nothing that would qualify as a life-threatening storm. “But there isn’t a mistral.”
“There will be.”
“Then why are you here?”
That provoked the first shrug of the day, against which there is no argument. Leaving the quay, we were stopped by a small, dark man who wagged an agitated finger at my wife. “Put it away,” he told her, pointing at the camera slung from her shoulder. “Put it in your bag. This is Marseille.”
We looked around for gangs of camera thieves, sailors out of control on shore leave, dark-windowed cars carrying senior executives from the underworld, or indeed any sign of menace. There was none. The sun was warm, the cafés were full, the sidewalks busy in that slow-moving way you find in Mediterranean towns, where nobody seems to be in a hurry to go anywhere. The Marseille version of the man in the street, we noticed, is often more prosperously padded than his counterpart in the country, and we saw more impressive stomachs in half an hour than we normally see in a week. And the human color scheme is different, many of the faces reflecting the various tints of Africa, from café au lait to the deep gleaming black of Senegal.
We turned up the Canebière, the broad boulevard leading east from the port. Once a southern Champs-Elysées, this has now gone the way of many grand avenues around the world, and unless you have a particular interest in the offices of banks, airlines, and travel agents, there isn’tmuch to detain you. However, keep walking and turn left on to the Boulevard Dugommier, and you’ll eventually come to one of the sights on everyone’s list, the Saint-Charles station. Or rather, the staircase leading down from the station—a wide, nineteenth-century folly of a staircase, a film set of a staircase, decorated with statues representing Asia and Africa, the perfect spot to make your grand entrance to Marseille as long as you don’t have heavy suitcases. And from here, if time or aching feet have become a problem, you can duck underground and try the Marseille metro.
My record with underground transit systems is one of almost unbroken failure. I can, and do, get lost in the bowels of London, New York, or Paris as quickly as most people buy a ticket. But the Marseille system, even to someone who has a useless void where his sense of direction ought to be, is delightfully compact and straightforward. Fifteen minutes after leaving the station, we were on the south side of the Vieux Port, walking along the Corniche in the general direction of lunch.
It was one of the most pleasant strolls I have ever had in a city. Above the modern skyline, there were occasional golden glimpses of Notre Dame de la Gare. The sea was just below us, the views across to the Frioul islands were glorious, the air was balmy. On the sloping ledges of rock between the road and the sea, figures were stretched out taking the Indian summer sunshine. One man, who appeared to be totally naked except for a rubber bathing hat, was swimming, jerking forward with froglike kicks, his body pale against the dark blue water. It was more like June than October.
The coastline here has been nibbled into a succession of tiny coves, or
anses
, not all of them with reassuringnames. The Anse de Maldormé conjures up a colony of insomniacs, with their neighbors the counterfeiters installed not far away in the Anse de la Fausse Monnaie. Our destination was the Anse des Auffes (highly respectable ropemakers), home of a long-established restaurant with the engaging name of Chez Fonfon. There, we had been told, one could eat fish so fresh they winked at you as they came to the table.
Coming down from the Corniche into the Anse des Auffes, we felt we had left the city to find ourselves in a miniature fishing village. Boats were pulled up to a small ramp. Two children played football among the tables and chairs of a restaurant terrace. An optimist with an attaché case at his feet stood on the quay with his fishing rod,
“There will be.”
“Then why are you here?”
That provoked the first shrug of the day, against which there is no argument. Leaving the quay, we were stopped by a small, dark man who wagged an agitated finger at my wife. “Put it away,” he told her, pointing at the camera slung from her shoulder. “Put it in your bag. This is Marseille.”
We looked around for gangs of camera thieves, sailors out of control on shore leave, dark-windowed cars carrying senior executives from the underworld, or indeed any sign of menace. There was none. The sun was warm, the cafés were full, the sidewalks busy in that slow-moving way you find in Mediterranean towns, where nobody seems to be in a hurry to go anywhere. The Marseille version of the man in the street, we noticed, is often more prosperously padded than his counterpart in the country, and we saw more impressive stomachs in half an hour than we normally see in a week. And the human color scheme is different, many of the faces reflecting the various tints of Africa, from café au lait to the deep gleaming black of Senegal.
We turned up the Canebière, the broad boulevard leading east from the port. Once a southern Champs-Elysées, this has now gone the way of many grand avenues around the world, and unless you have a particular interest in the offices of banks, airlines, and travel agents, there isn’tmuch to detain you. However, keep walking and turn left on to the Boulevard Dugommier, and you’ll eventually come to one of the sights on everyone’s list, the Saint-Charles station. Or rather, the staircase leading down from the station—a wide, nineteenth-century folly of a staircase, a film set of a staircase, decorated with statues representing Asia and Africa, the perfect spot to make your grand entrance to Marseille as long as you don’t have heavy suitcases. And from here, if time or aching feet have become a problem, you can duck underground and try the Marseille metro.
My record with underground transit systems is one of almost unbroken failure. I can, and do, get lost in the bowels of London, New York, or Paris as quickly as most people buy a ticket. But the Marseille system, even to someone who has a useless void where his sense of direction ought to be, is delightfully compact and straightforward. Fifteen minutes after leaving the station, we were on the south side of the Vieux Port, walking along the Corniche in the general direction of lunch.
It was one of the most pleasant strolls I have ever had in a city. Above the modern skyline, there were occasional golden glimpses of Notre Dame de la Gare. The sea was just below us, the views across to the Frioul islands were glorious, the air was balmy. On the sloping ledges of rock between the road and the sea, figures were stretched out taking the Indian summer sunshine. One man, who appeared to be totally naked except for a rubber bathing hat, was swimming, jerking forward with froglike kicks, his body pale against the dark blue water. It was more like June than October.
The coastline here has been nibbled into a succession of tiny coves, or
anses
, not all of them with reassuringnames. The Anse de Maldormé conjures up a colony of insomniacs, with their neighbors the counterfeiters installed not far away in the Anse de la Fausse Monnaie. Our destination was the Anse des Auffes (highly respectable ropemakers), home of a long-established restaurant with the engaging name of Chez Fonfon. There, we had been told, one could eat fish so fresh they winked at you as they came to the table.
Coming down from the Corniche into the Anse des Auffes, we felt we had left the city to find ourselves in a miniature fishing village. Boats were pulled up to a small ramp. Two children played football among the tables and chairs of a restaurant terrace. An optimist with an attaché case at his feet stood on the quay with his fishing rod,
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