(Photos by © Brandon Elijah Scott / Eye & Pen)
I flew back to Europe from Morocco. After growing up and reading the Count of Monte Cristo, I thought it might be fun to see Marseille, and fondly enough, Marrakech is connected via Ryanair. I decided to leave my rant on Ryanair out of my last travel update, because I enjoyed Morocco too much – even though I flew with the same service from Sevilla to Marrakech. It also happened to be that my flight to Marseille was even more awful.
Besides the fact that Ryanair claims to be cheap and it uses an ever-changing fees scale, the fees are astronomical if you happen to not look into each and every little detail – or if they catch you with a bag that’s a centimeter too large. But the experience is pure shit, to be honest. The planes are rickety and the pilots can’t seem to fly them very smoothly – even taking off was a heart racing performance. The worst part is the level of pressure that they keep the plane’s cabin at. You automatically feel sick (and I never feel motion sickness), and weighted, out of breath, and your head aches and your muscles go sore immediately. It’s the one of the worst feelings to experience for an extended period of time. The landing was identical to a toddler playing with a toy airplane, waving it all about. There was a lady that was crying through the final hour of the flight and the entire contents of the plane began cheering and clapping once we hit ground with a leg-buckling slam. I hope to never have to concede into flying Ryanair again – what an awful experience.
So there I was... (the best stories always start out this way – but this one is quite uneventful) in Marseille at 1 AM, fresh off the bus that takes you from the Provence airport to the Saint Charles train station inside the city. I always heard that Marseille can be a bit of a rough place, so I decided to haggle for a taxi – you know, I just returned from the haggling capital of the world, of course this would still work here – and fondly enough, it did. The taxi driver decided to have me wait for my extra discount, until he could fill the rest of the seats. Ten minutes later, a rush of elderly tourists arrived from another bus and we were off. I thought the scariest drivers in the world (that I’ve experienced so far) were those in Marrakech – with their weaving lanes and driving inches from oncoming traffic. But this taxi driver had a serious death wish. There was no traffic, luckily, but he obviously saw the world from the eyes of a television screen, playing Gran Turismo or something. He dashed from street to street, barely missing the red lights as they turned from yellow, and proceeding at FULL SPEED through active intersections and then almost two wheeling it to one side as he turned corners. Every time he slammed on the gas, the taxi shook, the wheels squealed and my back and head slammed into the front seat.
So there I was... (the best stories always start out this way – but this one is quite uneventful) in Marseille at 1 AM, fresh off the bus that takes you from the Provence airport to the Saint Charles train station inside the city. I always heard that Marseille can be a bit of a rough place, so I decided to haggle for a taxi – you know, I just returned from the haggling capital of the world, of course this would still work here – and fondly enough, it did. The taxi driver decided to have me wait for my extra discount, until he could fill the rest of the seats. Ten minutes later, a rush of elderly tourists arrived from another bus and we were off. I thought the scariest drivers in the world (that I’ve experienced so far) were those in Marrakech – with their weaving lanes and driving inches from oncoming traffic. But this taxi driver had a serious death wish. There was no traffic, luckily, but he obviously saw the world from the eyes of a television screen, playing Gran Turismo or something. He dashed from street to street, barely missing the red lights as they turned from yellow, and proceeding at FULL SPEED through active intersections and then almost two wheeling it to one side as he turned corners. Every time he slammed on the gas, the taxi shook, the wheels squealed and my back and head slammed into the front seat.
I reached my Couchsurfing host and went straight to bed. The man had a rock band style look, with long black hair, and his flat was the perfect bachelors pad. He had a full drum set, large computer screen for recording and racks and racks of Belgian beer. I don’t mention it often, but I LOVE BELGIAN BEER – I’ve loved it for years. Whenever I make it to Belgium, these posts are only going to consist of how much I love the massive amounts of beer I downed (probably right before writing it). Waking up the next day, my flat mate had already left and went to work, he left me keys and a map and a ‘good luck, see you at 7’ message. I felt a bit jet lagged, so I slept in for the first time in ages. You might say that I’m on tour/holiday or whatever you’d like to call it, and I should be able to sleep in every day, but unfortunately, that doesn’t quite happen often enough.
Around noon, I walked a path that I forged on the map, that would take me down to the famous port of Marseille. It was refreshing to be back around the Western styles of Europe, and to my little heart's contentment and my wallet's shame, copious amounts of Belgian beers were available at every bar, at every turn I made. I went to a little market and snatched up a couple bottles and went on my way to the port. I’ll be honest, I loved the port, but I hated the shops and like-restaurants that lined nearly all the way around it. I tried to imagine how the port looked during the times of the book that intrigued me to visit here, and mixed with the light sea breeze, I walked around, picturing the scene. I proceeded to the old quarter of the town and my initial happiness turned to serious disappointment, as it was empty and rundown, with maybe 10 people in the entire neighborhood – there was nothing here to be seen.
Around noon, I walked a path that I forged on the map, that would take me down to the famous port of Marseille. It was refreshing to be back around the Western styles of Europe, and to my little heart's contentment and my wallet's shame, copious amounts of Belgian beers were available at every bar, at every turn I made. I went to a little market and snatched up a couple bottles and went on my way to the port. I’ll be honest, I loved the port, but I hated the shops and like-restaurants that lined nearly all the way around it. I tried to imagine how the port looked during the times of the book that intrigued me to visit here, and mixed with the light sea breeze, I walked around, picturing the scene. I proceeded to the old quarter of the town and my initial happiness turned to serious disappointment, as it was empty and rundown, with maybe 10 people in the entire neighborhood – there was nothing here to be seen.
I continued wandering around the city, walking up to the station, where I found 4 Euro pizza that was fantastic, and then back toward the port where I stopped at a bar and ordered a few too many beers. My blurry eyes looked at the time, it was barely 4PM at this point. I knew that I needed to make my way back if I was going to be able to take a nap to sober up. It took me an extra 15 minutes than it should, because of a few wrong turns, but nevertheless I made it back to the flat. I crashed on the couch and a few minutes passed seven, I woke up to my host opening the door. He had just returned from a one-month motorbike tour around France, where he visited the outskirts of the neighboring countries as well. He brought back the rarest of Belgian Trappist beers (Westvleteren 12), smoked pork from Basque country, and cheese from northern France. He pulled snails, some moldy cheese and a makeshift salad from the fridge and sat it on the table. He laid out plates and exclaimed for me to ‘have at it.’ It was interesting to try a lot of the different tasting dishes – to be blunt, I was terrified to try a few of them, but in the end, I found they weren’t so bad, and some of the others were quite pleasant.
The beer never stopped flowing, nor did the wine that joined the table, and after four to five hours of eating, boozing and bull-shitting, we decided to call it a night – but not before we jammed to a lot of rock tunes that he loved so much – to my surprise, he had quite a few songs that I hadn’t heard in maybe five to ten years – it’s funny how music can bring back old memories, and even more interesting how you can still remember the words and the drum beats from such a long time ago. He untied his long hair and hilariously started playing air (metal) guitar while circling his head so his long hair would whip around his head (AKA headbanging). However, we soon crashed after the rock session and the next day, he was off to work and I was left with a hang over. I slept most of the day, recovering as best I could, because he told me the night before that he planned a real-party with his friends for this evening. All I could think was ‘Oh, God. Not another night of drinking.’ I went from fasting on fruit and orange juice, with no alcohol in Marrakech to binge drinking in Marseille.
The beer never stopped flowing, nor did the wine that joined the table, and after four to five hours of eating, boozing and bull-shitting, we decided to call it a night – but not before we jammed to a lot of rock tunes that he loved so much – to my surprise, he had quite a few songs that I hadn’t heard in maybe five to ten years – it’s funny how music can bring back old memories, and even more interesting how you can still remember the words and the drum beats from such a long time ago. He untied his long hair and hilariously started playing air (metal) guitar while circling his head so his long hair would whip around his head (AKA headbanging). However, we soon crashed after the rock session and the next day, he was off to work and I was left with a hang over. I slept most of the day, recovering as best I could, because he told me the night before that he planned a real-party with his friends for this evening. All I could think was ‘Oh, God. Not another night of drinking.’ I went from fasting on fruit and orange juice, with no alcohol in Marrakech to binge drinking in Marseille.
The party came, late, and my hangover ebbed away enough after the first glass of wine. About ten of his friends came and they all brought a small dish to join the table that was overflowing with foods of all kinds. We ate and talked a bit – unfortunately for me, their English was all quite bad. After an hour of trying to converse, they decided hell with it and spoke French the entire night – which sucked, because it left me on my own, drinking in the corner, but it was alright, I understood that the group hadn’t seen each other in quite a long time, and it was time to play catch up with each other. Overall it was a great time in Marseille, but I only planned to stay for a couple of days, before heading off to Nice, France – I had to move swiftly along the coast and into Italy, because I had my first ‘plan’ of my trip, and that was to be on the east coast of Italy by the end of May (soon to come in another future update).
I was a bit worried about my next couch host (and I’m sure he will be reading this – so I hope he takes no offense), because he emailed me reminding me that he was a Naturist. I typically would have declined the accommodation offer, but I thought that ‘I travel to experience the entire world, as it really is, and if I’m too immature for this, then I can’t cut it and I’m a hack.’ I was also intrigued because my host was an accomplished and publish architect and had an interesting and wise air about him. So I accepted and arrived a few hours by train – oh and avoid trains in France, as they are obscenely overpriced. I arrived in the hills of Nice by local bus from the train station and I realized my host lived in a very posh part of town.
I was a bit worried about my next couch host (and I’m sure he will be reading this – so I hope he takes no offense), because he emailed me reminding me that he was a Naturist. I typically would have declined the accommodation offer, but I thought that ‘I travel to experience the entire world, as it really is, and if I’m too immature for this, then I can’t cut it and I’m a hack.’ I was also intrigued because my host was an accomplished and publish architect and had an interesting and wise air about him. So I accepted and arrived a few hours by train – oh and avoid trains in France, as they are obscenely overpriced. I arrived in the hills of Nice by local bus from the train station and I realized my host lived in a very posh part of town.
We met and talked and while it was difficult for me to get many words in the conversation, my host was extremely intelligent and frankly, I was quite content just listening – he shared a bit of a narrowed opinion on certain parts of the world, however he always shared his thought process and why he saw things the way he did. Even if I don’t agree with each and everything he said and believed, people like that always interest me, because they provide me a different perspective, but not just that, an educated one at that. I was tired from walking from the flat in Marseille to the train station and then around a bit of Nice, in the rain, so I relaxed and didn’t explore Nice anymore that day – my host took it upon himself to teach me some cooking techniques, which was great actually. He cooked like a five star chef – needless to say, I learned quite a lot. And even more needless to say, it was the best I had eaten in a year probably.
The next day, the sun shined and I was off by foot to walk from the hills down to the riviera. Nice had a completely different feel than Marseille. It was easy to see that Marseille was once a rough place (and some parts still are), but Nice is definitely its posh cousin. Most of the streets were lined with gated housing and curated lawns. I walked about an hour down to the sea, through little tourist strips and street markets – there’s just something about the little markets of Europe that I love, and wish that more places back home in the states would do the same. It’s refreshing and you feel a connection to the local people and the products they sell, when you buy from a local market – plus, the food is typically much healthier, as it’s straight from the farm. My favorite part about Nice was the little park that at first seems hidden above the coast, but reveals beautiful panoramic views of the entire city and the coast line. I could sit there all day, every day and just think and write, and connect with myself – but it’s too bad that all of the tourists had to find my perfect sanctuary too (it’s funny, I talk as though I’m not a tourist).
I wandered for a few more hours, as I always do, and then I made my way back to my host’s house – I made it there just moments before a large rain cloud covered the city in shade and rained out the area for the rest of the evening. My host made another fabulous meal and life felt quite good. The next morning, I had to continue on, so I set off on down the coast to Monaco.
More travel updates coming soon! Next update = Monaco & Florence, Italy
Other travel updates:
Travel update I – Barcelona, Spain
Travel update II – Madrid, Spain
Travel update III – Granada, Spain
Travel update IV – Ronda & Sevilla, Spain
Travel update V – Marrakech, Morocco
The next day, the sun shined and I was off by foot to walk from the hills down to the riviera. Nice had a completely different feel than Marseille. It was easy to see that Marseille was once a rough place (and some parts still are), but Nice is definitely its posh cousin. Most of the streets were lined with gated housing and curated lawns. I walked about an hour down to the sea, through little tourist strips and street markets – there’s just something about the little markets of Europe that I love, and wish that more places back home in the states would do the same. It’s refreshing and you feel a connection to the local people and the products they sell, when you buy from a local market – plus, the food is typically much healthier, as it’s straight from the farm. My favorite part about Nice was the little park that at first seems hidden above the coast, but reveals beautiful panoramic views of the entire city and the coast line. I could sit there all day, every day and just think and write, and connect with myself – but it’s too bad that all of the tourists had to find my perfect sanctuary too (it’s funny, I talk as though I’m not a tourist).
I wandered for a few more hours, as I always do, and then I made my way back to my host’s house – I made it there just moments before a large rain cloud covered the city in shade and rained out the area for the rest of the evening. My host made another fabulous meal and life felt quite good. The next morning, I had to continue on, so I set off on down the coast to Monaco.
More travel updates coming soon! Next update = Monaco & Florence, Italy
Other travel updates:
Travel update I – Barcelona, Spain
Travel update II – Madrid, Spain
Travel update III – Granada, Spain
Travel update IV – Ronda & Sevilla, Spain
Travel update V – Marrakech, Morocco
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