Ulysses in Provence

By the time I left France few years ago I devoted myself completely to my new vocation and became a respectable member of British society. I have faced all kind of challenges and turned into what I am today. My memories were fading away until the day I was recalled to Marseilles between my old friends. I spent a weekend between places and memories of an old life. My trip down to memory lane started searching for the Corsican man, my friend from university with whom I spent all my time clubbing, travelling and meeting strange people at Le Manoir's. His passion was boating and he passed on to me his passion for sea, sun and sailing. Landed at the Marseilles airport, I acknowledge all good and bad feelings I have also felt for this region: the usual disorganized and messy culture but also a hot and dry weather. I received also a warm welcome from my friend and went to discover the oldies with him. Arrived at the 'Vieux Port', I have found a different city with lots of renovation projects. I was surprised how a city well-known for its inactivity and laidback mentality it is recreating its make-up. Is it true? I have tried to discover it during my stay, during my sejour.

The morning after was hot and bright, and Christophe stood at the entrance to our friend's bungalow bringing us to the beach at the end of Prado avenue. My aristocratic tan needed a bit of cream to save me from becoming a shrimp after a couple of hours. I stayed for a while staring the sea and looking his toes in the shade-cooled sand, watching the crowd of sailers growing bigger and bigger at the bottom of the beach. It is still early enough to enjoy the sea and had few strokes in the water. The sun breaks a white line down the water and dances on the orange buoys, strung like ornaments along the curve of the cove, and on the hull of the glass-bottomed boat. As the boat comes closer, past the check point where the shipwreck lies, He can smell it, the thick, bitter odor of petrol. I rubbed my eyes, heavy with lack of sleep from the night before party and I started reminding me how expensive Marseilles has become. I was shocked and just recalling how living was different few years before. The city is polishing its face but citizens are still unemployed and poor. How can they afford to live here? How can it be possible that life is more expensive in Marseilles than London? Is it making any sense? Are all these people living on state benefits? I will investigate.

The days in Marseilles went shimmering. My friend who shared with me time clubbing, seeing girls and having fun in our twenties were getting married and a new life was in front of him. I was looking at my clothes which were limp, draped like skin over the poles. The shirt was bright red, the trousers blue. I was remembering my old life of a young professional having fun who disappeared and he was replaced by a thin, long-legged men who doesn't really get on very well with his life at the moment. Water, slick and iridescent, drips from the points of the collar and gathers in the creases of the Frenchman's shirt. Everyone knows whose shirt it is, but one of the lifeguards checks the tag anyway. There is no name written anywhere. The Frenchman's empty trousers are unbuttoned.

Up and down the beach, the morning's first tourists are arriving with their towels and beach balls, their sand pails and striped umbrellas. They are probably German or British and are probably coming down from the hotel bungalows with their beach mats rolled up under their arms, their skin already reddening with heat. The North African vendors are arriving, too, setting up their stands of pots and jewelry, polished turquoise, hawk charms, papyrus scrolls on which they will paint your name in hieroglyphs. I watched them line up their trinkets. Chris has known these types of vendors since he was very young, and sometimes they give him honeycombs, or rocks that he cracks open to reveal purple crystals nestled inside like candy, but he does not plan to visit them today. He is thinking about the Frenchman's limp clothes as the men tie the boat to the little wooden jetty and help the tourists down-sleepy children and women in loose white shirts, an American girl with a large orange hat, and a man from Bulgaria whose skin is peeling off in strips. After the publication of A Year in Provence nearly 20 years ago changed this place and it was flooded by Americans and the prices went roofsky!! This book has become one of the most successful travel books of all time and inspiring thousands of Brits to leave blighty in search of a warmer, gentler life. Is it true? I disagree with that. I spent days here and I saw a very pricy place with a dry place (instead of greeny and villagy England). I have got hot weather windy storms instead of gentle warmth like England. I didn't have much time to enjoy time there because the hottest hours of the day we had to hide inside.

From the beach to the wedding was a short step. Few hours later our night out eating at the seashore, we had a shower, we got dressed and my partner called Christophe to hire a car. She wanted a Peugeout 206. We drove for a short stint and we ended up in a parking space, a waste land called Salon de Provence bordered by few low-grade hotels. We took a shabby room without toilet by the motorway exit. The shallow receptionist gave us a key and requested the hotel price for the room without concluding her call all the way. The tattered hotel was not designed very well and we could hear and see the motorway and our views were a direction sign showing us three cities in a row: Marseilles, Montpellier and Lyon. As soon as I reached our room I took off my sunglasses and wiped the sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand and looked around the offering of this empty room. Then Marina touched my shoulder and says, "let's wait for someone to get to Christophe wedding" and, for a moment, I felt the thought of food and drinks at the wedding were comforting us, but then we wait for a long time and only late in the evening we reached the wedding venue. My little advice to everyone is to avoid French cars, ever. I have got twice a French car and both times left me after a short stint.

In conclusion, I enjoyed so much seeing my friend and exchange sometime with him and renewing our brotherhood. However, the memories for Marseilles were wiped out by prices over the top, heat and pretentious people. I will keep in my mind the Marseilles I saw few years ago as my life in my twenties, a life full of sparkles and fool of moments; my trip down to memory lane is now just a transiction between what I was and what I will be, my present is on the way to my becoming. I will wait to see my future me and my future Marseilles

A bientot