"Bienvenue en Marseille", the captain's voice rang out from the speakers
"Welcome to Marseille", came the English translation.
I took out the note from my shirt pocket and had another look at the places I'd like to see and things I'd love to do, if time permits. Notre-Dame de la Garde. Vieux Port. L'Estaque. The Mediterranean Cruise.
"Bienvenue en Marseille", the lady in uniform smiled when she returned my stamped passport. A golden eagle with the letters D and F below it looks really cool.
"Merci beaucoup", I replied before turning and heading towards the exit of the Marseille-Marignane, the fifth busiest airport in France.
"Would you like a taxi, Monsieur?", a balding man asked in a heavily accented English.
"Yes please", I replied and handed over the address of the hotel we're supposed to be heading to.
"Ah, the Vieux Port hotel. Let's go."
I was feeling all tired and groggy when awoken by the taxi driver. Not sure how long it took but I had a good forty winks. I handed 20 Euros to him and alighted. Checked in at the front desk and I'm already on the streets of Marseille.
I wanted to see for myself this place. After all, I've only seen rich men's boats on the marina of Monaco in the Monaco F1 GP on TV. So this is my chance to see for myself life in the port. The air was dry and cool. The sky is cloudless and breezy. Just right for some sightseeing.
In no time, I was sitting by the marina overlooking the sea; next to a few fishermen having a lively chat in a language so foreign to me. Marseille, today, has become a commercial port of sort. No longer like any other ports in the 18th century where we'd have labourers unloading the catch of the day. Now, big ships come in. By big, I meant huge - tuna ships. Just about three years ago, tuna ships blocked the Greenpeace flagship Rainbow Warrior from docking here at the port. From where I was, I could see the Notre-Dame de la Garde.
I looked out once more into the open sea. I could see ships and some birds hovering above them. Must be seagulls, I thought to myself. Do they have sharks around here? Not now, but back then perhaps? I began to daydream.
Not long ago when sharks are aplenty; when pirates practiced "walking the plank", there was a boy by the name... err... Jules. Befitting for a French. With his dad, Pietro, a French of Spanish descent, they began loading their mid-sized boat. The boy was excited, not knowing what the day would bring. He was hoping to feed the gulls when he return later. He was running to and fro, getting baits, lunchbox, a hat, a poncho, and a compass. His dad, puffing away on the boat could only look on.
They set sail and passerby could still hear the boy's glee and squeals as the boat moves away from the Old Port. Some women smiled and shook their heads. In the middle of the sea, Pietro was cautious. He have had some ugly encounters with the sharks and he'd better be careful. Alas, fate dealt mercilessly with them. The sharks began circling the boat and the boy was terrified. Squeals became a frightened whimper. Pietro tried to calm Jules and assured him that everything will be just fine. Knowing how sharks were, Pietro began emptying the lunchboxes and the baits hoping to satiate the sharks. Somehow, these creatures weren't the least interested.
That thought ended abruptly. The fishermen next to me pointed to my shoulder. To my horror, there was a freshly laid bird excrement. I got up and hastily searched for a public toilet. A great day! As I was wiping my sleeve, my mind drifted to little Jules and Pietro. How Pietro, in order to save himself, decided to throw Jules overboard. A heartless thing to do to his own flesh and blood but when one is cornered, the selfish fight-flight impulse kicks and a child is fed to the sharks.
I brought that story with me on to the Mediterranean Cruise. I was at the stern of the ship and I looked at the white trail made by the engine. Would I throw my child overboard? Will I make him or her walk the plank into the dark mouths of the sharks?
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur." A beautiful blonde attendant dressed up all in white greeted me with a tray of champagne-filled glasses on it. I declined politely. Beautiful. A mix of Norwegian, Swedish and the like I believe.
"Attends-moi, mademoiselle", I called out in broken French.
"Welcome to Marseille", came the English translation.
I took out the note from my shirt pocket and had another look at the places I'd like to see and things I'd love to do, if time permits. Notre-Dame de la Garde. Vieux Port. L'Estaque. The Mediterranean Cruise.
"Bienvenue en Marseille", the lady in uniform smiled when she returned my stamped passport. A golden eagle with the letters D and F below it looks really cool.
"Merci beaucoup", I replied before turning and heading towards the exit of the Marseille-Marignane, the fifth busiest airport in France.
"Would you like a taxi, Monsieur?", a balding man asked in a heavily accented English.
"Yes please", I replied and handed over the address of the hotel we're supposed to be heading to.
"Ah, the Vieux Port hotel. Let's go."
I was feeling all tired and groggy when awoken by the taxi driver. Not sure how long it took but I had a good forty winks. I handed 20 Euros to him and alighted. Checked in at the front desk and I'm already on the streets of Marseille.
I wanted to see for myself this place. After all, I've only seen rich men's boats on the marina of Monaco in the Monaco F1 GP on TV. So this is my chance to see for myself life in the port. The air was dry and cool. The sky is cloudless and breezy. Just right for some sightseeing.
In no time, I was sitting by the marina overlooking the sea; next to a few fishermen having a lively chat in a language so foreign to me. Marseille, today, has become a commercial port of sort. No longer like any other ports in the 18th century where we'd have labourers unloading the catch of the day. Now, big ships come in. By big, I meant huge - tuna ships. Just about three years ago, tuna ships blocked the Greenpeace flagship Rainbow Warrior from docking here at the port. From where I was, I could see the Notre-Dame de la Garde.
I looked out once more into the open sea. I could see ships and some birds hovering above them. Must be seagulls, I thought to myself. Do they have sharks around here? Not now, but back then perhaps? I began to daydream.
Not long ago when sharks are aplenty; when pirates practiced "walking the plank", there was a boy by the name... err... Jules. Befitting for a French. With his dad, Pietro, a French of Spanish descent, they began loading their mid-sized boat. The boy was excited, not knowing what the day would bring. He was hoping to feed the gulls when he return later. He was running to and fro, getting baits, lunchbox, a hat, a poncho, and a compass. His dad, puffing away on the boat could only look on.
They set sail and passerby could still hear the boy's glee and squeals as the boat moves away from the Old Port. Some women smiled and shook their heads. In the middle of the sea, Pietro was cautious. He have had some ugly encounters with the sharks and he'd better be careful. Alas, fate dealt mercilessly with them. The sharks began circling the boat and the boy was terrified. Squeals became a frightened whimper. Pietro tried to calm Jules and assured him that everything will be just fine. Knowing how sharks were, Pietro began emptying the lunchboxes and the baits hoping to satiate the sharks. Somehow, these creatures weren't the least interested.
That thought ended abruptly. The fishermen next to me pointed to my shoulder. To my horror, there was a freshly laid bird excrement. I got up and hastily searched for a public toilet. A great day! As I was wiping my sleeve, my mind drifted to little Jules and Pietro. How Pietro, in order to save himself, decided to throw Jules overboard. A heartless thing to do to his own flesh and blood but when one is cornered, the selfish fight-flight impulse kicks and a child is fed to the sharks.
I brought that story with me on to the Mediterranean Cruise. I was at the stern of the ship and I looked at the white trail made by the engine. Would I throw my child overboard? Will I make him or her walk the plank into the dark mouths of the sharks?
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur." A beautiful blonde attendant dressed up all in white greeted me with a tray of champagne-filled glasses on it. I declined politely. Beautiful. A mix of Norwegian, Swedish and the like I believe.
"Attends-moi, mademoiselle", I called out in broken French.
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