Marseille

I was telling someone recently about my time in France and realized that I tend to gloss over my first year in the country. I prefer to discuss the glitz and glamour of Paris to the less than pleasant experiences I had while in Marseille. But when i'm honest with myself, I know that it's my time in Marseille that changed me more than any other time period in my life. If I chose to focus on the bad, I miss the opportunity to retell the stories as the truly life altering experiences that they were. I don't miss Marseille as I do Paris but I will someday return to show my children the city that helped to shape their mother into the woman that she has become.

Not too many people know about Marseille beyond The Conte of Montecristo. The above picture is of Chateau d'If. Sadly, I have started this book twice and never finished it. It may have something to do with my inability to romanticize Marseille. I never visited the Chateau but a girl friend of mine almost died trying to swim from the mainland to the island one cold, rainy day in February.
This is the road that ran along the coast and ultimately, out of town. I used to run on these sidewalks and this view saved me from going home on many occasions. I was very lost during my first year in France. I didn't know the language as well as I should have. I spent the first month terrified to leave my apartment - I did leave, though. I had only one friend, my upstairs neighbor. He was a very thin Frenchman from some island far away. Since my exchange program was very unprepared for Americans, he was a Godsend. He helped me open a bank account and showed me how to get to the beach. He showed me the way to get to school and when I told the headmaster that I had not been given any instructions on what I was supposed to do about school, he just shrugged and said, "Well it seems that you have made it thus far, I think you will be okay." He got fired the year after I graduated.

My neighbor took me out to dinner a few times and then started to get very possessive. I didn't know anything about dating in France but I was pretty sure that he expected something from me so I just didn't try to talk to him again. I still feel a bit guilty at not having the language skills at the time to express my gratitude to him. I wouldn't have gotten on my feet if it wasn't for him.

Vieux Port of Marseille

Marseille is the second largest city in France and is home to the Vieux Port. The ancient port was built by the Romans and is absolutely amazing. Even today, fisherman bring their catch in to the port to sell along the sidewalks.

Marseille has a very heavy North African influence and this influence shapes the ebb and flow of life in the city. Being a blond haired blue eyed foreigner was like putting a bulls eye on my forehead. I had never been "picked up" in a bar so having men approach me was something I didn't really know how to deal with. Throw in a language barrier and I was toast. I was regularly followed by men. I once was told that I was a good lay by a boy that looked to be 12. I was still fairly new to France but I knew what he was saying, and so did the elderly lady standing next to me.

I once had a man approach me selling candy bars. I was eager to show my support for the local whatever it was but as I was getting some money out of my pocket he leaned in and kissed me on the lips. I was shocked, scared and horrified that it had happened outside of my apartment. He now knew where I lived. I dropped my money, he dropped four candy bars and laughed as he walked away. I didn't want to leave my apartment again the next day - but I did.

One of my, now favorite, stories of men and their ridiculousness was the time I was "stuck" in the laundry mat with a man in a wheel chair. I couldn't leave because clothes often went missing - even in mid wash. I would bring a book in hopes that no one would talk to me. Looking busy was key. However, this man didn't seem to see my invisible force field and started asking me several questions.

Are you married?

This was a tough one to answer. Say "no" and you are clearly available and interested in having sex right then and there. Say you are engaged then you clearly would like one last fling before marriage. Say your married and you most definitely want to cheat because you are bored.

I said yes.

He then asked me if I would like to go back to his apartment for some champagne. Shit. This happened right after New Year's 2000. I told him no - my husband wouldn't approve. He then started telling me how pretty I was and how, if I had sex with him, his back might get fixed. Surely my husband wouldn't mind. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't saying much anyway. My French had dramatically improved by then but I still had an accent and clearly had never been in a situation like this. We bantered back and forth for just a few minutes more. He inched his wheelchair close to the door and his legs were twitching a bit. I thought that if I had to, I would throw all of my weight at him and get out of the door and run, screaming, to the grocery store just a few feet from the laundry mat. They knew me at the store - a few mishaps with milk and eggs and I was their case study in America. None of this was necessary, thank God, but I changed where I did my clothes.

My last trip to a laundry mat, in early 2002, was one of my worst experiences in Marseille. I was just about finished with the washing machine when the man next to me told me that I was pretty. I just smiled. He asked if I wanted to know how pretty he thought I was. I said no. He pulled down his pants to show me how pretty he thought I was and tried to touch me. I blew past him, bag full of soaking wet clothes, and spewed profanities in English all the way home. I couldn't believe that I was living in a country in which no one would come to my aid in a situation like that. There were several older gentleman outside of the laundry mat and they had witnessed the whole thing. I washed my clothes by hand after that.

I regret not knowing the name of this fountain. I found this place by accident one day and discovered that Marseille had some beauty to it after all. Behind this structure is a very peaceful park. I visited the place many times during that first year. I felt safe and happy here. I wasn't hounded by North African men and I could read for as long as I wanted.

Marseille tested me as a person more than I wish on anyone. For all of the bad experiences I had, there were many good ones. I met some amazing people while in Marseille. I learned to speak French - for real. I studied finance in French - never once did anyone at school speak English to me and now I have a degree from a foreign university. My immersion was so intense that I came home speaking English with a British accent - there were no other Americans. I had ventured out on my own and i was different.

My Grandaddy remembered Marseille from the perspective of a sailor in WWII. He was fearful for my safety but encouraged me to go anyway. Before I left, he handed me an envelope that contatained French francs, left over from their last trip to France. He gave me a few other things that were invaluable in my first week in Marseille. I marvel that he just knew I would need them. My Grandaddy taught himself French several years before I went there and, during this year, we became very close. He was very sick and up a lot during the night. Since there was a convenient time difference, he would call often to talk. I worried that he was awake at 2, 3, 4, in the morning but I learned so much during these phone calls. I can remember excusing myself from class to take his calls. He could also use e-mail so he would write to me in French and tell me about different dishes he had read about. I would seek them out, try them and then report back as to whether or not they were as good as his imagination had made them. His French was a mix of French, Spanish and a twist of Texan. If Marseille gave me nothing else, it gave me priceless time with my Grandaddy. I was able to fly to Texas to see him one last time before he passed away. I stayed for the memorial service but had to return to France before his funeral. I have never visited his grave.



***All photos are courtesy of flickr. All of my photos are still from the olden days. I'll get them digitized someday.