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| A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life. WAVE Journey is your one stop online resource for women oriented businesses and services around the world. WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online resource. Perplexing Provence ~ continued Article and photos by Marie Peyre |
| WAVE Journey |
| Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
Next morning after a hearty breakfast (my mother's made a
special effort and gone out to buy some croissants and pains
au chocolat for us to feast on), we decide to go for a walk.
The sky has cleared up and it is a reasonably pleasant day.
We feel we ought to show Paul some of the beautiful
countryside around Marseille. We are heading for Le Rove, a
place north west of the city, by the sea. I used to picnic there
on Sundays with my family when I was a kid. It is a bit like
the Calanques to the east, but it is less crowded, and offers
breathtaking views of the harbor.
'Why don't we stop on the way and take Paul to the marché
aux puces?' my mother suggests. Le marché aux puces (the
flea market) is in fact a big arab market housed in a complex
of rundown warehouses that were closed down years ago.
The site marks the beginning of the northern suburbs, an
ugly part of town mainly populated by immigrants living in
squalid housing estates, and one definitely off the tourist
map.
During the week, it is a food market catering for the local
community, a place full of Maghrebin housewives going about
their daily shopping. You can buy plantains and yams here,
goat meat and live chickens, chickpeas, rice and lentils in
20kg bags, and fragrant spices with exotic names - kamoun
(cumin, since you're asking) by far the most popular.
special effort and gone out to buy some croissants and pains
au chocolat for us to feast on), we decide to go for a walk.
The sky has cleared up and it is a reasonably pleasant day.
We feel we ought to show Paul some of the beautiful
countryside around Marseille. We are heading for Le Rove, a
place north west of the city, by the sea. I used to picnic there
on Sundays with my family when I was a kid. It is a bit like
the Calanques to the east, but it is less crowded, and offers
breathtaking views of the harbor.
'Why don't we stop on the way and take Paul to the marché
aux puces?' my mother suggests. Le marché aux puces (the
flea market) is in fact a big arab market housed in a complex
of rundown warehouses that were closed down years ago.
The site marks the beginning of the northern suburbs, an
ugly part of town mainly populated by immigrants living in
squalid housing estates, and one definitely off the tourist
map.
During the week, it is a food market catering for the local
community, a place full of Maghrebin housewives going about
their daily shopping. You can buy plantains and yams here,
goat meat and live chickens, chickpeas, rice and lentils in
20kg bags, and fragrant spices with exotic names - kamoun
(cumin, since you're asking) by far the most popular.
But at the weekend, the permanent booths and the fruit and vegetable stalls are joined
outside by dozens more traders and the area takes on a different face, with teenagers hunting
for alluringly priced fake Nike trainers and cheap tracksuits, discounted lipsticks and glittery nail
varnishes, cassettes, CDs, computer games and personal stereos. There are vendors
advertising pirate videos and DVDs for a couple of euros on almost every corner. Stalls selling
fabric, baby clothes, tagine dishes, mirrors, toiletries, Moroccan lamps, saucepans, candles,
hand-woven carpets, traditional kitchenware…
The most interesting part of the action on those days, though, takes place in the neighbouring
streets. The market sprawls further out, past the old warehouses gates, and the entire area
becomes what looks like a huge car boot sale. Hundreds of people turn up at the crack of
dawn, roll out a mat on the pavement (some don't even bother) and take up their positions
behind these improvised pocket-sized displays. The goods for sale (second-hand boots,
dismantled alarm clocks, torn comic books, rusty tools, cracked vases, one-armed dolls,
mismatched tea sets) are invariably faulty, broken or just plain hideous. That, though, does not
seem to deter anybody. The place is always packed.
The streets are so busy it takes us a good 15 minutes to find a parking spot about half a mile
from the market. We get there around 12 o'clock, i.e. quite late. Bargains go quick. Already,
some people are packing up their stuff and heading home. The streets are full of discarded
cardboard boxes, torn plastic bags, rotting fruit in the gutter. A battlefield.
Inside, the fruit and vegetable vendors are trying to vocally outdo each other in a last attempt
to get rid of left-over perishable goods. An improvised mini opera (and one of dangerously high
decibel levels) complete with Arab music playing on a radio somewhere in the background and
the occasional scream of children running between stalls.
Outside in the sun, we amble idly for a while between makeshift stalls selling all sort of second-
hand bric-a-brac before heading back to the car. As I turn round to ask Paul what his
impressions are, I can read the answer on his face. I don't think he has ever seen anything
quite like it.
Paul did get his Provence experience in the end, let me reassure you. We did have our walk in
Le Rove.. The sky was clear, the sea a beautiful deep blue, and I was able to show him
Marseilles' two main offshore islands, Le Frioul and Le Chateau d'If (where the Count of Monte
Cristo was famously incarcerated) in the distance.
It was strange for me to find myself there after all these years. But it brought back all sorts of
good memories. And the place is really stunning, with its white limestone cliffs and green
'guarigue' vegetation, typical of these parts. We picked some thyme and some rosemary. We
even stopped in Niolon (a picturesque little fishermen's village nestled in a tiny calanque) for
hot chocolate on the way back.
In the evening, my mum took us to Notre Dame de la Garde (the basilica that overlooks
Marseille from the hill above it, and which locals refer to as 'Bonne Mere', or 'Good Mother',
because it is supposed to protect those out at sea). From this vantage point at night, you have
an unbeatable view of the city lights spreading in a 360 degree angle all around you. Quite a
spectacle.
Next day, I made it my duty to show Paul the highlights of my hometown. I took him to Le
Pharo gardens so that he could see the Vieux Port (the old harbour, the undisputed jewel in
Marseilles' crown) in all its splendour. We took the little ferry boat to cross to the other side (a
two-minute journey you would not normally undertake unless you were a nine-year-old on a
school day trip or, of course, a tourist), and went for a stroll in the old district of Le Panier.
We saw the Vieille Charité, an almshouse built to house the city's beggars, whose restored
vaulted galleries are today home to a good art bookshop and (I found out to my surprise) an
erotic museum! We saw the Cours Estienne d'Orves, with all its trendy bars and restaurants
(and since a few years ago, a couple of Irish pubs!). We even went shopping on the Rue St
Férréol (Marseilles' mini Oxford Street) and walked back up the Canebiere (its main street,
immortalised by a naff music hall song I find myself humming, to my horror, whenever someone
happens to mention the name)…
And we had lunch at my dad's. I knew he would make a special effort for my guest. My dad
didn't let me down. Lapin a la moutarde it was. With a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape (my
favorite) to wash it down. Foie gras. And 'oursins' (sea urchins, the little black spiny things you
sometimes see when snorkelling in the Med… you open them, and eat the orange bits inside. A
delicacy enjoyed by many tourists in season, although how many of the latter realize that what
they are eating between mouthfuls of baguette are actually the reproductive organs of the
unfortunate echinoderms I don't know. I kept quiet and let Paul enjoy his food).
On the way back to my mum's later in the day, I run a quick mental inventory of all the things
we've seen and done. Paul did have it in the end: the sightseeing, the food, the booze.. As my
brother and his friend turn up later that day to say hello and take le digestif with us, and we
end up drinking and playing cards late in the small hours, like characters out of a novel by
Marcel Pagnol (one of Provence's most celebrated authors), I know that although his taste of
Marseilles life might not have been exactly what he expected, Paul knows he's seen and done
more than most tourists on a short break to the south of France. It can't be that bad after all.
outside by dozens more traders and the area takes on a different face, with teenagers hunting
for alluringly priced fake Nike trainers and cheap tracksuits, discounted lipsticks and glittery nail
varnishes, cassettes, CDs, computer games and personal stereos. There are vendors
advertising pirate videos and DVDs for a couple of euros on almost every corner. Stalls selling
fabric, baby clothes, tagine dishes, mirrors, toiletries, Moroccan lamps, saucepans, candles,
hand-woven carpets, traditional kitchenware…
The most interesting part of the action on those days, though, takes place in the neighbouring
streets. The market sprawls further out, past the old warehouses gates, and the entire area
becomes what looks like a huge car boot sale. Hundreds of people turn up at the crack of
dawn, roll out a mat on the pavement (some don't even bother) and take up their positions
behind these improvised pocket-sized displays. The goods for sale (second-hand boots,
dismantled alarm clocks, torn comic books, rusty tools, cracked vases, one-armed dolls,
mismatched tea sets) are invariably faulty, broken or just plain hideous. That, though, does not
seem to deter anybody. The place is always packed.
The streets are so busy it takes us a good 15 minutes to find a parking spot about half a mile
from the market. We get there around 12 o'clock, i.e. quite late. Bargains go quick. Already,
some people are packing up their stuff and heading home. The streets are full of discarded
cardboard boxes, torn plastic bags, rotting fruit in the gutter. A battlefield.
Inside, the fruit and vegetable vendors are trying to vocally outdo each other in a last attempt
to get rid of left-over perishable goods. An improvised mini opera (and one of dangerously high
decibel levels) complete with Arab music playing on a radio somewhere in the background and
the occasional scream of children running between stalls.
Outside in the sun, we amble idly for a while between makeshift stalls selling all sort of second-
hand bric-a-brac before heading back to the car. As I turn round to ask Paul what his
impressions are, I can read the answer on his face. I don't think he has ever seen anything
quite like it.
Paul did get his Provence experience in the end, let me reassure you. We did have our walk in
Le Rove.. The sky was clear, the sea a beautiful deep blue, and I was able to show him
Marseilles' two main offshore islands, Le Frioul and Le Chateau d'If (where the Count of Monte
Cristo was famously incarcerated) in the distance.
It was strange for me to find myself there after all these years. But it brought back all sorts of
good memories. And the place is really stunning, with its white limestone cliffs and green
'guarigue' vegetation, typical of these parts. We picked some thyme and some rosemary. We
even stopped in Niolon (a picturesque little fishermen's village nestled in a tiny calanque) for
hot chocolate on the way back.
In the evening, my mum took us to Notre Dame de la Garde (the basilica that overlooks
Marseille from the hill above it, and which locals refer to as 'Bonne Mere', or 'Good Mother',
because it is supposed to protect those out at sea). From this vantage point at night, you have
an unbeatable view of the city lights spreading in a 360 degree angle all around you. Quite a
spectacle.
Next day, I made it my duty to show Paul the highlights of my hometown. I took him to Le
Pharo gardens so that he could see the Vieux Port (the old harbour, the undisputed jewel in
Marseilles' crown) in all its splendour. We took the little ferry boat to cross to the other side (a
two-minute journey you would not normally undertake unless you were a nine-year-old on a
school day trip or, of course, a tourist), and went for a stroll in the old district of Le Panier.
We saw the Vieille Charité, an almshouse built to house the city's beggars, whose restored
vaulted galleries are today home to a good art bookshop and (I found out to my surprise) an
erotic museum! We saw the Cours Estienne d'Orves, with all its trendy bars and restaurants
(and since a few years ago, a couple of Irish pubs!). We even went shopping on the Rue St
Férréol (Marseilles' mini Oxford Street) and walked back up the Canebiere (its main street,
immortalised by a naff music hall song I find myself humming, to my horror, whenever someone
happens to mention the name)…
And we had lunch at my dad's. I knew he would make a special effort for my guest. My dad
didn't let me down. Lapin a la moutarde it was. With a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape (my
favorite) to wash it down. Foie gras. And 'oursins' (sea urchins, the little black spiny things you
sometimes see when snorkelling in the Med… you open them, and eat the orange bits inside. A
delicacy enjoyed by many tourists in season, although how many of the latter realize that what
they are eating between mouthfuls of baguette are actually the reproductive organs of the
unfortunate echinoderms I don't know. I kept quiet and let Paul enjoy his food).
On the way back to my mum's later in the day, I run a quick mental inventory of all the things
we've seen and done. Paul did have it in the end: the sightseeing, the food, the booze.. As my
brother and his friend turn up later that day to say hello and take le digestif with us, and we
end up drinking and playing cards late in the small hours, like characters out of a novel by
Marcel Pagnol (one of Provence's most celebrated authors), I know that although his taste of
Marseilles life might not have been exactly what he expected, Paul knows he's seen and done
more than most tourists on a short break to the south of France. It can't be that bad after all.
