England and France - Marseille, Cassi, Aix-en-Provence

When I was a younger man, I spent two weeks traveling around England and France by myself. The plan was to first fly to England (arriving Gatwick airport), stay in London, go visit our French exchange student Veronique in Marseille, then return to England and travel around that island nation. I flew via Northwest airlines. I remember the plane was not full, so on the way over I folded down the armrests of 5 or 6 center aisle chairs and slept. For those of you who have crossed packed in like sardines, you'll appreciate the luxury. I spent some few days in London, and then took a train for Dover to cross the English channel. The cars of the train were not marked well, and in my usual calm manner I was bitching about it to those nearby: a couple in their mid-thirties. They, too, were having trouble deciphering what car they were supposed to be in. I managed to find the right car and seat and soon got to Dover.

I bought a ticket to Calais, France on the ferry and started the trip in the front of the boat. Soon I wandered to the back of the ferry and took this picture of the White Cliffs of Dover. Then I scanned the deck for a place to sit down. It was quite warm and pleasant on the rear deck: consequently, the back end of the boat was very crowded. I finally spotted one seat - the only seat not occupied. Carrying my duffel bag I pushed along past everyone and sat down. The people sitting next to me began talking to me like they knew me. My first reaction was to be kind of annoyed with them. The best way I can explain it is that they were speaking to me like we were acquainted, and I didn't expect this familiar treatment. Suddenly, I realized it was the couple from the train station platform. They thought I had recognized them and come to sit by them, when the truth was I just took the only available seat in the whole rear deck of the ferry.

We talked on the way over, and I told them I would be back in England after going to see the French exchange student who had visited my family in Minnesota. They invited me to stay with them in Sunderland, on the East coast of England below Scotland. I accepted. We parted at the French transportation terminal, and I took a train for Paris. While in one of the train stations, two Americans girls walked up to me and asked in French if I could direct them to their train. They were kind of startled when I told them in English that I couldn't find my train either (does anyone else see a train station pattern emerging?). There were three blue-uniformed train guys sitting on a cart. I asked them, "où est l'est guerre?" That means "Where is the east war?". I meant to say, "Où est l'est la gare?", or "Where is the East station?". They looked at me, then ignored me. I took the night train to Marseilles. I had bought a "couchette" ticket, which means I got a place to lay down in a compartment that held three-tiered bunks on each side. When I got to my particular compartment, lo and behold someone was sleeping in my couchette. The conductor now wandered by taking tickets. (In what follows, please remember it has been many years since I had one year of jr. college French) "Pardon, monsieur, un hom est in mon couchette" (hey dude, a guy is in my bed). The conductor looked at my ticket, leaned in the compartment, leaned back and said, "Oui", then left me in his wake. (Let me translate: "Oui"; I am an employee of the government and don't give a rip about Americans with lousy French accents). A distinguished man wearing a suit about age sixty and his wife and baby witnessed this. The wife was about thirty and really a dish - viva la France! He asked me in very proper English what the trouble was. I told him the conductor wouldn't make the guy get out of my bed. Without saying a word, the man followed after the conductor and hit him on the shoulder from behind and then spoke French at the conductor so fast I couldn't follow what was going on. They continued their heated discussion all the way out of the car. My advocate leaned around the door from the next car and said to me in English "I'll be back". I just stood there and smiled at his pretty wife. Soon her husband came back and went into the compartment and made the guy get out of my bed. The sleeper and his wife, it seems, only bought one couchette between them and he was going to use mine if someone didn't kick him out. A friend from Cameroon once told me that if I had tipped the conductor, he would have kicked the guy out of my bed for me.

I got to Marseilles about seven in the morning and was met by our exchange student Veronique. I had a pleasant stay with her. She was quite kind in suffering through my attempts at speaking French. The picture here is just a shot of a street in Marseilles as we walked along. Veronique's home had a portrait of an ancestor in the living room. In the lower corner of the canvas was a right-angled rip. It was made by a bayonet - placed there during the French revolution when the mob invaded this home.

Marseilles grew from the small Phoenician/Greek settlement named Massalia. Marseilles is the oldest town in France. Here is the view of the Old Port and Fort Saint Jean, which dates to the end of the 12th Century. It is named after the religious order of Saint-Jean-de-Jérusalem. The fort was built not for seaward protection, but so King Louis XIVth could keep an eye on the people of Marseille. It is now the second largest city in France.

A sailboat going out to sea passed about ten feet from us as we were walking along a stone quay. On the boat was a mom and dad and a beautiful 16 year or so old daughter - the daughter was totally naked! Viva viva la France!

In the bay fronting Marseille are several islands, including the islet of If. If was the site of the 16th-century Château d'If, mentioned in the novel "The Count of Monte Cristo" (1844) by the French novelist Alexandre Dumas. Vero took me out on the ferry and we visited If. The picture on the left is fuzzy, but if you enlarge it you can see the Notre Dame de la Garde basilica, famous for its crowning statue of the virgin and child looking out to sea.

Veronique and I sat at a table at the visitor center and looked at the view of Marseille.

The 19th-century Romano-Byzantine style basilica, Notre Dame de la Garde, is located on the highest hilltop of the city - the view from the esplanade is fantastic. This hilltop is also where the town's lookout post once stood. A chapel was built here in 1214, and became a priory for the monks of St Victor. In the 16th century, the church was fortified by François 1st to defend against a threatened invasion by Charles V of Spain. Work started on the present basilica in 1853. The design was done by the architect Espérandieu, and was one of the great building projects undertaken during the Second Empire. It was consecrated in 1864 and completed in 1899. The basilica is topped by a huge gilded statue of the Virgin, who is standing on top of basilica's 60 meter high belfry. Unfortunately, I think I began to wear on poor Veronique. When we visited the basilica, we saw a preserved American tank used in the liberation of Marseilles during World War II. "Oh look, a Sherman tank", I said. "No", she replied, exasperated with me, "It's not a GERMAN tank, American, American!".

Veronique took me to her parents small weekend retreat home out in the countryside - I regret now not thinking to walk down into the vineyards surrounding the house. I remember that all the windows had shutters because the home was frequently broken into by thieves. Veronique took me to visit her friends on a sailboat tied up for the night at Cassi. Cassi is a beautiful little town on the coast. I remember watching a bearded, ragged man break a bottle on the sidewalk near the docks and lay down in the broken glass. He then asked for money from those in the small, puzzled crowd that gathered. Veronique's friends (young men and women about 17 or 18 years old) didn't speak English, but they pantomimed their concern that Ronald Reagan and Russia would fight and France would get blown up in the process. Unlike the girl on the sailboat in the old harbor, none of these girls was naked. A big topic of conversation concerned one of the girls. She had invited two boyfriends along for their sailing excursion. She had favored one, and the other one jumped ship and they didn't know where he was. Vero and I left the boat about 2 a.m. and tried to find her car. For some reason, losing the car was my fault. Some things, I guess, are universal.

The next day Vero and I sat in an outdoor cafe in Aix-en-Provence. I took this picture as we sat there. The guys at the table in front of us, I recall, were smirking jackasses. I think you can detect a smirk on the one guy because I had dug my camera out and was taking a picture. I remember a very attractive girl rode past on a moped and winked at me, which of course made me feel pretty good. I had a great time in France.

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