The Marseille airport is a bit of a misnomer.  It is the airport for Marseille in that it’s the only airport for 20 miles in any direction.  But it’s nowhere near the actual city.  The airport itself is nice, but actually getting into the city requires either taking an absurdly expensive cab (about $90), or jumping on to the $12 bus to the train station, which then takes you to the metro.  I opted for a mix of both, and took the bus to the train station, then grabbed a taxi from there.

I’m very spoiled in Marseille.  The event I’m here for, the IMGA’s, puts up all of it’s judges in an amazing four star hotel and takes care of all of our meals as well.  Essentially, our only expense is our time and for any drinks we decide to grab afterwards (hint: there’s always drinks afterwards).  Considering they also pay for my flight to and from Europe, I’m coming out well ahead in this deal.

I checked into my (huge) hotel room and found a string of emails from the other judges asking who was in town and wanted to get dinner.  Of the 17 judges arriving, most were too jet lagged to do much beyond find a sandwich or were getting in too late for dinner.  Four of us, however, decided to meet up.  Sadly, my choice of a couscous place I had been to the year before was closed (it was some kind of national holiday) but we ended up at an Irish Pub next to the hotel.

One thing I’ll never understand about Europe: in the US or the UK or Ireland, the pub is a neighborhood bar.  Prices are cheap, food is good and you expect a bit of dirt or grime somewhere.  It’s what makes the place feel like home.

In Europe proper, though, the pub is less a neighborhood bar and more a themed restaurant, like an Outback Steakhouse or an American burger place in the middle fo Warsaw (more on that later).  The pieces are all there but it’s too clean, too much memorabilia on the wall.  Everything is just slightly off.

But it was open and it served food and beer and therefore we were happy.

We grabbed a booth and some beers and ordered.  They had flamkouchen on the menu, so I had to get it – it’s a type of French/German pizza (if you want to be really specific, it’s from Alsace-Lorraine and have fun having that conversation with a French or German) that I’d had once before in Munich.  Instead of tomato sauce it uses sour cream and a super thin crust that’s cut into squares.  It’s fantastic, and this one, with duck and goat cheese, was no exception.  Eventually we called it an early night and went to bed – we had a long day ahead of us.

I won’t go into all the details as I’ve mentioned the IMGAs before, but suffice it to say that by 6pm we were exhausted.  The judges had been broken into six different groups and each group had played between 50-100 games in one day.  Our eyes hurt, our minds were mush and we were very, very hungry.

Food, however, had to wait.  One of the awards sponsors is the city of Marseille itself and they had set up an event that night with local developers who wanted to meet us judges.  I was tired, but they had free wine and food so I wasn’t going to complain.

There’s a trend here involving free food and drink if you’re paying attention.

Then, about fifteen minutes before we were set to leave,  Maarten, the founder of the awards, asked me to give a short speech to the developers. Um, sure?

So about an hour and a few glasses of liquid courage later, there I was giving my first public address since I’d worked at the Capitol.  It went well and I got some very nice compliments thereafter.  But moreover it goes to show that life doesn’t move in a straight line so much as it does a spiral – you’re constantly reusing old skills for new circumstances.

 

Finally, with much wine and beer in our bellies, we marched back towards the hotel and dinner.  An Indian restaurant had been suggested to us and we were not one to say no.  Everything seemed to be going fineuntil my friend Chris and I stumbled upon something we couldn’t believe.

Cheese Naan.

I love indian food.  I love naan.  And I love cheese.  Together they formed a holy trinity of possibilities.

We ordered two servings and that naan filled with goat cheese mixing with my paneer marsala was absolutely heavenly.  There simply isn’t words to describe its magical goodness.  Chris complained of stomach cramps later but Chris is kinda a wimp.  Afterwards, however, we all decided an appertif was greatly needed so we headed out towards a bar.

As I mentioned before, Marseille is really a city inside of another city and this bar existed behind the facade of the waterfront and in the old alleyways.  It was only a five minute walk from the restaurant to the bar, but it existed in a kind of no man’s land – you could tell a walk five minutes further would take you to a very different part of town, while five minutes back took us to the waterfront and our four star lodging.  We later found out someone had been shot and killed just a week before right in front of our intended choice.

We clearly listened to this advice and walked right inside: an American, a Brit, an Aussie and a German.  Just the four customers any good French bar wants.

The owner grumbled and ignored at us when we first walked in until, shockingly, my french came to the rescue.

I actually took french in school and can force my way beyond simple words and into somewhat complicated sentences such as”no, the top shelf bottle” and “yes, please do make it a double”.  At this the owner smiled and our glasses were never empty.

In retrospect, it may have been the gorgeous Australian in our midst more so than my language skills, but I digress.

After a few hours, some dancing and someone who shall remain nameless stealing a cup of the “jungle juice” at the bar (it was the Australian) for the walk back, we left for the night to get some rest for day two.

Day two is always worse than day one and this one was no exception.  By the last two hours the debates had ceased and people were barely able to get their arms up for a vote.  We had brought the list down to a respectable 130 games and I decided to allow everyone more time to play the final choices before making a decision.  I gave everyone a week deadline to get their votes into me and with that we were done.

I took a group the long way back through to the hotel, by one of the old churches that had been restored and through yet more alleyways.This opened up into a view of the harbor immediately adjacent to the hotel, where the lights flickered off the water from the moored boats and the Ferris wheel.  It really is a beautiful sight.

But, once again we were hungry.  Maarten had suggested a pizza place only a few doors down from the hotel so almost everyone joined.  We took up three tables and chatted amicably in English amongst ourselves while we (read: me) ordered in French. One thing led to another and ze german and I ordered a bottle of wine for the table.

French wine has a bit of a lore around it.  I’ll be honest, one of the things I love about it is the fact that, when you’re in France, you can go to any grocery store or corner market and spend $6 on a bottle and have it be one of the better bottles you’ve ever had.  That having been said, you do have to know your wine just a bit to get away with it.

In total, we paid $30 for this bottle at the restaurant, so it was probably a $15 in a store.  Other tables were complimenting us on our choice and our own table was moaning and salivating over their poured glasses.  Suffice it to say it was really, really good.

This success obviously deserved another aperitif and we found ourselves at the same bar we had been at the night before. The bartender laughed when we walked in (“one of you had some punch last night, yes?”) and he proceeded to make sure yet again our glasses were never empty.  Many exchanges of never-ending friendship took place in the next few hours.

The next morning I woke up later than I expected and wandered downstairs.  Too late for the free breakfast (did I mention they do a free breakfast here?) I asked for a suggestion for a good french bakery.  The rain was falling fast and hard outside and I borrowed an umbrella from the hotel before I headed out.  It really didn’t help matters – the rain was so heavy it was dripping through the umbrella’s fabric.

The bakery was up a hill about two blocks from the hotel, through the back alleys.  Yet no matter the pouring rain, throngs of Marseillans were wandering up the alleys looking for their favorite bakery/lunch/seafood/whatever.  They came because these were their families spot, and in talking to them it had been their family’s spot since before they were born and in some cases since before their parents were born.

This was, I realized, a side of Marseille I hadn’t seen before, the true Marseille.  And I knew that no matter which part of the city I was in, it would look like this – people rushing through the rain to pick up their favorite wine, bread and cheese.

My croissants were fantastic and I ate them while working in the hotel lobby.  A few of the judges swung by to say hello before they left but you could already see their demeanor and attitude was reverting back towards their attitudes in their home countries.  That’s the thing about traveling, you’re never really the person you are at home.

I eventually grabbed a cab with Chris as we were on the same flight, and made it to the Marseille airport.  We had the same flight to London and spent the time chatting about an upcoming conference and other projects. We made it to our flight and were off an hour later.

Marseille is a city easy to see just at face value.  But if you dig a little deeper, burrow a bit beyond the facade of the waterfront and the downtown and into the alleys behind, you can find some truly unique and incredible places, serving some of the best food and drink I’ve ever had.

I’m not sure I ever would have gone to Marseille if I hadn’t been invited ot the IMGAs.  But having been there twice before, I can honestly say I get more and more excited each year to explore it’s other side, the other city behind it all.

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Places:

Airport: Marseille-Provence,  http://www.marseille-airport.com/

Train Station: Gare St. Charles, http://www.raileurope.com/europe-travel-guide/france/marseille/train-station/st-charles-train-station.html

Lodging: Radisson Blu, http://www.radissonblu.com/hotel-marseille

Pub (Home of the flamkouchen): The Queen Victoria, http://www.thequeenvictoria.fr/

Indian Food (Home of the Cheese Naan): Le Kashmir Lounge, http://www.le-kashmir-lounge.com/

Pizza Place (Home of the Amazing Wine): La Galiotte, http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g187253-d1330221-Reviews-La_Galiotte-Marseille_Bouches_du_Rhone_Provence.html

Bakery: Four Des Navettes, http://www.fourdesnavettes.com/fr/

 

 

 

 

Marseille is one of the most unique cities I’ve ever visited and you notice why the moment you leave the airport. But like most things, you have to know its history to understand it.

It’s about a twenty minute drive into Marseille and you have two options, a cab or the bus to the train station. Either way you take the same main highway down the coast.

You expect the beautiful countryside that is Provence, with its rolling green hills disappearing to the horizon. And you expect the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean as it’s waves roll lazily onto the shore.

But you don’t expect the tenements, the graffiti on every available space or the trash everywhere. As you pull into the train station you start to wonder where exactly you ended up and why you’ve come. And then you hit the center of town and are confronted with something else entirely.

A picture perfect harbor, architecture that looks like it just came off a front cover and water so blue it hurts your eyes. Your mind whiplashes: where are you?

It doesn’t seem like it could be the same place. This is the second largest city in France, a city surrounded by poverty while in the middle of town sits one of the most beautiful scenes in Europe, with incredible food, fantastic bars and some of the freshest seafood you’ll ever find. The more you visit the less sense it makes.

Marseille has been the main area for shipping and heavy transportation in the country for hundreds of years, exporting France’s goods and importing France’s necessities. It was bombed heavily by the Germans during World War II, as was much of the south of France for it’s economic importance. It was then bombed again by the Allies for the same reasons. To say it was simply destroyed is an understatement

After the war the French government needed it’s southern coast rebuilt and needed it done fast. Germany and Italy were paying massive reparations for the war so France had money to burn. This was also the France of 1948, with a massive available workforce willing to work for very little. They did not come from France proper, however, they came from its empire. Specifically from France’s crown jewel, Algeria.

Workers were shipped in by the hundreds of thousands, with a special emphasis on Marseille. It wasn’t long before the city began to regroup from it’s utter devastation and take back a share of its former glory. But this left an interesting predicament.

Spurred on by the stories of a better life in France, millions of immigrants began flooding into Marseilles’ ports. After Algeria gained independence over 150,000 Algerians jumped on ships and moved to Marseille to try and find stability. The French government simply didn’t know how to deal with this massive influx of newcomers who had their own culture and, even more shocking, their own language.

The French language is not simply a language to the French: it IS their culture. I could spend pages upon pages writing about this (the book La Belle France does a fantastic job of explaining this is id you want more) but suffice it to say that unlike America or the Netherlands or really any other western country the French place their language on a pedestal we cannot really comprehend.

So when you have millions of new immigrants who do not speak the corner piece of your nationality, it can only lead to problems. And it has.

Across the country, the two cultures divided, with the French staying in their city centers while the new immigrant classes made homes around the outskirts. The problem continues today.

The grandsons and granddaughters of that massive immigrant influx of the 1950’s have had to live in a country completely unsure of how to integrate them. Not only do many not consider French their main language (although many can speak it fluently) their culture is different as they are predominantly Muslim.

Nowhere is this break more clear than in Marseille, as a majority of the poor are of the immigrant class. For decades this separation had only intensified as Marseilles reasserted itself as the economic powerhouse of southern France. It was an impossible dichotomy of culture and money.

It is getting better: groups like EuroMediterannee have made it their goal to bring the city back to it’s former glory, and since the mid 1990’s have begun to restore huge parts of the city. Seeing pictures of the city from just 15 years before, it’s shocking how much has changed. Every year Ianother new building has been erected, or another old building has been restored.

That restoration, however, has been focused on the city center and you see very little of it outside of there. But it helps to explain how a city can look so different from the outsides versus the in.

This is the story as it was told to me by the people I met while visiting, and it was mentioned again and again as I asked about their city. There is, then, an awareness to the problems Marseille faces even if solutions have not yet presented themselves.

It was with all of this in mind that I went to Marseille for my second time.