Monday. Paris.
And so I return from a second sojourn down to the south of France. Consensus? I think you could call Marseille the bastard child of Provence - not as prim and pretty as Nice, nor as flashy and extravagant as Cannes, but wilder and meaner with a bit of a sting. Marseille is defined by the large immigrant population there, given its position as the gateway to France from North Africa, and perhaps the rest of the Mediterranean. Hence, one enounters an atmosphere vastly different from either Paris or Nice. I still can't say whether I like the city or not.
Among our stops on the tourist trail: Notre Dame de la Garde — a cathedral overlooking the city, with some stunning mosaics and views of the city (perhaps among my top five favourite churches of all time); the Calanques — grottos to the east of the city, which I thought too cold to swim in, but in which my friend Luke happily frolicked around; and the Old Port and Town — in which we saw a burnt motorcycle and some political graffitti amid the narrow streets (reminiscent of Tours, but with a Mediterranean feel).
I also had my first encounter with the flics or French police, while sitting with Luke near the Old Port at night. I was asked to produce my papers, had my bag searched and was frisked. The same happened to Luke, but he was also asked if he had any shit or hash. On the whole, they were reasonably friendly and once it was established we were clean, they bade us a bonne soirée. A charming highlight of our trip there.
Bienvenue à Marseille.
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