Provence and Occitanie: Day 3, Part 2
- lendroitheureux
- May 2
- 9 min read
Updated: Jun 5
Marseille: Brass Bands, Mass Protest, Sea Crossing, and My Cheese
After descending the stairs of Chateau d’Eau at Palais Longchamp, we walked the city and found our way to the Noailles District. On the way, we came across a couple small protest groups. One group had trans rights and LGBTQ flags while a speaker was saying something in a North African language that was quite beyond us. Another small group, just down the street from the first, was calling attention to sexual violence against Jewish women in particular. An interesting dual group of protests, not really dueling, but clearly not together and close enough that they were nearly in the same space. We pondered a bit, took notice, and went on our way to the Noailles District. Noailles is the working class, beating heart of Marseille. The narrow streets are seemingly narrower due to all the shop owners with wares on the sidewalks or with entire storefronts open for all to see. The buildings and virtually every spare space are filled with graffiti and street art. Even staircases become public art exhibits. Marseille is by far the most graffiti-covered city I have spent time in. The high art, low crude handstyles, curse words, political messages, cartoons, and simple tags all help give Marseille a manic street hustle urgency blended with laid-back cool chill. It's a kaleidoscope view of 17th, 18th, and 19th century architecture, hypermodern urban life, with street art and graffiti splashed all over. I'm describing Marseille in general, but I'm really thinking of Noailles in particular.
We ended up at Cours Julien, a large pedestrian plaza with fountains, multi-level pools, and small wooden gangplanks to cross the water. Scores of cafes surround this section of Cours Julien, each with a patio and outdoor seating. We chose a patio, plopped down, ordered a beer (for me) and a wine (for Lani), and settled in to soak in the mid-afternoon spring (late winter) sun. Suddenly, like a troupe of musical magicians rising from ether through the gangplanks and from the bubbling water, a brass band appeared and began playing a raucous tune. They had actually been there all along; they were just taking a break amongst all the day drinkers and merry-makers, so we did not notice them. They were a tad more “professional,” for lack of a better term, than the artful group we saw at the Vieux Port way back in the morning. This band had it together, complete with very well-timed and choreographed moves and dances. They finished their first number and immediately went into the next. And immediately we two had a realization. A stark one. A serendipitous, simultaneous “ah-ha!” moment. You see, the tune these talented troubadours tooted was none other than “Funky Town,” that 1979 smash disco hit by the Minneapolis band Lipps Inc. We are from Minneapolis. So that’s pretty neat. But that’s not all. Back in 2023 when we were in Brussels, the very first sight and sound we saw was a brass street band playing… you guessed it, “Funky Town.” Twice, in two European cities, two different brass band buskers welcomed us with renditions of music from our hometown. A real Truman Show moment if ever there was one. Or just serendipity. You decide.
After the rousing rendition of “Funky Town”and having finished our drinks, we gathered our party and ventured forth. Back through the Noailles we went, moving around and through the city that moved around and with us. We were heading back to the Vieux Port, in no rush. So non-rush, in fact, that we stopped for Middle Eastern pastry (the jalebi or zlabia) and a slice of pizza for each of us. I feel as if we gave pizza short shrift in Marseille, as it is one of the defining foods of the city, and Marseillais take great pride in the quality and number of pizza options available. We got our slices and they were perfect. The ideal combination and proportion of sauce, cheese, and toppings served on a piece of paper with one small napkin at a price that made me blink and look around to make sure I wasn’t being pranked: 2.50 euros. Off we went, munching our treat as we strode along (French customs of polite eating behavior be damned) dodging bicycles, other walkers, scooters, and the random loose child when what did we stumble upon but yet another brass band. This was the third horn band in one day. And this was just as raucous, loud, and joyous as the rest, with high leg kicks, matching t-shirts, and playing at pace that can only be called frantic. Viva Marseille!
We weren’t too far from the Vieux Port and thus our hotel, and we wanted to head back for a little late afternoon rest and relaxation. As we walked down the busy streets, we started hearing a bit more noise. These sounds weren’t the typical timbre and cadence associated with the flows of a large urban space. Something was different here. Off in the distance, we could hear more voices, rising and ebbing as almost in a chorus of chants. There seemed to be percussion, and not the kind of arranged musical drumming we heard with the street performers. It beat in time with the critical mass of voices, almost chanting along with them. We were both pretty certain what we were hearing, as we had both heard such things in the past and quite recently, from near and afar. As we once again approached La Canebiere near where it meets Vieux Port and turned left at Place Charles de Gaulle, our hunches proved correct. A large protest had gathered and massed right on the Vieux Port, near and around L’Ombiere and up and down the Quai des Belges, the eastern part of the port, most inland. It was huge. Now, harken back to earlier in the day as we walked La Canebiere further inland and witnessed some protests and protest-like activity. Well, here we were! They, and more, had all gathered and met directly in front of our hotel as the throngs of people, complete with signs, noisemakers, wheat-paste posters, drums drums and more drums, chanting, and shouts! It was lively and also quite joyous.
We looked at each other and were at something of a loss. Then, after looking at some of the signs, flyers, and posters it hit us: It was International Women’s Day! The scene was loud, yet chill, with people walk/marching from south to north along the Quai and around the bend, past our hotel, and toward the coast. There was joy, anger, and urgency. Protests such as these serve as an umbrella gathering for people with many different, yet converging and intersecting interests. Thus there were feminist, trans, pro-Palestinian, anti-capitalist, anti-Trump and anti-fascism in general, and more. All represented in the panoply of people, colors, flags, signs, banners, and chants. We walked along with the crowd as it accompanied us to our hotel, staying on the margins but taking it all in. Now, in the U.S. we two most likely would have participated in some way in this protest march. In France, as traveling guests on passports, we decided, correctly I believe, to dip into our digs instead and stand out on the balcony, wave, throw up a fist or two, and clap. Quite a few people saw us and waved back or returned a defiant fist. A number also beckoned us down, to which I shook my head no. I was just as resolute in not getting involved in something that may have even a modicum of a chance of getting us arrested for political activity in a foreign land as these fine folks were in getting their message out and disrupting the peace. I am sure many of the marchers who saw us perceived us as bourgie tourist assholes, and hey, I’ll wear a hat if it fits. I get it. But we saw the marchers for what they were: good. They were good. It was good.
After the masses passed and the drumming, chanting, and footfalls faded into the winding paths and hills of the Panier, we rested. Well, Lani rested (deserved and needed), because I had to run out and buy a couple tickets for yet another sea voyage, because we had one more outing this gorgeous Saturday evening.
One of the sites that was at the top, very top, of my list to see in Marseille was Chateau d’If. It's a former fort, turned prison, and now a tourist site off the coast of Marseille in the Frioul Archipelago. There are a couple tour boat companies operating out of Vieux Port whose kiosks were in full view of our hotel room. I knew that the trip to Chateau d'If was never assured day-to-day being subject to cancellation due to weather, most notably wind. Most notably the Mistral. The Mistral is the powerful (and often quite violent) gust that speeds down the Rhone valley directly toward Provence and Marseille. It's legendary. There are sayings, songs, fairy tales, and art speaking about, and warning of, the Mistral. We hadn't experienced the Mistral in the three days in Southern France. It had nevertheless been somewhat windy throughout our stay. Both tour companies could not assure safe docking at Chateau d'If and thus had cancelled their trips there for both Friday and Saturday. While I was momentarily disappointed, I was prepared for this outcome and resigned myself to not seeing Chateau d'If up close and personal.
But much to my surprise and everlasting joy, upon visiting both kiosks earlier that morning, I learned we could go to the other islands in the archipelago, and that passage went to and fro well into the evening. While Chateau d'If was off the table, we had our second sea voyage of the day lined up, with plenty of time. All I needed to do was purchase the tickets. So I scampered off to secure safe passage while Lani took a lie down.
The reason the tour boats can go to the other parts of the archipelago but not Chateau d'If is because the landing at d’If is quite perilous. It's really just a small, old stone slab. If there is any level of wind, and thus wave activity, the danger in docking, disembarking, and re-boarding is quite high. We sailed past Chateau d'If and were able to see the landing, and it made complete sense. I'm quite pleased that we were able to see the fort from up close via sea. We didn't get to walk around inside, but seeing it from the water was quite a treat nonetheless.
Without hyperbole and with no over-romanticization, I have to say that taking this boat ride to the island was the ideal way to spend our last evening in Marseille. I don't think I'm equipped with the adjectives to describe the waters below, late winter sun above, and the port cityscape slowly sliding by as we breached the port’s mouth. So I won’t use any.
Rather than If (the island is named “If”), we disembarked on Ratonneau, an inhabited island with a small village and a modern marina. It was just past 5:30 in the evening, and the sun hung low in the sky. Since we weren’t exploring a century’s old fort, we figured we would just have a look around and head back in about an hour. It worked out perfectly, as the tiny village on Ratonneau is traversable in just a few minutes. We walked completely around and through it and came across a really neat, small chapel built in the 19th century but made to look ancient, with Greek pillars and an open plaza overlooking the sea, all the way to mainland Marseille.
Ratonneau was used to quarantine ships and sailors who were sick with the various infectious maladies of the era (cholera, leprosy, tuberculosis, etc.), and the small chapel was built for the sailors stranded there. There is also a quarantine hospital on the island that dates to the same era that we did not make it to. The spot that struck our fancy and really took up the majority of our time was Plage de Morgiret, a small beach just on the other side of the village from the marina and in a cove facing almost due west. West is the direction in which the sun sets. It was a treasure on an island that we discovered, quite by accident, but with deliriously speechless results. It was so peaceful there, so quiet and with such a glowing sky, the sun going down behind a hillside and glowing warmly along a stretch of clouds. Blue, orange, white, grey, green, and yellow all blended together in this cove to present a painting-worthy, real life composition the likes of which I had never seen nor witnessed. We got to see a Mediterranean sunset from an island. How cool is that?
The boat trip and view from the island, not only in the sunset but also toward Marseille, was the cherry on top of the multilayered, complex, and complicated sundae that was our visit to Marseille. This city thrives, vibes, jives, bounces, kicks, booms, and soothes. It is complicated and complex. It is beautiful and memorable. And the memories we have of sweet Massilia will remain with us forever, and we cannot wait to return.
That night, we dined at a place on Vieux Port that was obviously catering to tourists. It was fine. Fresh seafood is always appreciated. What stands out for me was the fact that I got to dive into the cheese course. We had been too full the previous two evenings to order the cheese after our main courses, something I would not shut up about all day. I think I complained about lack of cheese. I was a cheese complainer. So much so that after the cheese course arrived and we both started our noshes, Lani sang to me about how “you got your water fountain and you got your cheese.” She was tired, punch drunk after the previous three days’ walking and also enjoying wine. So she sang. That one line. Twice. We did indeed get our massive water fountain and our cheese.
We love Marseille. Nous aimons Massilia!
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