SUNDAY, DECEMBER 2
MONACO TRAIN STATION
Up early to catch a 9:30 train from Monaco to Marseille, we dragged our bags – this time up hill — to the station. The Sunday morning streets and the huge and ultra-modern railroad station were deserted. A homeless woman wrapped in a leopard-skin blanket packed her bags to the cavernous station lobby with coffee bar and huge picture window that sits high on a steep hillside. It required both an escalator and elevator to descend to the tracks, housed in an enormous, ballooning structure with surprisingly shiny cement floors.
We quickly noticed the only other living being in the huge space…a skinny, confused and partially-blind pigeon trapped inside. Skipping along the tracks, more like a human than a bird, it was missing one clawed foot. We fed it some muffin crumps when it jumped to the shellaced cement. The juxtaposition of a crippled pigeon within this futuristic space was disconcerting, and it occurred to me that we hadn’t seen any pigeons in Monaco. I wondered if they are killed, something that the Milanese once considered to get rid of the pigeons by the Duomo.
TRAIN RIDE THROUGH CHANGING LANDSCAPE
The train zoomed into the station and stopped, but at quite a distance — it felt like a quarter mile away as we ran with our bags in tow.
We changed trains in Nice, then settled in as the lands shifting from white stones to red, from dense and wealthy to sparse and middle class populations, and from humidity to an arid climate. At times, the landscape reminded me of Southern Utah’s red rocks country with it’s junipers and low prickly shrubs, but simply lifting my gaze changed that impression drastically. The light azure sea was ever near.
ARRIVAL IN MARSEILLE
Arriving in Marseille at midday, we soon located our spacious ground floor AirBnb in Grande Carmes, in the 2nd Arrondissment.
A HISTORY MUSEUM, FREE BY CHANCE
Starving, we headed toward the port, but by chance bumped into the Marseille History Museum where we entered to ask for directions to the nearest tourist office. The woman at the front desk welcomed us with an enthusiastic, big smile, her hand extended with two tickets. It was free Sunday, and clearly one could not say no, so with stomachs growling, we thanked her and went inside.
The museum is beautiful, modern, well-designed and fascinating, tracing the history of this, the oldest city in France, from Greek and Roman times through the 17th century. Skeletons, ancient maps, pottery vases, the base of a Roman ship, some objects as old as 2,000 years old are on display, exposed to the viewer, without casements, a noteworthy act of trust on the part of the curators, and can I conclude?, by extension, the French who have a deep respect for their history. Many parents were explaining their city’s history to their children as they strolled around the objects.
North America history is, of course, as long as any other, but in North America history is broken; native and colonial histories are disconnected. As a child I felt connected to my native land in Utah and to Native American history, sent as I was to many natural history camps during the blazing summers. But in schools, I was told that history began with the Europeans and their culture. I don’t know if this story is still told, or if it has been corrected, but I can attest to the fact that this kind of telling fractures people from place and the original peoples, and a deeper and more meaningful history. In France, history feels more fluid, civilizations and cultures built one on top of the other. A contrast to the destructiveness of colonial histories.
ALONE IN A SMALL FAMILY RESTAURANT
It was late in the afternoon when we found a small, side street restaurant still serving lunch. Other than the owners, who were a couple and their daughter, and one of their friends, we were the only people in the restaurant. I had a stewed chicken and Chloe had vegetable pasta, both so good and homemade tasting.
SURPRISE…A CHRISTMAS MARKET
Guided by the beckon of a distant Ferris wheel, we found the Port and, to our surprise, a Christmas Market. Wooden and straw stands with local handmade goods like Savon soaps, spices, scarves and lots of gifts and treats for kids covered the large wooden port. It smelled of beignets and chocolate. A woman on stilts, dressed in shimmering gauze accompanied a fairy friend, and sprinkled fake snow on happy children.
Generally, people appeared happy from those at the market to the family in the restaurant. While we ate our late lunch we watched the mother and daughter playing with each other’s hair, taking selfies, looking at the photos on their phone, and giggling together. The daughter hugged her mom repeatedly. The father and his friend watched a football game, joking with each other.
We strolled through the Market toward the iconic Old Fort. The light was fading when we turning back into the city. Too late to shop for food, we ate the pasta we brought from Genoa.
