GOODBYE TO ALL THAT
GOODBYE TO ALL THAT
Au revoir to Marseille, the city where strangers involve other strangers or call their family to make sure you don't get lost on the way.
Marseille with its run-down migrant quartier downtown, the only place I have ever seen where it is mostly the fathers that carry the babies, push the prams and hold the hand of their toddlers. And not just on Sunday.
Marseille, a European section of Algeria in this constant bidirectional flow between Europe and Africa since centuries past.
Marseille, notorious for its crime and only very occasionally patrolled by scared police officers who move in packs of 14 or 20 (I counted), clad in bullet proof vests and armed to the eye brows.
Marseille where nonetheless the ambience is chilled and deeply friendly, and so polite that even children say bon jour in the midst of the water.
And when things do boil over, I am nor dragged into the conflicts as by magnetism. I simply observe the spectacle, enjoy my compagion's translation and explanation of its otherwise impenetrable content. I have not yet had to get out of the way to stay safe.
Marseille with its zillion rats criss-crossing the streets after sundown: a fact that everyone but me is very stoic about.
Marseille where children are considered a joy, not a nuisance. Marseille where toddlers are drawn to each other instantly and curious about amicable strangers, without any do-gooders around to pretend that this lack of fear is a sign of bad parenting.
Marseille where it is nobody's business what swimming gear women choose to don. Marseille where co-existence is a given, not a hysterical drama exploited and blown out of proportions by media and politicians.
Marseille where I and the only other woman in the disorderly queue were let through first to the vibrant football stadion, as a courtesy accepted as a natural state of affairs by all and sundry.
Marseille where no-one harassed me but many have appreciated me. Marseille where in the course of a month only one thief tried his luck; and he was scared off quickly enough by my companion who claimed to be a boxer.
Marseille the port city so different from my native Copenhagen similar to Barcelona, yet differing in important aspects: Tourism has not devoured its charm, and identitarism has not managed to put people at odds with each other.
Marseille, the place of al foquer wa saeda, happy poverty, as the dirtpoor themselves put it. Europe is a closed club, and if you are going to be poor anyway, best to be it where at least you are at ease and having fun.
Marseille where everyone is patient with my broken French (as is the case in Paris and Strasbourg too, contrary to popular belief).
Long life to Marseille!
