Looking east, back toward Antibes, while on the way to Cannes.






Sailboats on the Bay of Cannes

We found our way out of Antibes, headed west and stopped in Cannes. Nothing exciting was happening in town. The film festival annually occurring there was months away; and since it was the rainy season, not much outdoor activity was found. After grabbing a bite to eat at a local brasserie, we checked out the magnificent, early-nineteenth-century villas in the Quartier des Anglais, and drove around the waterfront afterward. Unfortunately, it was still too cool to even consider taking a dip into the sea. I suggested we continue on our journey to Marseille.


Angelique & Chantal



After we hopped onto the A8 Autoroute, Angelique asked if she could drive for a while since it was all highway ahead of us and wouldn't require too much shifting. “Please, Monsieur,” she implored. “I am certain I will be able to shift the gears with my left hand.” Angelique leaned over the center console and nuzzled her lips into my ear, grabbing hold of my own stick shift to demonstrate her excellent technique. How could I refuse? I told her to keep practicing in the meantime until reaching the next aire, or rest stop; when we would then switch seats.

One thing I found fascinating while traveling the Autoroute system in France was the placement of rest areas about every twenty kilometers, or twelve miles apart. Most had clean water closets with facilities utilizing standard fixtures, such as sit-down toilets and wall urinals; however, many had Turkish toilets—rectangular, ceramic basins built into the tile floor—over which one had to hover or squat while taking care of business. Usually it wasn't a difficult task for a man's having to urinate, but to defecate would probably have been a pain in the butt, pun intended. The same hassle presumably applied to a woman who was not accustomed to this method. Fortunately for me, I ran into only one rest area's utilization of these peculiar potties so far, but needed just to use it while standing up.

As promised, we pulled into the next rest area. Angelique got out of the car and moved to the driver's side. Having become so worked up by her incessant stroking, I hopped into the backseat with Chantal, hoping for a little relief. “Hey, no fair,” our new driver decried. “I might need some help up here in the front.”

“Don't panic, Mademoiselle,” I said. “We'll be right behind you.” Chantal and I burst into laughter. Angelique didn't seem to think it was very funny at all. She jammed the stick shift abhorrently into reverse and ground the gears uproariously, making me shiver as if someone had dragged their fingernails down a slate chalkboard. The Fiat lunged forcibly backward out of the parking space, and then lurched horrendously forward as Angelique slammed the shifter into first gear. We moved abruptly in spurts toward the entrance ramp to the highway after second gear was met. The poor, abused, left front wheel smacked another curb while we were leaving the parking lot. The hair was standing up on the back of my neck. Chantal and I were being tossed about the rear of the automobile as if unrestrained in a demolition derby. After jerking back and forth for a few times more, Angelique ground a couple of additional gears; and we were finally on our way.

“That wasn't so bad,” my crazed angel exclaimed. “I think I now have the hang of it.” I was hoping the roughly ninety-five miles, or one hundred and fifty-three kilometers of highway left to Marseille, wouldn't produce any more episodes of her erratic driving.

Chantal and I had fallen asleep after fooling around for a good portion of the ride toward Marseille, much to our chauffeur's chagrin. Angelique suddenly yelled out for help and awoke us. Jumping up to see what was the matter, I noticed an approaching tollbooth that I hadn't considered when agreeing to let her drive. Reaching over the front-seat, I grabbed the toll ticket from behind the passenger's visor and said I would pay for it. Angelique downshifted perfectly and pulled to a complete stop directly alongside of the toll-taker, to whom I paid the money after opening the rear window on my side of the car. Like an expert, Angelique took off normally and went through all six gears smoothly and effortlessly.

“See that? I am a quick learner,” she said. I began to wonder if her horrifying takeoff at the aire earlier was an outrageous tantrum on her part. Undoubtedly, I assumed her smacking into the curb was a mistake and wouldn't hold it against my sweet Angelique.

“How are you feeling? Do you still want to drive?” I inquired

“I am getting a little tired,” she replied. “If you don't mind, I would like for you to come back up front to take over the steering wheel.” Angelique pulled into the next rest stop where I hopped into the driver's seat. The Wisenheimer smugly got into the back with Chantal. They were both snickering as the car drove off, but I didn't create a fuss. The girls nodded out for the rest of the way into town.


Old Port of Marseille

Marseille, the oldest city in France, dated back to 600 BCE; and like Antibes, it was founded by the Greeks from Phocaea, located on the modern-day Mediterranean coast of Turkey. Archaeological evidence proved the ancient French port had been inhabited by humans from as far back as 27,000 BCE. Palaeolithic drawings had been found in nearby underwater caves. Recently unearthed, neolithic brick dwellings discovered near the railway station dated the region to at least 6,000 BCE. We drove through the city to get to le Vieux-Port, the medieval-harbor area of Marseille, whose entry from the Mediterranean Sea was guarded by Forts Saint-Nicolas and Saint-Jean. Both fortresses were built during the reign of Louis XIV, toward the end of the seventeenth century.


Fort St-Jean is on the right; Fort St-Nicolas on the left of the inlet.

It was as if we had just arrived into town by means of a way-back machine. The spectacular view was like peering through a looking glass that opened up to the turn of the sixteenth century. Off the coast, less than a mile away, was the Island of If, on which sat Le Château d'If: one of the settings for the adventure tale entitled, The Count of Monte Cristo, written by French author Alexandre Dumas. This area was certainly a history buff's paradise.


Le Château d'If

Stopping at a local eatery for a taste of Marseillan cuisine and beverages, I made sure the evening's culinary experience didn't rival our previous outing from the night before by requesting a menu written in English. The girls and I ordered an aperitif called Pastis, a liqueur consisting of aniseed and licorice root. The tasty drink was very sweet and extremely potent; after which a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a delectably fruit-flavored white wine, wet our palates for the rest of the meal. I instantly noticed Pieds Paquets were listed, the villains leading to my hugging the commode on Thursday night. I had no qualms about passing them up. We ordered Bouillabaisse as an appetizer, having enjoyed the mixed-fish stew before on my second night in Nice. Also, we munched on Tapenade, a succulent paste made from young flower buds and berries called "capers," and mixed with chopped olives, olive oil, anchovies, and served on crackers.

In keeping with the seafood motif, we all ordered broiled flounder, hard boiled eggs and cooked vegetables smothered with Aioli: the savory sauce was made from raw garlic, lemon juice, eggs and olive oil. Our other main course was called Bourride, a scrumptious dish made with monkfish, mayonnaise, and a vegetable brunoise consisting of diced leeks, tender turnips, and sweet carrots. The superbly delicious but terribly ugly-looking fish tasted remarkably like lobster.

Along with the main courses, we gobbled down Fougasse, or the typically baked bread of the region. Small, lemony-tasting biscuits in the shape of a boat called Navette were consumed as well, while everyone munched on a side dish of Anchoïade, a luscious paste made from anchovies, garlic, black olives, olive oil and served with raw vegetables. The meal was capped with Panisse, a delightfully mouthwatering pastry made from chickpea flour and served with ice cream. After several little cups of coffee, we were ready for the check.

Our Epicurean extravaganza was much more reasonably priced than Thursday night's expenditure and totaled two hundred and ten euros. I offered to pick up the tab, but the girls insisted on paying their share. Rather than hanging around Marseille and imbibing mass quantities of alcohol, as had been customary for us to do, I suggested we drive directly to the nightclub at our hotel, and not take a chance of driving while drunk back to Nice. The girls concurred, and we boarded the Fiat for the trip to Chez Maurice. It was ten-thirty when we arrived at the bar.