they had been moved to the other side of the roof, which I can only assume was the staging ground for their first flight.
I can only hope their first flight was as happy and successful as my first flight in Marseille. Walking along the water front, entertainment can be found in the form of gangs of boys who are challenging each other to jump or dive from jagged rocks of various heights. Not quite as thrilling as watching surfers on a northwest swell but every bit as joyous. There are island hearts here in this easy going, multi-cultural place, so is it any wonder we felt at home here?
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