Marseille…Massilia…Massalia… Whatever the name, this is an ancient city, an old port, and though undeniably French, it is more than French: it is the pulsing heart of the Mediterranean. Glittering and new and modern in places, it is equally sordid and dingy and reeking of fuel oil and fish in others, for above all else, Marseille is a working port and has been for countless ages.
The Greeks, who knew about fishing, and ports, and trading, established an outpost here long before the Romans emerged from their tiny villages to build an Empire. Phocaeans and Phoenicians came from the sea and Celts (which Romans named as Gauls) came from the land. And Marseille thrived.
The Romans simply co-opted what the Greeks and Celts had built, conquered and subjugated the area, and called it, fondly but ironically, “Nostre Provincia,”…Our Province…which eventually became Provence!
In the midst of this sprawling, thriving, bustling commercial city, the fishermen still come in their small boats in the morning, pull up to the Vieux Port, and display their catch to the passersby, as they have for hundreds and hundreds of years. Octopi with tentacles writhing…supremely, hideously ugly rascasse for the bouillabaisse we’ll have tonight…streamlined loup de mer, wolf of the sea…silver and gray torpedoes now still and awaiting the stockpot for the soupe de poissons. The smell of fresh picked lavender and rosemary twigs wafts through the air from one stand, and under a tattered umbrella weathered gray by the sun a man scoops handfuls of tiny, thimble-sized brownshelled snails.
Just a typical Monday morning in Marseille.
Our hosts have arranged a treat for us today, and soon an old, but well kept coastal fishing boat pulls up to the pier between the luxury yachts and sleek motor-sailors, and we hop aboard. As we cruise slowly out of the Vieux Port our Marseillaise guide proudly details the cathedral on the hill, the massive forts that guard the entrance to the port, and the slowly emerging sprawl of coastline that reveals itself to us as we motor out into the vast Bay. We cruise past the famous Chateau d’If, of Monte Cristo fame, still capable of evincing a shudder, and then to the famous quarantine island, where ships docked before entering the harbor in futile attempts to stop the dreaded black plagues sweeping Europe in the Middle Ages.
And then we see the magnificent calanques of the Bay of Marseille, massive limestone mountains along the coastline, emerging like gigantic white creatures of the deep from the sparkling teal and azure waters. These island mountains are barren and inhospitable to humans, and except for occasional lighthouses and old fortifications and caretaker shacks, are home only to birds and wild animals.
Small sandy inlets dot the shores, most available only from the sea, and isolated fisher villages can be seen, but people are few and roads are fewer. The sun beats down mercilessly from an almost cloudless sky, casting the white limestone and the Homeric sea in actinic light, and the air is unbearably hot and still, alleviated only by the cool wind of motion from the boat’s passage along the white coast.
As we pull back in sight of the outskirts of the city sprawl, we tuck into one cove, under a Roman-style archway bridge, past small fishing boats pulled up on the shingle shore underneath stagger-stacked houses cantilevered up the rock walls---an old cove for fishermen, now too expensive for such humble folk and home to only a few, but dotted with restaurants and shops. And there we see the multi-storied restaurant that is our evening destination, the celebrated bouillabaisse restaurant, FonFon!
…But that is a story for the next insert.
