Provence and Occitanie: Day 1
- lendroitheureux
- Apr 19
- 9 min read
Updated: 5 hours ago
Marseille
Arriving in Marseille was unlike touching down in any other place. I had been planning this trip for literally 10 months. I concocted an itinerary, worked it, reworked it, planned daily routes, timed walking distances, Google mapped and remapped, stared at street view and pinpointed the most efficient paths. I managed, micro-managed, dreamed about and pondered. In short, I was (over)prepared for this. Or so I thought.
Stepping from the bus that whisked us from the Marseille Provence Airport (very easy, 10 euros, staffed ticket booth right outside Terminal 1) to Marseille Saint-Charles train station, I was immediately met with an olfactory and aural punch to the face: French being spoken in a way I had never heard, diesel exhaust, train noises, cigarette smoke (more on that in a later post), sunshine, pigeons, and snark. It was glorious! And did I smell seafood and garlic? Was that possible? In the back of a train station at the bus platform? The driver and luggage handler were arguing in provincial French while smoking so I grabbed our bags, nodded toward the station, and muttered “On y vas.” And off we went. I was prepared, and yet joyously underprepared for just how marvelous, noisy, scent-filled, scenic and cosmopolitan Marseille turned out to be.
The day was bright, blue, and warm. Puffs of clouds framed the scene on the veranda outside Saint-Charles Station. Notre Dame de la Gard was in grand view, as it would be throughout our stay in Massilia, and I was hyped! So hyped that I left Lani behind as I scurried out the doors, across the veranda, and toward the stairs to the gorgeous (if incredibly problematic, colonial and racist) statuary and sculptures abutting the stairs. As I took a picture of two cherubs fondling fruit, I was downwind from a gentleman resting on the stairs in the full sun. He stank. It was rank. His rank stank hit me like a pot of shit/urine/sweat falling from a medieval home onto a cobbled street. It hurt. It was ok. It was life. People bustled. People walked. Sirens blared. The stairs stared. And Lani was being accosted by a man who wanted to “help” carry her bag. It was no big thing. She's tough and announced a solid, loud, “NO!” and he let go. She finally found me, clicking away at the statues, graffiti, stickers, and sculptures in sheer bliss. She was chagrined. I was fine. And she was fine.
And on we went. ON Y VAS!
In regard to the aforementioned statuary flanking the stairs that lead from the train station to street level. Marseille sculptor Louis Botinelly created the works Les Colonies d’Asie and Les Colonies d’Afrique in the early 1920s for the stairs at Gare St. Charles. We would come across another public Botinelly sculpture later in the day. The French like to celebrate themselves. In fact, they are quite good at it. Perhaps the best in the world. Due to their extensive and quite lucrative (for France) legacy of colonizing and exploiting the resources and labor of darker skinned peoples, France became, and remains, quite wealthy. I have heard it said that Haiti paid for the Eiffel Tower and, in fact, as recently as 2025, Haitian/American/Japanese tennis great Naomi Osaka referenced this on social media by asking France whether or not Haiti could “get their money back.” I mention this because I think it’s important to keep in mind when traveling to certain parts of the world and enjoying the diverse art, architecture and cultures that, often, the world's poor and colonized paid, and continue to pay, for these items and ways of life. Discussions such as these, and understanding the historical context of what one is seeing and experiencing, won’t ruin a trip, bring people down, or take away from the fun. Quite the opposite; learning about and grappling with the legacy of colonialism can add to one’s experience and provide for a more fruitful and intellectually stimulating vacation. Being receptive to learning about the legacies, warts and all, of the places you visit can make you a more conscientious tourist and provide for experiences on a more profound level. Embrace it and explore.
Ok. Now… ON Y VAS!
It was about a 15-minute walk from St. Charles to our hotel on the Vieux Port, the historic commercial port in Marseille that now serves as a marina, staging area for smaller commercial fishers and a couple tour boat companies. Marseille is the oldest city in France and the Vieux Port and the neighborhood just to the north, the Panier District, are the center of historical Marseille. Yes, we stayed right on the Vieux Port. Hotels in France are quite often less costly than in the United States. Of course there are the boutique and high-end hotels that are grand exceptions to this, but one can find nice digs in France in certain areas for right around 100 Euros a night. In fact, two of the four hotels in which we stayed on this trip through Provence and Occitanie were less than 100 for a night. That said, Hotel la Residence du Vieux Port was not one of them. I chose it as a treat and while this hotel was not the high-end, “only the rich and elite stay here” kind of place where doormen with ear pieces keep an eye on all comers and goes, it was probably right at the top-end of our budget. The view of the old port and Notre Dame de la Garde and the balcony overlooking the port were worth the cost, and sometimes one has to splurge a bit. It was also perfectly centered for the three days worth of walks and sight-seeing in which we were about to engage.
Our first excursion for day one: the Vieux Port, its environs, and the Panier District. Walking west along the northern part of the Vieux Port (Quai du Port) will lead one to the water’s edge where the port meets the Mediterranean Sea. In a large area, redeveloped from a customs terminal, stands a modern museum (Mucem, The Museum of European and Mediterranean Cultures) and the large Fort St. Jean, complete with ramparts abutting the sea and a couple large towers.
But first I needed to see a street sign. That is correct. A street sign. One of my favorite writers is Jamaican-born Claude McCay, a novelist and poet of the Harlem Renaissance who spent time in Marseille and used the fair Phocaean city as a main character in some of his books (Banjo and Romance in Marseille, for example). There is a small street, a “passage” to be precise, just a short stroll from the hotel, named for McKay. I knew I had to see it and get pictures. It brought me great joy to know that the Marseillais honor Claude McCay with a street on the Vieux Port, some prime real estate indeed.
On to the Mucem and the water’s edge, across the road from which sits the Eglise Saint-Laurent, a church that dates at least back to the 13th century and is next to a small plaza with where the other Botinelly, Le Dresseur d’Oursons or “The Bear Tamer” stands (it is so much more than a bear tamer, I will let you take a look for yourself), and since we had already seen a couple Botinellys, I figured we should have a look at this one as well. One can walk along the ramparts at the fort and across the gangplanks at the Mucem (for free) and enjoy some splendid views of the sea. It’s one of the must-see views in Marseille, and even if you don’t purchase admission to the Mucem (we did not), it’s worth it and will leave an indelible impression.
Tucked underneath Fort St. Jean and Mucem, at street level, is the Memorial des Deportations, a somewhat brutalist block structure that stands as testament and in memory of the January 1943 Nazi round-up of human beings from the adjoining Panier district. Over the course of three days the fascists seized about 6000 people, including a large proportion of the city’s Jewish community and deported them. They then went about dynamiting the Panier quarter, further displacing another 20,000 people. The Panier was the oldest district in the oldest city in France. It is resilient. It has been rebuilt and thrives. The Memorial des Deportations is but one of the memorials one will find throughout the city not only honoring the people who lost their lives and livelihood but who also struggled courageously against violent Nazi occupation. Seeing, reading, and pondering at these memorials are powerful moments, and the large Memorial des Deportations was a good place to help begin our journey.
As we continued our walk into the Panier, we stopped by some of the main tourist spots, including Cathédrale la Major and Vieille de Charite, but the highlight for me was Bar de la Place. Located on the south east corner of Place de Lenche, where stairs and narrow, graffiti-covered streets meet in a small, half-block long concrete plaza. We had been wandering the Panier for about an hour, looking at the street art, small shops, and wonderful plants that line so many streets in Marseille, when I sped up to a fast walk. Then a trot. Then a jaunty gallop. I sped ahead to get to the goal. The goal? To behold the view that I had seen in a painting by Joseph Hurard titled Notre Dame de la Garde et les Escaliers de la Rue Bompard. The painting shows a view of Notre Dame de la Garde under a soft blue sky, framed by the dwellings of the Panier, in sunflower yellow reminiscent of Van Gogh. While I could not find Rue Bompard (I am certain the place names have changed in recent years) I DID find Place de Leche and Bar de la Place. I saw that the view of Le Bonne Mere from Place de Lenche was virtually identical to that in the Hurard painting. Whether or not it is the exact location is irrelevant to me now. I have convinced myself that it is the locale and was tickled pink when I saw that the bar was open with seats available on the plaza aligned perfectly to enjoy a drink and a view. Huffing and puffing, I ordered "Deux pastis, un café et de l'eau minérale gazeuse." Lani caught up, once again chagrin yet quickly pleased with the anis drinks, view, and chance to relax. This was truly one of the highest of lights in a day full of highlights!
That night, we ate at Chez Madie les Galinettes, a restaurant that came recommended on a number of fronts. Months earlier, I watched a YouTube video celebrating Marseille and promoting certain aspects of the city's food culture, and Chez Madie played a large role. The restaurant also made a guest appearance in a splendid little book titled Marseille: Port to Port by New York-based and CUNY sociologist William Kornblum. I also found some news articles about it and their website and on-line menu were charming and enticing. Chez Madie seemed to be beckoning to me, so I did some more research and discovered that, while it's located on the touristy Vieux Port, it is indeed a very traditional Provencial restaurant that is a local favorite. It did not disappoint. As we waited for our dishes to arrive, the owner, Delphine (whom I immediately recognized) came out to work the dining area. She turned toward our table first, and I audibly gasped. She looked at me as if to ask, "You ok there, sir?" and I explained to her in my best Frenglish how excited we were to dine there and how I had been anticipating this for literally months. Delphine was very genial, and the meal, complete with a carafe of local wine, was splendid. Southern French comfort food, rife with piles of veggies and fish (we both chose a fish dish for our main course) all swimming in the omnipresent French sauces. I decided upon lamb testicles as my entre (entre in France is the appetizer). When I ordered it, the server looked at me, made a face, and asked in her Frenglish (her English was on the same level as my French, so we managed) whether or not I knew what I was ordering. I assured her that I knew from what body part I was soon to dine and from whence that body part came. I explained that for years I was a vegetarian and still, in the U.S. I was a pescatarian, but when in France all bets were off. I eat it all! "VIANDE!" I exclaimed, "Tous les viande!" She chuckled (which was a win for me, as she had been quite sullen and "French server chic" up until then) and slow-walked off to put my order in. The testicles were quite delicious.
