Thorn Around the World
Maxim in Marseille
It was a long dark bus ride from The Hague to Marseille. I'm not even sure which way we went. I know we passed through Belgium, probably Antwerp and Brussels. We may have dipped into Luxembourg or skirted past Paris as we entered northern France, but it mattered little as I attempted to sleep in my seats with cramped legs in the muggy cold. Every hour or two, when the diesel engine slowed in a city, I'd wake up to the street and shop lights glowing and snap a blurry picture of another place passing by. I'd secretly scan for the facades and signs of possible dart bars, and think about great players from this part of the world.Across the aisle, Maxim was sleeping peacefully, curled up in his two seats, clearly an expert at European bus travel. He was a traveling guitarist from Russia, and I was supposedly joining him as his drummer, to try my hand at busking. We were leaving the cold wet Netherlands for a warmer place to play. What a wonderfully silly experience it would be to say I played the streets of Marseille. Hopefully it would be profitable too. And, after one month in oche-loving countries like Ireland, England and Holland, I was looking forward to the increased challenge of finding darts in southern France-for some reason, the harder it is, the more I love finding and spreading my favorite sport.
I remember waking up in the wee hours once, my face slumped against the steamy window and curtain. Adjusting my balled up fleece into a better pillow, I un-kinked my neck and knee and glanced over at Maxim. He was studying some strange looking travel documents, as if something was on his mind.it seemed odd.
After a pitiful night's rest, morning finally broke. It was a perfect day in east France, under blue sky and white clouds, cruising through wine country and notable cities like Dijon, Lyon, and Avignon. Manors, chateaus, and churches dotted the hills between towns, forests, and vineyards. The whitecaps of the Swiss and Italian Alps were far off to the east all day, while remnants of castles and fortresses came and went with each roundabout or scenic view. As a nuclear plant rolled by, I thought about where I was and all the amazing chapters in French history. And, Maxim was right about the weather-it was getting warmer and sunnier the further south we went. Maxim looked at me and smiled. "Warm!" he said with a Russian accent and enthusiastic thumbs up.
After a morning rest stop-highlighted by a toothbrush, coffee, and pastries-my spirit and energy began to return. After a few more hours of window gazing, the outskirts of Marseilles' white buildings began to appear, sloping down gentle hills to the rocky shore of the blue Mediterranean-the first time I'd ever seen this famous sea.
We pulled into the massive glass and marble station on a knoll in the center of downtown, a bustling hub of road and rail connecting passengers to the fabulous French Riviera towns to the east and the cities of Spain to the west. Maxim and I disembarked and got our bearings. We scanned the city scape with its notably French architecture, and unfolded our fresh city map.
Before leaving Holland I had made reservations at Hotel Le Ryad, an affordable elegant option to a hostel. It was a few blocks away, so Maxim and I, our bags, and his acoustic guitar, walked the steps and sidewalks down the slanted streets, past coffee shops and Turkish kabab venders, dodging the flow of traffic and pedestrians. Despite the diverse population, Maxim and I were still quite a pair: a slight Soviet and monstrous American. Up an alley off a main boulevard, we found Le Ryad and its Moroccan motif. Inside was relative luxury compared to the last two weeks of hostels; Maxim was impressed.
After unloading in our room and a quick gaze from our balcony over the courtyard gardens below, Maxim and I headed out on a mission. He needed to buy and electric guitar and amp, so we began by asking the concierge about music stores. That afternoon we went on a string of walks, from one music shop to another, looking for the perfect instrument and price.
Entering the antique district, we stumbled upon a vintage guitar shop. The owner was Jacques Charbit, a renowned effects pedal maker, which he easily proved with the latest copy of GuitarPlayer magazine. Maxim searched the dense collection of electric guitars, picking the finest of the affordable ones to test out. Jacques gave him answers on the craftmanship and they haggled prices as Maxim deftly played some samples of his style-a rich eclectic mix of east-European tones mixed with Eurasian rhythms, which to me was reminiscent of the haunting style of Andy Summers in The Police. After some discussion about a guitar and amp he liked, Maxim thanked Jacques and left him with an offer to consider. Maxim was clearly an expert at this ritual, and knew we could return tomorrow after we scour the other shops.
We wandered the squares and monuments of Marseille. We were in another store, looking for a drum to buy for me to play-something simple to add a beat to his music-when Maxim told me some concerning news. "I lost my passport," he said with some explaining in broken English. In Amsterdam he had gotten temporary travel papers, but tomorrow he needed to find the Russian Embassy and get his passport replaced. I told him I would help him find it. We decided not to buy any instruments that day, just in case things didn't work out.
The afternoon ended, and evening began with a beautiful mauve and turquoise sunset over the pink city and warm sea. Some locals told me about some Irish bars by the yacht harbor. Maxim joined me for another quest-my kind of quest, for darts. Along the inner waterfront, between walls of sailboats and buildings, I found O'Malleys and The Shamrock. Both had one board each, though neither was seeing much use. Nonetheless, I broke out my arrows and threw some rounds. The bartender at The Shamrock played a few legs with me while waiting for other patrons to arrive. Later, I spent a couple hours playing at O'Malley's, a crowded popular place. This dartboard had its own niche between the bar and the bathroom-as people came and went, I'd offer darts to people politely trying to cross the oche with fresh washed hands. A dozen people took my offer, and more than one enjoyed that instant joy of hitting a lucky bullseye. One or two customers even stopped to play a full leg with me. Otherwise, I was simply happy throwing in France-although I felt guilty for not learning more French beforehand. I took pictures of those that played, and enjoyed a few beers until Maxim gave me the signal that he was tired and ready to return to Le Ryad for some rest.
After a long day of travel by bus and foot, that first evening in Marseills ended pleasantly. Maxim and I stopped for some delicious midnight kababs on our stroll back to the hotel.
Over and double out.
