inhabited ever since, for twenty-six centuries, and the population has expanded from two to around a million.
Like the city, the inhabitants have a reputation that is, as their critics say,
un peu spécial
—special, in this case, not being the complimentary label it usually is in English. The Marseillais is suspected of stretching the truth from time to time, of embroidering and exaggerating. I wonder if this is because Marseille is a fish town, and the environment somehow encourages the natural instinct of the fishermanto improve on nature. Only in the sea around Marseille, so the story goes, do sardines regularly grow to the size of young sharks. Should you ask to see one of these marvels, you will be told it’s the wrong time of the month; the moon must be full. Or, if the moon happens to be full when you ask, you will be told to be patient. It is only at the time of the new moon when the giant sardine can be observed. To be fair, this advice is usually delivered with a nudge and a wink, and you are not really expected to take it seriously. Nevertheless, the reputation exists. I was told that you should take several grains of salt whenever you go to Marseille, and to use them frequently in the course of conversation.
That is, of course, if you can understand what is being said. Marseille has never been happy with the idea of being told what to do by a central government, and there is a long history of rebellion against officials in Paris, even down to the pomposities of their speech. Consequently, Marseille does its best to avoid speaking official French. This is partly achieved by the accent, and there is a kind of shagginess about the pronunciation which can make even familiar words sound as though they have been marinated in some thick linguistic sauce. When this is applied to the unfamiliar words and conversational quirks that are peculiar to Marseille, you find yourself wondering if you’ve been tossed into the swirling currents of a new language.
Here is just one of the many phrases that defeated me until I asked for it to be written down: “
L’avillon, c’est plus rapide que le camillon, même si y a pas de peuneus.
” The plane is faster than the truck, even if there aren’t any tires. A simple enough sentence in French, but garnished with the Marseille marinade it becomes incomprehensible. Imagine the difficulties when the phrase being spoken is alocal invention, such as: “
Il est un vrai cul cousu.
” The polite translation for this is a man who is lacking in a sense of humor, and who very rarely smiles. Or, more literally, a man who has his backside sewn up. If, in addition to his morose disposition, the poor fellow is thought to be seriously deranged, then “
Il est bon pour le cinquante-quatre
” a reference to the number 54 tram which stopped at the hospital that used to treat mental disorders.
Not even the names lovingly chosen by parents for their offspring can escape the Marseille treatment. André, whether he likes it or not, becomes
Dédou
, Francis becomes
Sissou
, Louise becomes
Zize
. As they grow up, the children will learn to use words that one is unlikely to hear anywhere else in France: words like
momo
and
mafalou
,
toti
and
scoumougne
and
cafoutchi
. It is a language within a language, sometimes very close to the old Provençal dialects, sometimes borrowing from the immigrants who have come to Marseille over the centuries from Italy, Algeria, Greece, Armenia, and heaven knows where else. A stew of speech, rich and often ripe, guaranteed to bewilder the newly arrived visitor.
But the first obstacle to be overcome is finding the center of town. The most direct and spectacular way to arrive is by sea, a route that would probably find you agreeing with Madame de Sévigné, who was “overwhelmed by the singular beauty of this town.” From a boat, you would see it all: the neat rectangular form of the old port, the sprawl of the city, and, high above, the glint of gold from the
Like the city, the inhabitants have a reputation that is, as their critics say,
un peu spécial
—special, in this case, not being the complimentary label it usually is in English. The Marseillais is suspected of stretching the truth from time to time, of embroidering and exaggerating. I wonder if this is because Marseille is a fish town, and the environment somehow encourages the natural instinct of the fishermanto improve on nature. Only in the sea around Marseille, so the story goes, do sardines regularly grow to the size of young sharks. Should you ask to see one of these marvels, you will be told it’s the wrong time of the month; the moon must be full. Or, if the moon happens to be full when you ask, you will be told to be patient. It is only at the time of the new moon when the giant sardine can be observed. To be fair, this advice is usually delivered with a nudge and a wink, and you are not really expected to take it seriously. Nevertheless, the reputation exists. I was told that you should take several grains of salt whenever you go to Marseille, and to use them frequently in the course of conversation.
That is, of course, if you can understand what is being said. Marseille has never been happy with the idea of being told what to do by a central government, and there is a long history of rebellion against officials in Paris, even down to the pomposities of their speech. Consequently, Marseille does its best to avoid speaking official French. This is partly achieved by the accent, and there is a kind of shagginess about the pronunciation which can make even familiar words sound as though they have been marinated in some thick linguistic sauce. When this is applied to the unfamiliar words and conversational quirks that are peculiar to Marseille, you find yourself wondering if you’ve been tossed into the swirling currents of a new language.
Here is just one of the many phrases that defeated me until I asked for it to be written down: “
L’avillon, c’est plus rapide que le camillon, même si y a pas de peuneus.
” The plane is faster than the truck, even if there aren’t any tires. A simple enough sentence in French, but garnished with the Marseille marinade it becomes incomprehensible. Imagine the difficulties when the phrase being spoken is alocal invention, such as: “
Il est un vrai cul cousu.
” The polite translation for this is a man who is lacking in a sense of humor, and who very rarely smiles. Or, more literally, a man who has his backside sewn up. If, in addition to his morose disposition, the poor fellow is thought to be seriously deranged, then “
Il est bon pour le cinquante-quatre
” a reference to the number 54 tram which stopped at the hospital that used to treat mental disorders.
Not even the names lovingly chosen by parents for their offspring can escape the Marseille treatment. André, whether he likes it or not, becomes
Dédou
, Francis becomes
Sissou
, Louise becomes
Zize
. As they grow up, the children will learn to use words that one is unlikely to hear anywhere else in France: words like
momo
and
mafalou
,
toti
and
scoumougne
and
cafoutchi
. It is a language within a language, sometimes very close to the old Provençal dialects, sometimes borrowing from the immigrants who have come to Marseille over the centuries from Italy, Algeria, Greece, Armenia, and heaven knows where else. A stew of speech, rich and often ripe, guaranteed to bewilder the newly arrived visitor.
But the first obstacle to be overcome is finding the center of town. The most direct and spectacular way to arrive is by sea, a route that would probably find you agreeing with Madame de Sévigné, who was “overwhelmed by the singular beauty of this town.” From a boat, you would see it all: the neat rectangular form of the old port, the sprawl of the city, and, high above, the glint of gold from the
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