From Africa To Russia

In the morning, back on the metro to see Vieux Port. Marseille is a port city, working class, a bit dirty and rough around the edges, but not really as bad as say, Detroit or Newark or something. Along the docks, people are selling newly-caught fish of all varieties in stalls. Once again the backpack appears to surprise them. I walk up La Canabiere, it is hot and uphill a bit and I am tired, and signs are scarce. But I manage to find the train station, wait on yet another long line to get my ticket, and make the train with only seconds to spare. I sit and drink a beer once on board. Southern France shure is purty. Green hills, stuccoed villas, a glimpse of the sea occasionally. Get to Nice fairly quickly, walk around a bit, it is one of the more touristy places I have been. Grab a cheeseburger at McDonalds. It is also a bit sleazy, a few sex shops and the like. The people seem surly in general. I stop for a panini at a sidewalk cafe which is damn good. The French know food. People ride their mopeds around town, down alleyways, sometimes taking turns almost blindly. Controlled chaos. Go back to the hostel and nap a bit. Two more French Canadians walk in later on, and we stay up late along with a South Korean named Joe, chatting and drinking. At least they sell beer until late here. Jean-Francois and Isabel work in a hotel in Quebec City, and have decided to crash in Nice for a while. They are pleasant in the usual Canadian way, and I am glad for the company. Joe is studying English and is remarkably good with it, rarely asking for a repeat. He is quiet, friendly and polite.

In the morning the alarm goes off early, I almost kill myself getting out of the top bunk and shut it off. Stumble blearily to the station, catch the train to Marseille. It transfers in Montpelier, a little place in France with a park outside the station, where I sit and jot this down. Later, I get off the train in Marseille, no touristy signs or any signs of any type really (as expected), so I set off in a random direction. A few blocks down, a guy sits on a moped reading a magazine. I ask him for directions in tourist French. He pauses for a moment, deciding if he will help me or not. He decides yes, and gives me general directions in broken English. Still no signs, and I have been walking for some time, but I stumble upon a metro stop and, having a metro map handy, I decide to use it. The metro costs 1.70 euros, I hand the old woman in the booth a 5 euro bill. “Ca n’est pas suffit,” or something similar, and she hands the bill back. I hand her a 2 euro coin. She accepts it. I suspect this is a ploy to play Fuck With The Tourist, as I highly doubt it is that difficult to make change from a 5 euro bill. I get to Rond du Point Prado, wind down some streets for a while. The backpack is drawing surprised glances – I don’t think Marseille gets many backpackers. I find the hostel, tucked away in behind an apartment block with no sign. The hostel is full – this was one of the few places I hadn’t reserved in advance, since there was no online booking available. Shit. I am tired. I half decide to head back to the train station and push on towards Nice, since it is only six o’ clock or so. Back to Rond du Point Prado, I ask an old man if he knows any hotels. He points me that way. I go that way for a while, find nothing, then as I get back to the metro I decide to just check down the block a bit, and luck into a pretty reasonable hotel. Hallelujah. I go upstairs and crash. Taking the pack off, I find that my entire shirt is soaked through with sweat, and there are deep red marks running along my back and shoulders where the straps have been. I take a shower, which in France is a handheld device which seems awfully inefficient, since one hand is always occupied while scrubbing, washing etc. I decide to wash my clothes in the bathtub, fill it up and throw them in. I rest for a bit, watch the French Open, then go down on the street for some grub. There is exactly one restaurant within 50,000 kilometers of my hotel, which I quickly find out, and it is expensive Italian. Oh well. I sit down on the terrace and wait. The French at the tables around me are all dressed up, and take turns sneering condescendingly at things passing by on the street. The waitress spots me as foreign, and ignores me for a good half hour. I wait. She goes to all the other tables, hands out silverware, takes drink orders, takes a phone call. Finally I am allowed to order. I eat a large calzone with a coke, quite good. The waitress and her teenaged helper are back to ignoring me as I wait for the bill now. Another half hour, an hour. She goes to every other table five times. I am determined to stay polite and in control. “Ma’am?” I say as she passes. She pretends to not hear me. Finally I have had enough, and wave a credit card at her as she comes by. She babbles something in French at me rudely, and keeps walking, refusing to take it. I leave some cash on the table and walk off, disgusted. The French appear to have earned their reputation.