Departure

Lost, we wandered around the port, in and out of disused and silent docks, alongside run-down warehouses where the only residual signs of life were rusting parked semi trucks and hundreds of containers in scattered piles, each hoarding its trove of hidden treasure until the day the dockers would move them out for transport.

But not that Sunday, under that clear sunny sky that made us feel as if we'd already left behind the incessant demands of the work week. It was still cool, just nearing the end of April, as we scoured the page of directions we'd downloaded from the cruise site. We had a dock name and number, but nothing seemed to be marked - I suppose the men who usually navigated this forlorn labyrinth already knew where they were going.

Me, I'd never seen this side of Marseille. The "Phoenician City" had always meant for me the Vieux Port, with its fishermen haggling for a good price and crowds of gawking tourists, the Cannebière, that iconic boulevard that rose from it into the hills above portside, the Arab market at Noailles, where I'd bought so many gyros and loaves of matlouh bread, and the hot clubs and bars of Cours Julien. I'd lived in Marseille for nearly three years, and thought I knew it well. But not that side of it, not at all.

Eventually, some port security guys came round and showed us to our destination. But our wandering that day, lost, showed me a part of the real Marseille that I'd never seen, if not its heart, at least the stomach and liver of the city.