Paris is a hard act to follow, and mention the P-word in the southern capital and you will either be met with a disapproving glare or a hefty coup de poing in the gonads. Yet, unlike the unmistakable inferiority complex of Chicago, or the pseudo-alpha-male claims of Lyon, this urban runner-up seems to show no concern about playing second fiddle to the French capital. Perhaps it’s due to the laissez-faire attitude of the south, brought on by sunny skies and an abundance of fresh fish; perhaps it’s just a habituation to the exasperatingly centralised French infrastructure; or perhaps it’s because according to the Marseillais, anything north of Toulouse just isn’t worth caring about. Returning from my own little sojourn in this scruffy yet gloriously vibrant city, I for one am vouching for the latter.
With its thriving harbour, bustling markets, and thoroughly cosmopolitan feel, Marseille is a melting pot of Provencal flavour and North African spice. A far cry from the stiff upper lips of neighbouring Aix-en-Provence and Toulon, and the over-the-top richesse of Nice and Cannes, this southern hub of industry is an unpolished gem that deserves more credit than it receives.
With such tangible energy comes a hefty serving of squalor, and if you like your cities perfectly polished and gleaming, then Marseille is not for you. Yet look past the litter-strewn streets, screeching sirens and fleeting pavement rats, the gritty reality is in fact something to savour.
Hostel-wise, there is a massive amount of choice, making it almost seem as though Marseille was expressly made for the budgeting traveller. Choosing one at random, we ended up at the well-priced and unbelievably chilled-out Vertigo Centre; a drunken stumble away from the city’s station (42 Rue de Petites Maries). With friendly staff, a handful of bizarre Eastern European guests, and an extraordinarily comfortable sofa, I would definitely go so far as to recommend it.
And as for the city itself, number one visit in the guide books is Marseille’s Vieux Port (Old Port). Still very much in use, you can happily lose a couple of hours on the Quai des Belges while you watch the world go by. However, accompanied by fumes from both the nearby fish market (quite pleasant actually, if you’re into that sort of thing), and the incessant stream of traffic (not quite so nice, in fact more like chain-smoking twelve packs of Marlboro Reds), the threat of suffocation along with the extortionate prices serves to deter all but the well-heeled tourist.
We found the Vieux Port nice, but after burning copious holes in our already shallow pockets, we found solace in Le Palier – the lesser-known ‘arty’ quarter on the north side of the city. Sunny cafe terraces beckoned, vying for attention with the multitudes of miniature galleries that lined the streets – all with free entrances and extremely accommodating proprietors. (For accommodating read: high). The sun-scorched almond-coloured buildings, with their flaking paintwork and scars from Marseille’s precocious graffiti-ing population, were enchanting and we spent a happy afternoon getting lost in shady backstreets of the quartier. Of course, my highlight was stumbling across the ‘Plus Belle la Vie’ corner – a miniature piazza dedicated entirely to the French equivalent of ‘Neighbours’ i.e. a cheaply made but highly popular daily television series. Having spent the winter in a rural wilderness, I am now completely addicted, and sitting having a pint opposite the programme’s boutique (I was glad to see that all the actors have published a biography...) before catching a 20-minute film about the production of the series was, in all seriousness, absolute bliss. During the film I was, of course, enraptured – sitting hugging my knees and vowing to myself that one day, one day, I will be in possession of a box set. Milan, my co-pilot, was asleep.
Another un-missable Marseillais monument is the church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. Dating from the Second Empire, this iconic landmark sits astride one of the many hills surrounding the city; with a monumental gold statue of the Virgin looking out to sea, with the idea being that her gleaming skin serves to guide ships safely inland. Great story. Not so great climb up the hill. But, arriving just in time to watch the sun setting over the seemingly silent sea, bright lights of the harbour twinkling as the portside cranes stood sentinel against a pastel sky, it was well worth the sweat.
In terms of nightlife, don’t take everything you have heard about Marseille’s reputation as crime-central to heart – it’s hardly any different from other French major cities. Even as we enthusiastically hit the town after dark and, on the advice of a couple of locals, headed off the beaten (and pricy) track and further east to Cours Julien, we had little to no trouble. Although, this might have had something to do with the company – four little Scottish girls and one 6’7” Sarladais-Guadalupian quasi-bodyguard (je te remercie encore, Milan… ho waaaw). Aside from getting chased on to the metro (may have been due to a little illegal gate hopping on our part...) and meeting a heavily drugged up transvestite, our nocturnal adventures were effortlessly smooth; sharing a Heineken giraffe with some highly clued-up local French and Spanish students, tasting spicy street food and all sorts of local Ricard (euugh), and winning half a bottle of Champagne due to our expert Biffy Clyro knowledge in a somewhat unlikely French ‘pub quiz’.
What do I think about Marseille? Spend just a few days in this sun-soaked playground, bursting with raw energy and real life, and it’ll be hard not to fall in love with its clumsy charm. As for me; sausages, a gold Virgin, rats and free champagne... fantastic.
hooooo waaaaw
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