City of Merveilles

Even though it’s the second-largest city in France, and the capital of Provence, most Americans know little about Marseilles. Groomed on The French Connection, we envision a corrupt backwater seething with gangsters and druglords. Indeed, few cities have such a long-standing reputation for wickedness; in the 30s the French themselves called it “Chicago-sur-Mer.” When confronted with the news of my imminent departure, many of my friends issued frantic, and absurd, warnings. Watch out for thieves, kidnappers, white slave traders. Sailors will drop mickey finns into your drinks, then pilfer your passport and you’ll be picked up by the police and subjected to tortures not even hinted at in Midnight Express. Others questioned my motives. What appeal did that seamy metropolis have when more sophisticated playpens like Cannes, St. Tropez and Monte Carlo were merely a stone’s throw away?

Well, blame it on Marcel Pagnol. Ever since I first began studying French in high school, I’d been enthralled by his novels, many of which like the trilogy, Marius, Fanny and Cesar, capture the plucky charm of the sailors, fishermen and their wives who live in and around the Vieux Port. I’d listen to Noel Coward’s song, “Matelot”, about mischievous French mariners, and be swept away. The works of Jean Genet, who lived briefly among Marseilles’s pickpockets, drag queens and male prostitutes, also inspired, as did gastronomic expert M.F.K. Fisher’s fascinating chronicle, A Considerable Town.

But atmosphere wasn’t the only lure. George Sand had courted scandal to come here with her consumptive lover, Frederic Chopin, so he could take in the healthy air. Cezanne and Renoir made pilgrimages here to paint, seduced by the port’s shimmering light. Le Corbusier came to prove his theory that God is in the details by building his stunning landmark of urban design, La Cite Radieuse. I longed to explore the city’s ancient Greek ruins, drown myself in bouillabaise, sniff Pernod (I’d long ago quit drinking), throw boules under cloudless skies with peasants I imagined would look like Alain Delon. I had to see Alcazar, the nightclub where Yves Montand and Charles Aznavour had gotten their starts; to hear the daring Marseilles Opera where Placido Domingo and Leonie Rysanek had made their European debuts, and where audiences were known to boo performers they disliked for thirty minutes at a stretch. Yes, I had to delve into the mystery that is Marseilles, to truly experience its strange, scintillating magic.

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