Thorn Around the World
Busk or Bust in France
On this day, my first month abroad came to an end, and so did my fanciful dream of being a busker, playing music on the streets of Europe. My temporary travel companion, Maxim-an electric guitarist from Moscow-had lost his passport. Instead of buying a new guitar and drum for us to play, we had a date with the Russian Embassy where we would hopefully replace his travel documents.It was a long walk from Hotel Le Ryad, our accommodations downtown, to the residential outskirts of Marseilles where diplomats from around the world were walled in their mansions. The weather was wonderful and plenty of eye-candy passed by-the architecture, art, sculpture and culture of this famous French city on the Mediterranean Sea. Eventually, we found our destination, a large luxurious house hidden behind spiked fences draped with vines and closed-circuit cameras watching the perimeter.
Maxim and I approached the gate and pressed the intercom button. After a short exchange in Russian, the buzzer buzzed and Maxim slipped inside. I, meanwhile, waited outside in a small park block hoping for two things: one, that Maxim would be able to replace his passport and stay and play music on the streets of Marseilles with me, and two, that it wouldn't take too long. Most of us know the potentially long waits that happen in buildings of bureaucracy-I feared the Russian consolate might be the slowest of them all.
I sat outside in the sun, on the bench, beneath the palms and fronds and flowers, watching the building and door where Maxim vanished. After an hour he re-appeared. In his broken English he explained, "I'm sorry my friend, I must return to Paris to get a new passport."
With that, our brief friendship came to a quick halt-Maxim would head straight for the bus station, while I would stand alone on the hills of Marseilles, wondering where to go, what to do, and where to stay. With a handshake and well wishes of luck and health, I bid Maxim adieu. He and his small rolling bag and acoustic guitar disappeared into the zigzagging streets. Me and my small laptop satchel stood there a moment, studying the now wrinkled city map. I wasn't going to make any money playing street music. I had two weeks to reach Palma de Mallorca, Spain, to catch my cruise to Panama. "Well," I thought, "let's go for a walk to the sea and see what life brings me this time."
I started down the hill, through winding roads of homes that soon turned to monstrous hotels and resorts nearer the shimmering Mediterranean. A busy boulevard wiggled along the coast between bustling beaches, marinas, and the fortified rock outcroppings of Marseilles' waterfront. It looked like a short walk on the map, but ended up being several hours of hot sun and people watching. Dehydrated and hungry, I stopped at a couple internet cafes along the way for a beverage and quick check-in online. At some point, I learned that several major conventions were in town-hence the busy streets and beaches filled with tourists. I also realized why Le Ryad could only offer me a one night stay-all the hotels in town were filled with previous reservations. And then, I realized that finding a hotel tonight would be difficult. I began to worry.and plan my escape from France.
I walked along the shore forever, enjoying the views of crystal clear water. I passed gardens and old fortresses, but between exhaustion and illiteracy, I barely knew what I was seeing-I was just forcing myself forward, seeing all I could during my increasingly brief stay in Marseilles. By luck, I found an affordable hotel, Hotel Peron-in a spectacular location along the sea-that had one room left. Knowing I wouldn't have many options, I checked in-just me and my satchel; my big baggage was safely stored at Le Ryad for the night. My room was like a scene out of a French movie from the fifties, filled with the antiquated decor of a great-grandma mademoiselle. But, it did have a balcony and the views I soaked up-at night or in the morning, with a full moon rising over the transparent sea and white rocky islands, as sailboats and ferries floated between-were epic. Best of all, the dart bars I discovered the night before-The Shamrock and O'Malleys-were not too far. At the very least, I knew what I was doing tonight. Tomorrow, I would find a bus bound for Spain and bid France au revoir.
My second evening in Marseilles was much like the first, minus Maxim and the dream of being a street musician. Fortunately, I make friends fast, and after a few drinks in the dart pubs, I was social enough to find a few folks to play with me. Again, I challenged the barkeep before the evening rush. Later, I found a foursome of Brits that were more than happy to shoot while we drank. And, of course, we tempted every patron that passed by to take a shot at the bull-and I took pictures of them all.
I ended the night with another late night walk and Turkish kabab-which made me dream about the 2015 WDF World Cup coming up in Turkey in four years.after my first World Cup experience in Ireland, I vowed not to miss another. I was feeling content for the moment, but also anxious about tomorrow. Here I was again, alone, without a plan, a bit spent and over budget, with two weeks and a dozen countries to go. Where would I end up? Lisbon? Madrid? Gibraltar? Morocco? I had plenty of options to choose from.but little did I know that tomorrow fate would take me where I was destined to go.
Over and double out.
