Provence and Occitainie: Day 3, Part 1
- lendroitheureux
- 5 hours ago
- 8 min read
Sea Crossings, Brass Bands, A Massive Fountain, A Mass Protest, and My Cheese
Saturday morning in Marseille began much the same way each day would begin on this trip: I would wake way too early, get too excited about the day, look at the itinerary, shower, and head out by myself to enjoy my coffee and cigarette. I will write about the complicated relationship between smoking and France in a later post, but suffice to say it is something that gives me great pleasure, even if I know of all the dangers and downfalls. We have a good, mutually beneficial system for our vacation mornings. We started this system back in 2019 in Montreal and have refined it over the years to its present state. Through study and practice, thus praxis, we have achieved a system wherein Lani can have her relaxing morning routine without having to rush and without me bouncing around the room, looking over her shoulder while asking, “Are you ready? Can we go? Are you ready, can we go? Are you ready? Can we go?” like an annoying pest. I get ready first, go out and enjoy a casual walk, and stop at a cafe. Lani can take her time and have some calm A.M. peace. Often, I will also visit a boulangerie, patisserie, and market to get some bread, fruit, and some manner of tart or sweet thing for breakfast. It all works out.
There were a plethora of cafes from which to choose for a morning coffee all around the Vieux Port, within easy walking distance from our hotel. I chose one, quite simply and literally called “Bar Tabac du Vieux-Port.” Situated on the southeast corner of the port, it has a small patio, gruff older male employees, and equally gruff patrons. Ideal for a morning smoke and coffee. As you may have surmised from the name of the place, they also sell cigarettes. On my visits, there would be no dilly-dallying. No chit chat. No small talk. Order, pay, enjoy, and be on your way. Or get another, pay, and be gone. My kind of place.
Across the street from the small cafe/tabac, sits the large “L’Ombriere,” one of the more currently iconic installations on the Vieux Port. It’s a very large, highly polished stainless steel plate, perched atop a few posts about 6 meters tall. It’s highly reflective and gives a surreal mirrored image of those underneath. It’s a gathering place, as on this day it hosted a large farmers market. Every day of the week, the Marches aux Poissons is situated on the quai next to the Ombriere, with the early morn’s fresh seafood on display for the public and restaurateurs alike to peruse and purchase.
This fine Saturday’s sky was Mediterranean blue with large painter’s strokes and swipes of grey/white clouds, which promised to be perfect for a nice, long walk. But first? A sea crossing! The small ferry boat that crosses the Vieux Port, north to south and south to north, all day long is billed as the world's shortest sea crossing at 283 meters. It takes about 3-4 minutes and costs 50 cents. That is correct! You too can cross the Mediterranean and get a view of Vieux Port for only one-half euro, you hardy sea-farer you! And that is precisely how we started off our day. The boat is a small craft, completely enclosed with glass, providing for a panoramic view of the port and surrounding area. It holds somewhere around 30 people and goes back and forth from the Hotel de Ville in the north to Place aux Huiles in the south.
As we boarded the ferry, a small group of funky-looking young folks, donned in gender-bending attire, each carrying some kind of brass or percussion instrument, walked by and set up shop in front of Hotel de Ville. They hoisted their instruments and started playing. And play they did! And dance! It was sheer choreographic and pompy camp chaos. Maybe the tubas (sousaphones?) were a bit off key, perhaps the dancing was less than perfect, and yet it was joy. Pure, uninhibited joy! The band of campy youth attracted a crowd and played us across the sea. Sometimes things just work out.
We took the ferry from the north Quai to the southern Quai and then immediately headed to the left and walked right back to the north (because I plan things well). At the northeastern corner of the Vieux Port sits Eglise Saint-Ferreol les Augustins. The church is modest and yet the site has been a “thing” in Christendom since at least the 1300s. The current structure (well, most of it) was started some time in the 16th century and completed around 1588. I say “most of it” because the church was almost destroyed in the French Revolution. The entire front facade came-a-crumblin’ down just a couple decades later due to a much less glamorous and romantic instance: street construction toppled it. Thus, the facade is oddly out of place, in a much brighter white stone than the old church it fronts. I had been wanting to go inside because Catherine de Medici, one of the most powerful women in world history, was married to King Henry II in this church in 1533. Much like Abbaye Saint-Victor (from Provence and Occitanie: Day 2, Part 1), Eglise Saint-Ferreol is unassuming and just, well, there. Its historical significance is unannounced by obnoxious signage or ticket booths. As with so many churches we came across, we just walked in. There isn’t much inside in terms of fine art and paintings and little to tell one of the fact that this is the site where a king of France married the niece of a pope. Regardless, these are the kinds of places I thirst over in our travels. A quick stop and worth it. Recommended.
And from there, where? Canebiere! The Canebiere is a long commercial boulevard that stretches from the Vieux Port right through the heart of Marseille. I've heard people compare it to Paris’ Champs-Elysees. Don't do that. There is no need to compare Marseille and Paris. Sure, both are large cities in France. The end. They both have their charms and problems. I love them both. And so should you. I love Marseille so much, in fact, that walking La Canebiere is one of my favorite memories of all my travels. The ideal Saturday mid-day weather brought out the people: walkers, shoppers, cafe-goers, a middle-aged woman handing out what were obviously promo flyers for a protest of some sort, vendors setting up tables on the sidewalk to pedal antiques, trinkets, and baubles. I bought a wee-little silver spoon for my wee-little porcelain sugar bowl I have at home. I mean, if I’m going to purchase a small silver spoon for my sugar bowl, I will not suffer to do so anywhere other than a street market in Marseille, France.
We saw Zarafa the Giraffe. Or rather, we saw the statue of Zarafa that exists on La Canebiere due to the fact that in 1827 the Ottoman Viceroy of Egypt gifted a whole, grown and alive giraffe to the king of France. They had to cut a large hole out of the deck of a ship so she could stick her head out on the sea voyage across the Mediterranean. She landed in Marseille and wintered there. After spending about seven months in Massilia, she walked, yes WALKED!, to Paris. Whenever I think about this story, I imagine people in cities and villages across France in 1828 waking up one morning to see a giraffe just casually strolling through the town center. It would be odd enough for people nowadays to see a live giraffe walking around in Europe like that, let alone in 1828. What witchcraft they must have borne witness to.
On up the Canebiere we continued. We stopped into the Eglise St Vincent De Paul, a very busy “working” church this Lenten Saturday. It's not quite as old as other churches we've visited, but due to its location, upon leaving the quiet confines of the inner chapel and stepping outside, we were immediately reminded that we were smack dab in the middle of a massive, pulsating city, with movement, sounds and vibes everywhere. We walked to nearby Square Stalingrad, bought some beignets, looked about at the open-air flower market, sat next to Fontaine Des Danaides and enjoyed our fresh pastry treats.
On we went. Where La Canebiere turns to Boulevard de la Liberation, we turned north and found Boulevard Longchamp which we followed to our next prize: Palais Longchamp. Palais Longchamp was built in the middle 19th century to celebrate the completion of an aqueduct bringing fresh water to Massilia. When, in the very first blog post, I said that the French like to celebrate themselves and are quite good at it, I also had this garish work of sculpted flowing fountain brilliance in mind.
Longchamp is big. It's huge. I had seen many, many pictures and videos of it when planning this trip, and nothing even came close to seeing it in real life. The pictures and videos we took don't convey the audacity of the monument. It's wonderful. And ostentatious. The multi-leveled, arched, tiered, and columned monument building spreads it two wings to the left and right of the huge fountain to onlookers on the streets below like the auntie you only see once a year but who insists on hugs and kisses, complete with makeup smudges and perfume clouds in her embrace. It really isn't a "fountain" in as much as it's a "waterfall." A huge, multi-storied cascading arc of aqua falling into an sea-sized pool at street level. Much more than a mere fountain, but we'll call it a "fountain." I had made a sullen comment earlier in preceding days about certain fountains we ventured to not flowing, as I had unfounded anxiety that there would be no functioning fountains in Southern France at this time of the year. Lani looked up at Longchamp waterworks and deadpanned, “Well, you got your fountain.”
Longchamp is free, with two museums (a fine arts and a natural history) in the two wings. There's a large garden, perfect for strolling, behind the monument. Climb up either curved staircase to the veranda, stand behind the fountain and look out over Marseille. It's grand. The entire Chateau d’Eau, the centerpiece of the monument with the fountain and pond, is probably the most gregarious public monument of this type I've seen in France. It's testament to French art, engineering, architecture, and urban spaces that anyone can utilize. There were people lounging all over the stairs and balconies, sun bathing, snacking, reading, or napping. There were wanna-be Instagram influencers posing in front, on the side, at the top, all over, trying to get that perfect shot of themselves while their less made-up, less fashionista friend or partner snapped photos, hogged space and got in everyone's way. I really enjoyed it there. It was the architectural and monument equivalent of a cross-dressing brass band playing at quayside.
Part II of this Marseille Saturday will be published soon.
