maintenant j'habite à Stockholm, mais je suis américaine

Which was really nice to say, but what I really wanted to say was, "Where do I come from? THANKFULLY NOT HERE IN MARSEILLE."

Ugh, I don't even want to write about Marseille, for so many reasons.  Firstly, I try so hard not to write about towns that smell like urine.  Secondly, I just want to read the book that was sent to me (JON = AWESOME, Arianna = I totally owe you 13 USD in postage).  Thirdly, I'm really angry because that money (not the postage) could have been used for the ridiculously expensive flight to Amsterdam I probably won't take now, THANKS A LOT MARSEILLE, I HATE YOU.

I just...didn't know.  And it was one of those great negative learning experiences, and stuff, but why?  Why can't I only learn from positive, inexpensive experiences?

On the upside, I did get to see the place that inspired the prison in The Count of Monte Cristo; meet a 20-year-old boulangère who wants to go to L.A. for its amazing rap scene (he really likes Flo Rida.  omg my favorite toosies!) and told me lies about Marseille; practice how to refuse shameless flattery in French; and got a crazy sunburn and EIGHT HUNDRED BUGBITES (number subject to change with each retelling).  Only one of those is really the upside, although the sunburn can be a half-upside because it will turn into a tan, but maybe it should be a 1/4-upside because of the nice pale sunglasses mark between my eyes, and the fact that it doesn't extend past the neckline of the shirt I was wearing, even better.

Also, I just realized that now that I know how to use my computer (USB cord?  What is this, Bates c. 2005?  Remember when Bates didn't have WiFi all over?  Ah, the goode olde dayes, when we had a key to the outside of the dorm and people actually used the keypad to call their friends' room phone.  Remember when people used real phones?  Neither do I.)....oh, right...now that I know how to use My Computer, I CAN HAZ FOTOZ.  So get ready for some stimulation visuelle, or, as we say in English, visual stimulation.

Writing about it will make me angry, but for posterity:

I was running a teensy bit late (sorry, Dad) to catch the bus to the airport, although I was running late for one that was way early for my flight (you're welcome, Dad), so I wasn't worried, but didn't want to wait an hour in the Central Station, so I hopped on...a bus, which was 30 kr, which is like almost 4 dollars, which was just a sign of the accidental overspending to come.  I made it just in time, but got stuck in the weirdo Regulation Chambers that lead you from the station to...the outside of the station...where everyone is just getting all mixed up from their order in line to put their baggage in the bottom anyways so....whatever.

So RyanAir actually sucks A LOT, which I'm sure comes as a complete surprise to anyone like myself who makes the most of cheap things, like getting exercise from walking to work by being too cheap to pay 60 dollars a month for the bus in Boston (so I can buy things "on sale" at Whole Foods), or buying only cashmere sweaters and vintage Pendleton and Anne Klein skirts from thrift stores (careful, your WASP is showing!).

But I just expect too much.  The flight was out of Skavsta, which is AN HOUR AND A HALF BY BUS from Stockholm, in Nyköping.  Mmm, everyone loves the bus.  Although, it was a Swedish bus, so it was shiny and clean and probably had innovative aspects to the seats like on SAS airplanes, but I didn't think to check.

At this point, I'm still excited, since Skavsta is a darling little airport, set in the beautiful Swedish countryside.  I did pay some exorbitant amount for kaffe and a kanelbulle, but since I don't travel much, I chalked it up to Travel Expenses.  Thank goodness I saved so much on my flight...NOT, since it was still expensive for what professes to be a budget airline.

I think I flew RyanAir from Milan to Vienna in 2004, but it didn't leave the same awful impression this one did.  I mean, whatever, it was fine, but the flight attendants looked like they wanted to tighten the lifevests they were displaying a little bit tighter around their necks, not so that they died, but so that they could claim accidental semi-asphyxiation and NOT have to work (or fly to some hellhole on the Côte Sud) and potentially get workman's comp.

So I get there, and it's a gross Gross GROSS little airport, but I don't think I specifically noted that until the flight back.  It's called MP2, which, if a riff on MP3, will force me to contact the Marseille Tourism Board directly and let them know that it is neither new, hip, or clean, none of which an MP3 is, either, I suppose, but...anyway.  MP2 is only for RyanAir and EasyJet, another budget website/airline/whatever.  And it was built in 2006, but is already filthy with cracks in the concrete floor.  If they intentionally made it a little shabby to increase Hipness, The MTB is getting a second, equally irate letter.  Ewies.

But I'm still like, "Wahoo, the idea of a Vieux Port (Old Port) makes me happy, and think of Portland, ME, which is a town I enjoy, but with more palm trees and Mediterranean-style roofs!"  

But apparently none of my cards work in France, I found out throughout the duration of the trip, and I couldn't buy a ticket from the machine, which was difficult to use anyways, even with a good working knowledge of French.  In a case of Being Immediately Frustrated And Not Seeking Easy Solutions Or Exploring My Options, which happened to me almost consistently while there, I didn't TURN THE CORNER of the ticket boothy thing and find the real ticket counter, I walked back into the terminal and asked the help desk woman, who didn't know anything except that my French was very good for An American, which I got a lot and will DEFINITELY take as a compliment, especially within the first few minutes of being in France.

But I bought a ticket, blah blah blah, the bus ride was like half an hour (wtf!!!) to the actual town.  The first views you get are just darling, right outside the airport are some sweet little Mediterranean houses, stucco with those curved tile roofs, you know.  And then pretty much the rest of the trip there are condemned buildings with the windows blown out.  So...that should have given me a clue, but I thought to myself, Hey, it's probably like going through Allston to get to Boston!  Or maybe more like going through Dorchester to get to Boston, but who does that?  Also, Sweden was already warning me, too, to come back soon, by putting an IKEA right on the side of the highway near the airport.  Sweden always knows what's best for me.

So...it's not.  The walk from the train station (yo, what is WITH travel!) was actually kind of nice in the multicultural aspect of the area, and the heat was exciting, which I can't believe I felt but I really did.  I actually kind of enjoyed the heat for once in my life (ok, twice, the sauna was awesome too), probably because I assumed everyone else was sweating too, unlike in New England in the winter, when it's just me.

Let it be known that, due to poor planning (another theme of this trip), I didn't have a hotel for this night, which was fine with me, but meant that was my main target.  It's already like 1500 by this point, which kind of was a downer, but whatever, right, you're in the South of France!  So what if every place you've been so far smells like urine, it's probably because you've been in public transportation places (it's not, I later found out)!  

I saw so many little hotels that, at this point, I was thinking were probably adorable but maybe not in the BEST part of town, and that I should keep looking.  I walked around and around and around, not sitting, really, ever, since there are NO BENCHES.  None.  Literally.  No nothing.  What I love so much about Stockholm is its focus on a capacity for the public.  But maybe that's because, for the most part, the Stockholm public does not include crazies and homeless people (there are government-subsidized programs for those people, obviously).  But all I wanted to do was sit down and look at the map I had been given.  Instead, in a fit of what I viewed as ingenuity, I walked to the tourism center and said I was looking for somewhere to stay.  And he handed me a pamphlet.  And....that's it.  I wanted to be like, Hey, can you recommend me a place that's cheap but not creepy, but he looked like he wished a RyanAir flight attendant would slightly suffocate him with one of the fake oxygen masks they were demonstrating, so I just walked outside and picked one that was littoral, which is a word I really enjoy using for "seaside", and apparently is the same in English and French.  But I vastly underestimated the distance it would take to walk to the only ones I could locate on the map, and since I'm such a big fan of walking to explore a new place, I hadn't even looked at a subway or bus map, which is what I consider one of my biggest mistakes on this trip.  I will later pass the hotels, which look REALLY COOL and are ON THE WATER, on that very bus.

I saw a really great place to eat, and I was so hungry having eaten nothing but a huge bag of pistachios on the plane (obviously), and went in with excitement only to find out that this is France, not Sweden, and they're closed from 1400 until dinner starts at like 1900 or something annoyingly French, and the waiter was handsome and I got intimidated and embarassed, and should have gone back for dinner, but didn't.

When I got back to town, I bought a ridiculously expensive Diet Coke (I'm sorry, Coca Lite) from McDo, which I'm not proud of, but boy did it taste amazing.  When...ahem...dehydrated, there is nothing I crave more than Diet Coke, or iced tea and a salt bagel with cream cheese from Kiskadee, but that's a post from 8 months ago.

So sitting on this really gross cement thing, looking at the map, I should have seen it coming, but an old man missing most of his bottom teeth asked if I wanted help--or rather, if I "needed advice".  No, I didn't, but thanks.  And he left.  But then, once I got back up and was looking at postcards at the Tabac, HE CAME BACK and asked if I wanted to have coffee with him.  And, like, wouldn't take no for an answer, as if "Oh, come on, just one coffee, really, are you sure?" would make me think more deeply about his offer, and realize that, hey, he's right, he probably is just a really nice dirty middle-aged French guy and probably has some really good advice to give me about tourist destinations in Marseille.  Ugh, THE SIGNS, THE SIGNS, why didn't I see them? But if you say, "Non, merci, non, merci" and smile, they'll go away after at least a minute.

So I'm STILL looking for somewhere to stay.  I found a book store, Henri Gilbert, which reminds me of Gil and makes me want to say his name "gil-bear" for the rest of our lives, but also was selling old used books outside, which is Arianna Heaven, so I bought a book called Passion Simple by Annie Ermeaux, which starts off way more racy than I had bargained for, but ended up being really interesting, and a book written in 1989 about "les eighties", which I'm really glad was adopted by the French because I've always hated that they called 80 four-twenty, and 90 four-twenty-ten, etc, etc, DUMB.  It's good, too, but the witty Frenchisms about fashion I don't understand because I barely was alive in the 80s and didn't live in Paris and didn't wear what even then was ironic, hip couture, are a little over my head.

But, thus energized, I walked with a vengeance toward the nearest hotel, and...they were fully booked.  Awesome.

I finally found a room at this pretty ok hotel in the middle of a busy square, and this is what the room looked like:

Not so terribly awful!  That, by the way, is the only bag I took.  Which I'm proud of, and is awesome, at first, with no baggage claim and no extra fees for checking even ONE BAG, but then is really un-awesome when you're carrying around Everything You Need For A Four-day Weekend for a whole day trying to find a hotel, or when you're carrying it around with you all day waiting to check into your next hotel, that hilarity to ensue in a few paragraphs.

Here is my view.  I wish I had gotten a picture to the right, because there was this great little sketchy cafe that had all sorts of interesting goings-on around it.  And yes, that was a huge window with huge blue shutters that I could sit in and watch the...weird little square that this hotel was in.

To the right was also a really cool hotel with balconies, which if I had literally turned my head to the left as I was walking toward THIS hotel, I would have seen, but probably not had a balcony room, so I'll just tell myself that.  Anyways, this room was really just fine.  Also, in the hotel room I looked at the pamphlet again, and found out that if I had just looked a little further I would have found the listing for the HOTEL L'ARIANA, which they spelled wrong (I wonder if they know?).

I went out to explore the town, but it was pretty late, so I just really walked around and around...I'm sure I'm missing some parts, here, but I've already killed you with details, I'm sure.  I hope this is interesting to read, because I'm not getting any less wordy.

So it's 1700.  So...Thursday's gone.  But not quite!  I walked around a little more, got the hang of the town, which is not hard, and looked, for the first of many times, for the Musée de Vieux Marseille, the Museum of Old Marseille, which was open until something like 1900, later than all the rest.  This, along with the public spaces thing, is another frustrating part of Marseille--the self-promotion seems limited to tourist shops and half-price drink specials, not monuments and museums.  All I want to do is go to museums, and here I am in the town where museums are sent when they're in the witness protection program.  Right there, under your nose, with limited, confusing signage.  I never found the MVM.  I did find, however, a bodega, and, still not having eaten, I settled for a Carïbos Guava drink, which had me at the umlautes, however you spell that I'm not looking it up.  The man asked me if I wanted a straw, so I learned the word for straw, which I definitely did, because if there's one thing I like, and there is, it's drinking with a straw.  No joke, it's kind of something I enjoy very seriously.

Anyways, that was delicious, but since that's the best thing that had happened so far, I decided to just BE BY THE WATER, since that always makes me feel better.  I walked all the way down one side of the quai (which is so much more disgusting than but sounds similar to a Swedish kaj) to one of the two forts at the entrance to Marseille port and sat for a bit to enjoy being close to the water and maybe read a little bit of Passion Simple.  Which would be fine, if I was in Stockholm.  And for a while, in Marseille, it was.  The sun and the water were just perfect and sparking, and I could see out to the ocean, as well as watch all the boats come in from their day of sailing.  Tons of people swimming despite the No Swimming or Fishing signs, happy families, etc, etc, blah blah blah.

And then I hear, "Madame?"  Oh, this is going to be good.  I look up FROM INTENTLY READING may I add, and he says, "Madame, ou mademoiselle?"  Which doesn't really make sense in English, since asking if someone is married or not as a pickup line doesn't translate well, as well it shouldn't (Missus or miss doesn't have that same oomph, you know?).  So obviously I CAN NEVER LIE in these situations, like how I actually told that Creepy Guy at the Boylston Starbucks that I lived in Allston, but had the "good sense" to tell him I worked "around here" instead of "next door".  Do I think they'll find out I was lying and be disappointed in me or something?  But even with rings on both my ring fingers I can't just say, "Madame", because I don't feel old enough to be married, great logic.  So he goes, "Puis-je rester ici avec vous un moment?"  Like can I sit next to you a moment?  And, much like the other guy, when I say, "um, no merci" he says POURQUOI PAS, which I find a little ridiculous, as if I need to give him a reason why not.  Even better is that non-lying issue I have where I literally thought after I told him, "parce que je lis", because I'm reading, THANK GOD I WAS READING SO I HAVE AN EXCUSE.  I feel like this story makes me out to be like the most naïve person in all of Europe, but whatever, I guess I'm trying to not hurt feelings?  Ugh.  But that was apparently a good enough reason, and as he was leaving he was like, "ah, pas de chance!", ah, no luck!

So, awesome, loving Marseille.  P.s., Mom, please don't be worried.

I figured I should head back, and on my way needed something to eat, but I was so not interested in all the crazy, expensive cafes, and, just as I was cursing not going back to that restaurant I had found earlier, I happened upon a little cafe à emporter, like a deli kind of thing...but with quiche and baguettes and pastries.  So I got a piece of tarte au jambon fromage (which to me is missing a word but I'm not fluent) and a piece of tarte aux fruits rouges, and forgot to tell you that I had gotten a bottle of wine, so really all I needed was a beret and a striped shirt.

I got back to the hotel, really excited to read more of Passion Simple, since I was actually understanding it (!!!), and eat some quiche and drink some wine, when I realized that I DIDN'T HAVE A WINE KEY.  I almost cried, since I was hot and tired and alone and in a shitty hotel in a disgusting town with a bottle of wine and no way to open it.  I want to say it was like "my version" of that Twilight Zone where (spoiler alert!) his glasses get broken and he can't read and he's all alone, although that exact situation would be my personal hell, so...it's the wine-version of that.

Anyways, I was seriously ready to go buy a wine key, which I wouldn't have been able to take on the plane, I'm sure, when I realized that in this, as in most situations in my life, I was making it way harder than it needed to be, and just asked the concierge for it.  I learned and promptly forgot the word for wine key in French, and happily poured into the plastic cup from the bathroom.

I sat in the window and read my French Book and watched the people in the sketchy cafe talk and talk, watched the people in the hotel with the balconies discover how happy they were to have balconies, and the fishmongers who really randomly set up shop in this square go about their icing of fish.  And I was in a very good mood, that sort of situation was exactly what I was looking for out of this vacation.

Daddy, that's a Wyeth on the cover, I thought of you.

I was also probably happy because I knew I was also going to take a bath and drink wine in the tub, in one of the most icky girly confessions of my life.  What's next, wearing makeup?  Not wearing overalls?  Those don't seem to stick with me as strongly as the urge to drink (moderate amounts of) wine in the tub, which was just as glorious as it sounded, and I had a nice sleep, as we say.  C'est pas si mal, eh?  Tu vas souvivre soyant seule.

I figured I would get up sort of early...but...then I didn't really know what to do with my time, since I'd kind of walked around a lot of the town, and being up at 800 means nothing when museums don't open until 11 and that's your only Must Do for the day, as well as check into the other hotel at 1400, which I'd mistakenly put down as my ETA.

However, the Drugged and Crazy of Marseille answered my call for help.  I didn't need my alarm clock, since one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard woke me up.  The deepest, screechiest voice EVER was screaming at someone over and over, although relatively intermittently, and it seemed to be right below my window (a few stories down).  It turns out she was in front of the hotel with the balconies, and instead of the older overweight woman I was expecting (why?), it was this totally cracked-out middle-aged woman SCREAMING and making ridiculous hand gestures at NO ONE.  She could teach acting at a highschool she was so good at looking into the middle distance.  Smoking, smoking, smoking, and when she ran out of cigarettes, she picked butts out of the potted bushes, and if they were done, she would throw them for effect after screaming at no one.  When those ran out, she starting picking the leaves and gesticulating with them wildly.  Oh, it was actually so fun to watch, even though I actually couldn't understand a word.

In other, more boring Town Square News, I actually had a nice time seeing everyone get ready for the day, the City Noises growing at 900 when the day got started.  And I kind of really enjoyed watching everyone using their balconies for their various toilettes and morning rituals, brushing hair and teeth, stretching your body out of sleep.  Many of them also included a peek down at Mlle. Folle down there, which was so perfect.

Unfortunately, my morning toilette included one of my eyes feeling a little bit funny and looking in the mirror to see this:

Doesn't one totally look more, um, sleepy?  I am totally not a hypochondriac but honestly, what?  It was like all puffy and awful between my eyes and it was literally pushing my eyelid closed.  I thought about going to a doctor, but I guess I figured that if it got worse, fast, it would be worth going, but maybe it would just get better....and it did, gradually, and I forgot about it, and my eyes are just as perfect as they were before, phew.  But that's exactly what I WANTED to wake up to discover, thank you Marseille.  It's when you realize you could risk losing something that you really start to appreciate it, like matching eyes. 

Moving forward: the Marseille Musée de la Marine is equally as difficult to find as the MVM, although I did eventually find it--in the Chamber of Commerce, of course.  When I complained to Fred about how awful the museum was, just a bunch of stuff, like the Paris Maritime Museum I'd seen so long ago, he noted that, on the whole, Maritime Museums are, "ship models, paintings, and stuff people brought back from China".  Um....TOTALLY TRUE.  That's not only exactly what this was, as is the one in Paris, even the one here, although I'm now loathe to admit any faults on the part of Stockholm.  I guess I just have been spoiled by places like MSM (totally biased, but in all the right ways), the Henley Rowing Museum, even the Peabody Essex Museum, which has a pretty serious focus on ships and the sea, and, as I've talked about before, TOTALLY has that Victorian "stuff people brought back from China" thing going on, which I hate to love, but do.

Anyways, sucky Maritime Museum.  The most information and/or history I got from signage there was a timeline that had little or nothing to do with the actual objects, which were paintings and ship models in the first room, and photographs from a trip someone (who?  No indication) took to Africa and the Middle East.  Now, I know that Marseille used to be called the Oriental Port or something similar, and it was an important port between Africa and Europe.  Ok, TELL ME ABOUT THAT, MUSEUM.  Maybe the Musée de Vieux Marseille does, I'll never know.

Next, Musée de la Mode.  Fashion Museum.  This will be my saving grace.  I wonder if it's connected to the museum of the same name in Paris?

I get in, they can't break a 50, so I have to go buy something to get proper change.  At least she lets me put my bag down, which is full of my stuff again, since I've checked out of the hotel already.

And so I do that, blah blah blah, and I come back, totally psyched....and walk up to the first floor, where there is a retrospective of this woman Fred Somethingorother's illustrious last 20 years of work.  I love that this is someone I've never heard of, but it turns out I HATE her aesthetic.  Like am really, really turned off by it.  I do like the set up of the exhibit, many of her stand-alone pieces on mannequins in cordoned-off sections in one room, the hallway between rooms her personal representation of her atelier (since she's also an installation artist) with more pieces hung in plastic bags facing her model cards and extra buttons and sequins and stuff, and then another room with many, many of her pieces.  I learn that she sews them all by hand, which is very cool, and her technique is precise and daring.  But I just can't even explain to you why I had this immediate dislike of her stuff, even with an appreciation for the literal work that went into it.  There were so many paillettes and so much pastel and...I don't know.  I'll find her name when I feel like it and you can look it up, but here's one picture where although I just hate hate hate the color scheme for whatever reason, I loved the piecing in back, and kind of love the high neck, but could really do without the beading, SO MANY THINGS HAPPENING ON ONE COAT:

On to the next floor!!  Which is...a continuation of the retrospective.  More and more and more and more chainmail shirts and sequinned high-collar pastel-tie-dyed cotton overcoats....I don't know.  She was examining construction and deconstruction and getting in touch with the process of creation--how post-modern.  Oh, plus there was crazy music interspersed with what I assume is her voice, which was okay, and although I didn't exactly expect it, it was expected, you know?  Plus she had a video she directed about one of the collections, and it was black and white and really jittery and had more crazy music, and although it wasn't as bad as the exhibit by Carl Phillipe it was getting just as predictable.

The third floor is a conference room and the fourth is a conservation center, which, if I had been a student at Steinhardt already, I might have asked to see, but I just don't feel there yet.

So, move along, move along, nothing more to see here.

I figured now was as good a time as any to get out to my other hotel, which was kind of far away, if you were to walk it, which I was not about to with the heavy bag.  So I broke down and bought a ticket for the métro, which I was obviously thankful for.

Ok, y'all, it's late, so I'm going to leave you with that delicious cliffhanger (Do I lose my métro card?  IS THE TRAIN LATE AND URINE-SCENTED? I know you will all be biting your nails with anticipation (aw, Carly Simon, I can't use that word without thinking of your song.).)

à demain,

a