A couple of months ago I stumbled on an issue of Clouded Thoughts magazine in which they were nice enough to publish some of my pieces from Europe. Since it has been quite a while since Clouded Thoughts 3 was released, I figure it's a good time to blog a few travel flicks and do some reminiscing.
Marseille, easily the best city in France in my opinion.
Vokal
Loved by Thousands, Hugged by Millions
I dream of Marseille like a dark dirty dream. Enveloped in its warm gutter worn mustard like a welcoming riot at the centre of the earth. Ive heard men tell of how they dont know how they survived Marseille, that big dirty city, and that to leave was to be granted another life, a second chance, a re birth. A fantastical myth made for hens too afraid to scratch at the dust for their supper! Then again, perhaps luck was on my side. The day began like all days begin. The day before I had precured a space to mark a mural outside a homely art collective of six reveling women. And having met a thirty year old Japanese businessman in a funny Mongolian op shop hat he bought in Australia for fifty cents, I was well on the way to an enterage. Myself and Atsu Suzuki arrived after some deviation and a long travel from our constrictive abandoned mansion of a hostel. We made merry, drank coffee and I set about my work while Atsu discussed Japanese calligraphy and tried to remember how to fold a paper crane. To paint is to feel an invisible hand lifting out the precursor from your lungs and for the day, I contented myself listening to Rita Bella, the firey women next door, sip what she was sipping from her balcony and project her classic latino song down onto the broken street, throwing flowers for those she knew. After the flawless verdict for my work I went inside and Elsa, the Spanish drifter, offered me smoke and scrambled eggs. Atsu took the smoke, we both took the eggs and we sat and discussed the things one discusses. One of the girls began to cry and we took our cue to leave. I had been invited to a squat that would be a squat if it wasnt owned by the government. Apparently a big art opening was to happen involving fast spinning helicopter blades of mirror in the graffiti covered abandoned warehouse of a gallery. Alas, Atsu and I realised we had: a)already missed the last bus to our hostel and b) may not make it back by foot before the hostel gates shut. The race was on and the people of Marseille cheered for us like the final stretch of a marathon. Men directed us, women argued over the telephone for us in french with the hostel owner and security guards held their belowing german sheperds at bay while we jumped fences and bolted for trains. One of such sprints I foolishly left my pocket undone. Having just missed the newly discovered late bus, Atsu and I cursed at the unsympathetic hostel manager and set our thumbs to the curb. In Marseille people like to revel and they like to do it with Japanese people in funny hats. We had no trouble getting a lift. The first car had two young men who did not speak english, wore bicycle shorts, and blared gangster rap. They couldnt take us far.The second car was that of Fredrick the puck of a pizza delivery boy, who took a detour to show us his Pizza Lambada and gave us a flyer. He said "tonight I deliver to a beautiful woman. So I write my number on this flyer to give to her. But (with a laugh) I forgot and left it here. So now you take it! Not for the number! Just for the flyer!" Atsu and I pile out, negotiate the catastrophic backseat which is complete with a scattered scrabble set, monopoly money and a mysterious black suitcase, then pile into the hostel to make peace with the manager. All is well and Atsu is organising drinks when to my dismay I feel for my open pocket and realise my camera is gone. My mind races back and my memory ear hears the barking of that cursed dog. Shock! Horror! Beer! Atsu, always the sympathetic gentlemen suggests we go back to the station but I know its a longshot and am ready to let go. Then the spark of hope. My Japanese friend unpacks his pockets and finds a crumpled flyer for Pizza Lambada. Fredrick says he finishes at ten thirty just as the hostel closes and at the front gates, pounding beers and talking to brazilians, I rummage the pizza mobile to find my tired little camera deep under the board games of Fredricks backseat platter. Atsu and I leap for joy. Fredrick offers to drive us to the beach for more beer, but we cannot find a way to sneak out of the now closing hostel, so we thank him and content ourselves to retire to the dorm and drink ridiculously cheap wine. Thus ends just a fraction of my stay in the melting pot city, for my journey continued in a similar manner for several days. I named a Columbian Tin Tin and we made fun of basoon players at a free opera, I freestyled with french and spanish kitchen dwellers at a house party on a loud rooftop which I spilled out of at six in the mourning yelling foreign tunes down the still lively streets, and I laughed while my friend Juana (photographer and head of team Columbia) faked an orgasm in the cold cold water of her morning shower. What is more, the people of Marseille continue to help me everywhere I go. An arabic man in Aix En Provence drove out of his way when he saw me hitchiking to my hostel a few hundred metres up the road. And a history student I met on the bus to Arles drove me around the city on arrival and gave me his number incase I had any problems. I told him "Marseillians help me everywhere I go".He just laughed and replied "Yes! We are here!" Marseille is a town where a man in truly loved by thousands, hugged by millions.
The end.
Meanwhile...
Atsu makes a crane
Elsa cooked for us
The kids made puppets
The hostel manager
I'm not sure what Marseille looks like now, but while I was there Kles, Love and co had most of the South of France on lock.
Atsu liked this one. Note the cheap bottle of wine and Australian ugg boots. Great travel buddy. The sign off on the throw is where I "appropriated" the story title from :)
Love
That's it for now. Next installation- Germany.