THURSDAY, DECEMBER 6
With flu-like symptoms, Chloe nonetheless dragged herself out for more exploring. It was a good thing, too, as I could have ended up in the middle of Yellow vest protests, which turned violent, had she not been along. I’m prone to follow curiosity without regard to safety and this was a day when protesters set fire to cars and garbage cans and the white flocked Christmas trees at the Christmas market. Police fired tear gas into the crowds. The protests in Marseille were worse than in Paris.
CITY OF IMMIGRANTS
Marseille, a city of immigrants, snuggles between mountains and sea. Unlike Paris where the poor live on the outskirts of the city, in areas like St. Denis; in Marseille, the poor live in most neighborhoods. In La Joliette near Le Panier where we are staying, people are of mixed ethnicity; equally, if not more, Muslim; the majority appearing to be from Africa, many from the north but also from the south of Africa. Blondes and fair-skinned people are rare. People seem to buy very little in the grocery stores and to shop carefully. Most of those in our neighborhood are working full-time as the stores become busy when the work day ends. There are no high-end specialty shops, and the finer boutiques and restaurants seem targeted at tourists and remain empty now.
NEE D’IF, MAIS FIOUL ISLAND
Our plan was to visit Château D’If, the old fort that became a notorious prison memorialized by Alexandre Dumas, but the winds were high and ferry there were cancelled. Four small islands are near Marseille, and i a ferry was running to Fioul. On choppy waters under a sunny sky, the ferry driver sped to the island. We listened to a Hasidic Jewish couple loudly talking on speakerphone to a family member. They spoke French to each other, but American English on the call. Also accompanying us on the ferry were a middle-aged French couple, and a small group of young people with their pug bulldog named Maya.
THE TINY TOWN OF FIOUL
White caps waves pounded Fioul’s sharp, white rocks as we disembarked. A tiny town of 100 occupants, with newish condominiums, probably mostly occupied in the summer, surrounds the dock and a small Greek temple plopped on the hillside.
The island is harsh with little vegetation and craggy, steep rock faces. We followed a path up a ridge, hoping it would lead to the fort where we saw others — small figures in the distance –, but it was the wrong path, we were surrounded by the bright blue sea, and an impenetrable gully. Backtracking to town, we walked along the short sidewalk where menu boards and chairs were tucked under restaurant awnings, all the restaurants but one closed for the seasons.
TOO WINDY FOR US
A causeway connects the two islands, and we crossed it and followed a gravel path up the side of a large, rocky hill. Turquoise pools cut into the rock and we could imagine how inviting they must be in the summer months.
The winds were fierce, increasing in force as we climbed higher. At one point at a steep turn, we crouched against the rock, the sea a precipitous distance below, the wind pushing us backwards. That was enough for us to abandon the idea of reaching the other fort, still higher up, and we turned around, crossed to the other side of the ridge where the wind wasn’t as formidable. Others were braver than us, but they had hiking sticks and boots. Still etched in our memories was the story in Ireland of a car that was picked up by the wind and thrown into the sea.
A CITY ON FIRE
On the ferry return, black smoke billowed from a southern suburb of the city, an accidental fire of burning petroleum. Other smaller fires, caused by protesters, lit streets near the university. It was easy to imagine histories of revolution and protest, this city burned, destroyed and rebuilt, governments toppled, and governments erected again. The violence of history felt tangible.
