This is the first part in an ongoing semi-fictional series inspired by the French Riviera.
It wasn’t difficult to be impressed as you rode West along the coast in double decker trains away from Nice.
I always sat on the south side of the top level, so I had a view of the Mediterranean. It was truly beautiful, whether the coast was met with jagged cliffs and jetties or pebbles and sunbathers.
I particularly enjoyed watching the little waves collide with the bluffs.
It made me think of how long they survived the constant barrage of seawater and retained their sharpness… A sort of natural metaphor for human life.
Eventually, the tracks moved onward into the farms tucked under the shadows of mountains. As you look over endless orchids, you see the faint outline of the apogees tinged in a smoky blue haze. Every few plots you’d see a straw-hat elbow deep in soil, working on the weekend.
At Toulon a young curly haired girl and her brother waved us along and we were on the final stretch to Marseille.
The tracks naturally came back to the sea and we were back to sunbathers and les rochers. Bronze skin, scant clothes and sweat stains marked them all. As we passed through rural towns, rounded terra cotta shingles saddled nearly every home and villa. Below them, small piscines were neatly placed next to gardens of roses, herbs and ivy.
To start the day, I walked to a museum to gather some history before diving into the vin rouge I brought in my backpack.
I particularly liked the vintage newspaper front pages displayed side by side. They not only embodied Marseille as a city but also the years they were published.
Timelessly stuck in time.
After absorbing a fair share of culture and learning about Marseille’s great historical port, I sat on a bench outside looking at the ancient garden in front of the museum and had a cigarette.
I was smoking too often, but didn’t care because I was lonely and selfish.
I realized I was hungry so I hopped on the tram to the Bassin National and sat at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the water. I had some moules marinière, a hamburger with fries and a lager.
The mussels tasted just enough of the sea and while the burger wasn’t anything special, washing it down with the lager and watching the sailboats come and go in the sun made it worth the price.
Eventually I wandered over to the Vieux Port to enjoy some of the wine in my bag and listen to the ropes of the sailboats clang against their accompanying masts. After taking it in for an hour, I got up and started walking aimlessly towards the train station.
I came across a large flea market and stopped to see if I could find some gifts for my family and friends. It reminded me of a market in Rome where I accidentally spent €200 and had to scrape up cash to get back to London.
All I found was a Bee Gees vinyl for myself, some delicious madeleines and another bottle of wine for the trip home. A bit selfish, I know.
After walking and tramming about Marseille, eating excellently and admiring the vast city, it was sadly time to voyage back home.
I took advantage of arriving early for the last train back to Nice and sat first class. I was poor at the time but if you showed early, they never checked your ticket so I climbed aboard in luxury.
On the trip home I noticed just how many of the farmland greenhouses were now resting places for weeds and dead roots. Every broken window a portal into a sad reality of failed cornucopia and unrealized dreams. Some were orchid farms, others rosaries, others held petunias or else wise.
I wondered at what they could have been…
There were serious delays on the way back of course and we parked in Fréjus for 45 minutes. Luckily, I was prepared so I uncorked the wine and enjoyed some of it with a cigarette. I poured a nip for the conductor and had a short conversation with him about the trip.
Although he could tell I had not paid first class he looked the other way and thanked me for the wine. When we got back on the train, it was time for a couple madeleines washed down with a bit more wine.
For the final stretch, I tapped into my copy of A Moveable Feast.
Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Since I did not love anyone but myself at the time, I traveled alone.
As the day shifted to evening, I finished my bottle of wine and took a deep breath in the first class carriage, exhaling the loneliness out of me.
It was August and the evenings had been tepid and uncomfortable lately but tonight was proving to be beautiful so I opened the windows in my carriage and let in the breeze.
After Cannes, I looked out on the sea and marveled at the fog covering the horizon. It looked like the edge of a waterfall that was endlessly wide, as if the earth was truly flat and fell off just a mile into the Mediterranean.
All that was left before Nice was Juan Les-Pens, Antibes, Cagnes-sur-Mer, and St. Laurent du Var and I was excited to be home. The trip back took a total of 5 hours and it was almost 10pm when we finally pulled in.
I was hungry but broke so I walked back to the apartment with my bag, now empty, and grabbed a pint on the way.
“Hunger is good discipline.”
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Later in the evening as I drifted to sleep, I kept hearing the sound of the sailboats tinkering through the harbor in Marseille and thinking about the false horizon after Cannes.
