The sun smiled on Marseille as I ambled through the block known as Le Panier. Alleys lined with balconies and flower boxes reminded me of Barcelona.
Arriving by cruise ship grants the advantage of witnessing the city unfold into wakefulness. The streets lie still, doorways cloaked, traffic muted. Then a shop unfurls, passers-by trickle in a gathering stream, and all is bustling by midday.
An enterprising soap vendor secured my custom with his early hours and colorful displays: bricks of every fragrance imaginable. The surrounding countryside is known for its lavender, and all the souvenirs recalled this theme.
To shape my day along some plan, I had collected places of interest from the cruise’s official excursions and marked them on my map. The Cathédrale La Major, a 19th century Byzantine church, would have required no directions, however: it dominates the horizon for all incoming visitors.
Next, my scavenged tour directed me to Vieux-Port, the city’s historic harbor. Along the way, I snapped photos of fairy tale facades.
The harbor-front delighted me: gently lapping waves, a forest of masts. In the distance, Notre Dame de la Garde beckoned.
First, though, my stomach demanded some attention. I picked out a charming bakery and did my best to order, but my French still resembles nothing so much as Italian. Happily, all the bakers here seem to be trilingual. I sampled a navette, a light crispy cookie typical of the region, and a delectable chocolate almond confection. For lunch, I devoured a ham quiche and fraises a la Chantilly.
Though the classic red tour bus and even a quaint open-air train offered, I opted for a local bus to climb the mile uphill to Notre Dame de la Garde. From the church steps, a fabulous view encompassed the city and the coast beyond.
My eye caught on an island fortress, situated in solitary splendor, remote from any others. A quick check of the satellite map confirmed it: the Chateau d’If – the dread prison depicted in The Count of Monte Cristo! I have made a point to match my holiday reading to the locale, ever since the success of reading Heidi in the Alps. Now I beheld the settings of the novel with my own eyes.
Notre Dame itself did not disappoint. In nothing did Marseille astonish me more than allowing free entrance to its most fabulous churches. With the simple stipulation that visitors maintain silence, it left me wondering why more sacred spaces haven’t implemented the same policy.
Inside, ships dangled on strings from the ceiling – a tribute to the vessels passing under the supplicants’ eyes in the harbour below, I guessed. In spite of its grandness, Notre Dame de la Garde felt personal, particular – like a parish church.
A magnificent wind whipped up from the sea, chilling the shadows up the point that I fetched out my abandoned winter coat. Then I gazed over the coast and the peaks beyond.
On the way down, stone steps opened onto a path cutting across the mountain, wreathed in greenery: a graceful farewell from the seaside city.
