Anniversary Vacation Notes 2017 Day 3: 2/18 Saturday: Marseilles

We’d boarded the sleeper-car of the train to Marseille in the Gare du Austerlitz in Paris. Our sleeper-car companions on the 8-hour ride to Marseille were an elderly Dutchman who spoke only Dutch, a 60-something French woman who spoke neither Dutch nor English, and a 30-something male who, as far as I could tell, just slept. On this trip I would be the 60-something male who just slept.  There were 6-bunks in our car; one went unused.

Unbeknownst to us Marseille was not the final destination for this train—not that we were really concerned with such things, just as long as Marseille was one of the stops for this train. Nor apparently, was Marseille the final destination for most of our fellow travelers on this train.  I believe, all told, including ourselves, around a half-dozen people stepped off in Marseille.

I’d recorded the time of our arrival in Marseille as 6:00AM, but after looking back at all that transpired before dawn, I’m reasonably certain that the actual time may have been as much as one hour earlier. It was dark. Not early-morning dark, but nighttime dark. 

The “station” was Gare du Blancar. From our perspective, with only the starlight to guide us, the station appeared to be a length of sidewalk, perhaps as much as twice the width of a normal sidewalk. Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was this is a mistake. There must have been a misunderstanding regarding where we should get off. Marseille is a major city, yet we were left standing on a sidewalk in the dark with only one sign, lit with a single bulb, to confirm that this place was actually Gare du Blancar.

In the distance, we were able to make out the barely discernable shapes of people emerging from the shadows. It was possible that these people might be able to help us, or they might prefer to carve out our hearts with stilettos. We never bothered to test the intentions of the shadow people.

Luckily I noticed that most of the other travelers were all headed in the same direction. It seemed wise, or at least harmless, to follow.

They were disappearing one-by-one down a well-lit staircase. All we could see from our vantage point on the surface was that the stairs led down to an over bright room; white ceramic tiles blinded us with what seemed like 1000 watts of fluorescent lighting. All we could be sure of was that there was a tunnel. It was might lead to someplace we wanted to go, or simply be a bathroom; either would be welcome.

As it turned out it was a tunnel that went under the tracks, emerging maybe 30 meters on the other side. We exited in the middle of a peaceful, looking—and dark—park. Several signs pointing out that the area was under constant surveillance hinted that perhaps this area wasn’t as peaceful as it initially appeared.  

We stood for a moment, plotting our next move, when a tram approached on previously unseen tracks. It obviously wasn’t stopping, just engaging in a curious drive-by. There were a few passengers on board; however, they reminded me more of the faceless demons in the film, Jacob’s Ladder rather than real people. (Jacob’s Ladder is an excellent film, IMO.) 

As we watched the slow-moving tram disappear into the darkness, we noticed a sign, itself in darkness: Metro!

That way! I declared.  I’d walked no more than 10 meters before I tripped on the unseen stairs. Luckily I caught myself and no real harm was done. 

The metro station was open but unmanned. The question of “now what” immediately came to mind. To skim right to the important details and beyond the barking—we purchased a couple of all-day metro passes. This appeared to be the most economically sound option. Armed with our day-passes but still having no idea in which direction to go we nevertheless headed towards the only gates that (it appeared) would lead us to a platform. 

Fate intervened on our behalf, when we were presented with an opportunity to save an old French Woman from certain death—or at least extreme inconvenience.  The metro-gate had caught the bag she was dragging and Laura, being in the right place at the right time, was able to free the woman’s bag from the clutches of the mindless mechanical device.  

The woman, no doubt filled with gratitude, took notice that we were but hapless visitors and totally clueless. She suggested we go to Gare du St. Charles. From Gare du St. Charles, even visitors such as ourselves should be able to find our way to anyplace. 

All (almost) alone on the Metro.

We arrived at the Gare du St. Charles and, if not underwhelmed, were certainly disappointed. It appeared to be nothing more than a small tunnel with nothing beyond clean subway tiles to recommend it. We emerged at street level once again, virtually alone in the dark. 

By now motherly panic was setting in with my wife and we searched frantically for a Wi-Fi hot spot that would allow us o communicate with our house-sitting teenage daughter. 

Unlike Gare du Blancar, Gare du St. Charles did have some signs of life. There were several hotels lining the street across from the station—a few even appeared to be open.

What is that place?

We had no luck at any of the hotels, but we did find a small place—a boulangarie, or bar, or maybe both. In any event they had Wi-Fi. It was customers-only Wi-Fi but they sold breakfast and we were hungry, so why not? 

It turned out there was a good reason “why not”. They were a cash-only establishment and we were Euro-poor. We offered American money but no amount of Barbara Bush dollars was going to persuade them to change their ways.

We left the boulangarie and—at my insistence—returned to Gare du St. Charles. It was my intention to continue on to a place called, Bougainville. Why Bougainville? Because the woman who’s luggage we had saved, (I say “we saved” because, why not?), had mentioned it as a possible destination.

We hopped on board the train to Bougainville. Remember, I said those day passes would prove to be an economical purchase!

What can be said about Bougainville in the pre-dawn? And how was it even possible that it was still pre-dawn? It had felt as though we’d been in Marseilles for hours. But, back to what one can say about Bougainville in the morning? A really bad mistake comes to mind. 

I’ll make one observation based on our first three stops. It appears as though the people of Marseille sometimes select random pieces of concrete and assign them meaningful names, as though they were actual places worthy of a name. Bougainville was a bus stop under an on-ramp. With the only signs of life being the occasional piece of trash blowing by, we decided our best option would be to return to St. Charles.

As it turned out the second time around, at least for Gare du St. Charles really was the charm. The sun was finally making itself known and signs of life were appearing everywhere. 

There was a small restaurant just outside the station that was just opening its doors. They served breakfast, fresh pastries and cocktails. The name of the establishment was Les Brasserie Le Grand Escalier; and they had Wi-Fi and a toilet. 

We enjoyed a wonderful breakfast of coffee, hot chocolate, and some of the best croissants we’ve ever had. We were also able to contact our daughter, 8,000 miles away. My wife was relieved to hear that all was going well, other than a brief bloody altercation

with a broom. 

By the time we’d finished breakfast—and talking to our daughter—the sun was up and the world was bright again! We stepped outside and the true Gare du St. Charles stood before us. Wow! How had we missed that?

Our Gare du St. Charles had, apparently, been nothing but the bottom-most tunnel in what appeared to be several levels of train station. The actual Gare du St. Charles was an impressive structure. A long staircase led up to the main level and the main center. Inside were the usual assortment of train-station shops, unusual gifts, food and coffee shops, and sadly—a McDonalds. Several employees of one would-be junk food concessionaire were handing out packets of free “food”. What they were actually handing out was an ill-advised marriage of an American-style hotdog bun and a stick of hard chocolate; a pre-packaged Pain du Chocolat, apparently for people who hate Pain du Chocolat. 

The real Gare du St. Charles

More of the real Gare du St. Charles

 

Inside the real Gare du St. Charles

Inside the real Gare du St. Charles

Still inside the real Gare du St. Charles

After strolling about a bit, and after having consulted Google maps during breakfast, we decided it was time to find our ship. We went back to our old metro tunnel and back to, as it turned out, Bougainville. That is where we would find our bus.

We rode bus 36 to a little used stop called Littoral Gourret. Once again the people of Marseille had chosen a random slab of concrete and given it a name that suggested it might be a place.  It really was just a slab of concrete alongside the freeway. Luckily there were some crumbling stairs that led to an overpass, which is where we really had to go, in order to begin our 2km trek to our ship. 

The weather was great. It was sunny and warm but not too warm. I was wearing a light jacket. It was a comfortable choice for definitely perfect walking weather.

Approaching our ship we ran into a slight problem with security. They wanted our cruise-line papers, but we didn't have any cruise-line papers. After conferring a bit amongst themselves the security people decided to waive us through. We boarded our ship, the MSC Splendida, at around 1:00PM.

The one on the left is definitely ours!

The remainder of the day was cruise-ship ordinary. It involved a much needed shower, some food from the ship’s buffet, and a little bit of wandering around in an effort to better know our vessel. 

For dinner, we chose the more formal dining experience over the buffet. We were assigned a table and a staff that would normally stay with us for the whole trip. (More on that later.)  At our assigned table were a couple from Houston, U.S.A. and a couple from Melbourne, Australia by way of Malaysia. Given that very few of the guests on this vessel spoke any English, I’m

guessing that the seating assignments were not entirely random. 

But that is enough information about this first night. We’d made it from Seattle to Marseille and were settled in to begin our cruise. Tonight we sleep a full night, in a real bed, and wake up in—Genoa!