Marseille

As the bus took the winding road to Mação, the ghost of a familiar panic gripped me. I felt it each time I returned to Mação in the past two years- the urge to turn back. For ways out of the village were far and few.But this is a different trip altogether. In the next few days I will pack my bags and say good bye to the little village.Macao has not changed a bit since I left more than three months ago. Except that one of its handful of coffee shops has closed down. But hang on.. Macao is at the tail end of the trip. There was a thesis defense, an excavation and quite bit of of tourism sandwiched between. I met long distant friends,slept at many an airport lounges and hostels. Now at the end of it I am slightly bleary eyed and disoriented, that thoughts does not come in an orderly fashion. The day before, I was wandering alongside the Vieux Port (Old Port) of Marseille in search of Bouillabaisse. Bouillabaisse is a traditional Provençal fish stew from the region (of course known from the the Goblet of Fire). Middle aged ladies in aprons bargained with customers standing aside heaps of salmon and mussels. Eager seagulls circled overhead in anticipation, sweeping down to catch an occasional fish a kind lady threw out, so as to entertain a crying child. I always thought seagulls were beautiful creatures- swift, agile, aerodynamic perfections. And a week before, I walked on the gray sands of the coast of Guernsey, trying to capture in vain a perfect moment of flight on my camera. It was then that Thomas told me that for the English the seagulls are just noisy dirty beings that throng around garbage heaps. Much like crows for us! The Vieux Port is a U- shaped natural harbour known to be in use since the 6th century BCE. At present the port is to the brim filled with life. Hundreds of fishing boats are docked in obedient lines. Sirens of international carriers from the different ports of North Africa shoo away the humble sail boats that cross their paths. Fish vendors and peddlers throng the coastal side of Quai du Port. The opposite side of the road is lined by souvenir shops that sell the famed Marseille soap cubes and post card panoramas and restaurants declare various Provençe delicacies offered in coolness of umbrella shades. Further I walked along the Quai Rive Nueve onto the Boulevard Charles Livon, past the gardens of the Pharo palace up to the famed 'Gateway to the East', and archway that opens into a breath taking view of the oceanfront. the sea here is a deep blue that adds a tinge of green where it meets the sandstone coloured coast. Down below my walk way on the terraces and private beaches of the luxury hotels, men and women in bathing suits applied sun tan oil on their already tanned limbs. Out in the distance, in the ocean, the towers of the Château d'If, one of the settings of the Count of Monte Christo was visible. Vieux Port was love at first sight. The previous evening after we landed in Marseille Erika and me walked our way up to the Notre Dame cathedral. The church bells rang six times as we climbed the hill. Erika was far ahead. My lungs protested, each step I took. I have a history of chronic bronchitis and my worse nightmares involve breathlessness and drowning. Cursing under my breath, I climbed on hardly noticing anything but my feet.So when Erika pointed to the beyond, I was quite unprepared for the panorama that spread below. The whole of Marseille lay unfurled under the protective gaze of Our Lady of the Guard. The tour guide of the hop on- hop off bus I took the next day compared her protection to that extended by Cristo Redentor upon Rio de Janeiro. Down below the Vieux Port buzzed with activity. As we watched a steamer approached the Fort St. Jean, framed in the backdrop of the evening sky. The search for a Bouillabaisse place that suited my wallet took many long hours. Finally I sat sun beaten at a table facing the port with the steaming yellow- orange fish and mussel stew before me. Sadly, the looks of the dish were deceptive and it tasted rather bland to my taste buds. All through my flight to Lisbon a few hours later, my stomach rumbled in protest. Then, one cant have everything in life.