Marseille: Une Histoire d’Amour avec l’Ailleurs
As my first break in Paris approached, I pondered where to go for my first little getaway.
I was standing in the kitchen making breakfast one morning when I glanced over at a stack of magazines, the first cover being an aerial shot of the beautiful Marseille. That same night, my dad coincidentally messaged me, telling me I should think about visiting Marseille. “Surely the universe is sending me a sign,” I thought.
I had my train tickets booked before I went to sleep, and Madeline even decided to join me for my first two days.
I type this now, sitting in the waiting terminal of the station for my train back to Paris, and it feels a little as though I’m leaving a stranger I’ve had a brief romance with. You know, gotten coffee with, learned about its family history, complimented its classic good looks, and then suddenly announced my departure. And now, forevermore, when I see a sailboat or people fishing or overhear conversation about the warmth and sun of the South of France, I’ll think of the old port and how it, as any other place I have visited, has expanded my heart, my perspective, and my restlessness-inducing realizations of how much of the world is out there, still and also waiting to be fallen in love with. It also reminded me of how much I really, really love a coastal city. Mountains and sea. The perfect love story.
I don't think the whole notion of multiple soulmates or "never finding the same love twice" only applies to people. I think it was originally intended for the travelers and explorers who hop from one place to another, who love and leave a country, a city, a coastline, for another, and another, and so on—falling in love each time with differing climates, landscapes, somehow under the illusion that each sun they lay under in the summer is a different sun from the one that kissed their skin the month before in that country or this city. Or that the moon which follows them to their cozy little hostel differs from the moon they watched each night from their childhood bedroom window.
Traveling and getting to know a foreign place puts you under some spell. If you've traveled or even moved houses, you'll know the spell I’m talking about. Some people frown upon it, calling it the 'traveler's high,' ‘post-travel blues,’ or plain old escapism—that everything may seem a lot more lovely than what it really is when you’re away—but I think that romanticization is beautiful and, at times, necessary to get us out of our comfort zones and into the daydreaming world of endless possibilities when you’re anywhere but where you’re used to.
I think it’s also more about going away, having an affair with a place so foreign and new, and upon returning, returning to yourself. To familiarity. The real journey is within—remembering who you were before you left and coming back to the same old room, kitchen, window, yet feeling renewed within yourself. You see everything as new again. The sun rises differently, the way you make your coffee may be a little different, and sleeping in your own bed becomes more comfortable as you’re heavier with memories and newfound wisdom.
Besides, who doesn't love being under a spell? Mustn't we exaggerate things sometimes to make even the in-between moments exciting? Shouldn’t we be as excited to explore the alternate road home we have always avoided as we are to see the cities across the seas? There's no need to hold back from being airy-fairy and in love with the places you come across, the detours, the plane trips you take, or the airports you half-sleepily drag your feet around in if it puts stars in your eyes and joy in your heart.
Marseille is the oldest city in France and the second largest, after Paris.
It is the 'front door' of Provence and was founded in 600 BC by the Greeks who sailed from Phocaea (today known as Foça in Turkey). It was the first Greek settlement in France, and at its height in the 4th century BC, the population had risen to 6,000 inhabitants.
It was the most important trading center in the region and the main commercial port of the French Empire. It linked many of the North African colonies, including Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia, with France. (You’ll notice if visiting that there are many North African restaurants and influences of Moroccan style and architecture here.)
The history of Marseille is so rich that, from what I've learned in my first three fleeting days, I could write a small novel about it. But alas, I won’t. Instead, I’ll write the next few pieces of this blog trying to recall what I’ve read and been told in broken Franglais (English + Français).
This was taken on the first day from the top of a Ferris wheel ride Madeline and I decided to go up. I am so glad she joined me for the first day and a half of my trip; we walked around as much as we could on the day of our arrival, enough for me to plan where to go and explore in the following days on my own.
At the top of the mountain, you can see the Basilica Notre-Dame de la Garde watching over the city. It was rainy on this first day, so I didn't take as many photos from the top, but the entire left side of this photograph, leading up to the church, is where the first inhabitants settled when the Greeks arrived. At the time, there were far fewer buildings and no roads—just dirt, flat plains stretching out beyond the port. When the Greeks arrived, the port remained in its natural shape and form, serving as the busiest and most bustling area of the city.
As mentioned before, when Marseille reached its height of 6,000 inhabitants, it was governed as an aristocratic republic—its assembly made up of the 600 wealthiest citizens.
Down below, I also explain why the inhabitants were located where they were, in such close proximity to the church above.
On the first day, we walked all around the port to Le Panier, or what is called the "Old Town," located on the opposite side of the harbor, where the inhabitants of the city eventually spread as the artistic culture and population grew. This part of the city was also known as the agora, which was essentially an open public space for assemblies and markets.
There are a number of entrances or ways to enter the maze of narrow streets that make up the Old Town. The streets are lined with colorful wooden doors, and above them, windowsills hold small flower pots, with strings of laundry hanging from one window to another. Many of the walls are vibrant with graffiti artworks from local artists and young creatives in the area.
Another district in Marseille, Cours Julien, is particularly well known for its street art, with over 50 of its streets and steps covered in radiant, abstract murals and colorful landscapes.
Walking around Le Panier, it's quiet—you don’t hear the cars or see crowds of people once you reach the heart of it. There are hidden ateliers and small, family-owned cafés, some seemingly located on the bottom floors of the homes where their owners live. It may not be particularly clean or tidy, but it is charming, and it reflects the reality of living and working conditions in the city.
You could wander through, taking this turn or that, and feel as though time has stopped completely. There’s a peacefulness in the silence and atmosphere of this part of Marseille that can’t quite be explained.
If you continue walking, you’ll come across open courtyards where cafés have set up small tables and chairs, along with a few lounges. In the summer, it would be so lovely to sit in the sun and enjoy a quiet meal, nestled between these cobblestone streets and homes that hold so many stories.
Located within the heart of Le Panier is La Vieille Charité, a former almshouse (charitable housing that allowed people to live in a particular community, often targeted at the poor), now repurposed as a museum and cultural center. It was built between 1671 and 1749 in the Baroque style—a style known for its easily interpreted details designed to produce drama and grandeur in sculpture, architecture, and art. The structure consists of three stories with arcaded galleries surrounding an ovoid dome and chapel.
In the 17th century, guards in Marseille known as chasse-gueux (beggar-hunters) were tasked with rounding up beggars. Non-resident beggars were expelled from the city, while native beggars were locked in prison. Almshouses such as this were not only places to live but also functioned as workhouses—children worked as domestic servants, cabin boys, bakers, and seamstresses, among other roles. However, as the number of workers increased and public sentiment shifted against the imprisonment of beggars, this practice became less common.
During the French Revolution, La Vieille Charité was used as an asylum for the dispossessed, and in the 19th century, it became a refuge for people who had lost their homes due to the demolition of parts of the district. During World War II, the Old Port was dynamited, and the building housed over 100 families in unsafe and unsanitary conditions, overtaken by squatters, pillagers, and vandals. It is said that a group of 30 Little Sisters of Jesus (a Roman Catholic community of sisters) opposed living in such conditions and devoted themselves to salvaging and repurposing food supplies, including anchovies and ripening bananas.
In the 1960s, all residents were rehoused, and the building was left empty.
This may sound strange, but when I walked into this place with Madeline, I got an overwhelming sense of déjà vu or nostalgia. It actually made my head spin.
I vividly remember a dream I had months ago, before I even arrived in Paris. I dreamt that I was running around a huge dome, in an area so vast that it looked exactly like this place—with its empty hallways, archways, and that distinct, soft light reflecting off the pale stone walls. In the dream, everything was bathed in a warm, muted glow, and the tiles of the halls were similar to terracotta.
I remember being alone, running through the space, wondering why it felt so empty. The dream wasn’t necessarily eventful or frightening, but it was so vivid that I thought it was real, as if I were lucid dreaming. I just remember waking up from it thinking I had dreamt of being somewhere in Europe or maybe even Morocco. And then, somehow, months later, I found myself here in Marseille, standing in this very place, feeling as if time had folded in on itself. It was as if I was meant to visit this place and then dream about it—not the other way around.
It felt like I had been here before. Maybe my memory was playing tricks on me, or maybe I really had dreamt of this place before even knowing it existed. The feeling was eerie—not knowing how or why I had seen this place in my dreams—but nonetheless, learning about its history and the deep emotions of loss, destruction, and injustice that had been felt by the people who once lived here will stay with me always.
On my last full day in Marseille, I met up with a local who does walking tours through the city as a side job and essentially becomes your pal for the day. He showed me the best paths to walk, taught me a good amount of history, and shared some well-kept secrets of the city. I even got to practice speaking French for the entire day!
The weather was beautiful—26 degrees and warm—perfect for a long walk.
We took the bus up to the Notre-Dame de la Garde, and I couldn’t have been happier to finally visit. I had been eyeing it from below every day since arriving, and making it up there felt like a reward. This church is my favorite I have ever set foot in. I’ve seen a lot of churches throughout Europe, and while all of them are stunning—places of peace and faith that carry an undeniable atmosphere of safety and spirituality—the history and stories within this church left me in absolute awe.
The building itself is very Byzantine in style, like many in Marseille. It is a Catholic basilica, with the church and crypt built in a Romanesque style, while the upper church is Neo-Byzantine, entirely adorned in mosaics. I wish I had brought my zoom lens that day to capture the very top of the structure—its gold-leaf monument of the Madonna (Virgin Mary) and Child, watching over the city.
The name of the church, Notre-Dame de la Garde, translates to Our Lady of the Guard, and the people of Marseille traditionally see both her and the church as the city's protector.
On the side of the church there are big in-dents, and marks left where rifles fired at the church during the Liberation of France at the end of World War II.
When you enter the church, it's very, very tall ceilings and decor make your eyes glow, and become mesmerised by how stunning it is. If you can make out the triangular dark shapes dangling from the ceiling, they are actually quite large, wooden sail boats, slowly turning and hanging in the air seemingly floating. They were made for the sailors hundreds of years ago to give them protection out at war, and acted as prayers for them to return safely from the seas.
The church is not as big as many others I have visited, but I think that’s what I like about it. When you enter, there are rows of wooden seats facing the altar where sermons are held. If you continue walking along the seats and around the perimeter, you can make a semi-circle back to the entrance within a minute, but we lingered for a long time, taking in each corner.
There are four wide walls inside, two on each side. Above them hang paintings, and below, nearly every inch of space is covered with small square inscriptions engraved in marble. These are prayers.
Somehow, it became a tradition to engrave memory prayers and place them within the walls of the church. It started during wartime when mothers and families would come to pray for their sons or husbands fighting in battle—to ask for their safety, to thank God for bringing them home, or to honor those who never returned. Some stones simply say merci (thank you), while others are more abstract.
Over the years, as the church arranged and expanded the walls, people began making these engravings for almost everything. They believed that if their prayers were within the walls of the church, they would be better heard, better seen, and more likely answered. For many, it became a therapeutic ritual, with some using the engravings as a monument they could visit daily to continue their prayers.
The two opposite interior walls of the church are now entirely dedicated to these prayers, with paintings above them that correlate to their themes. One side features paintings of boats, ships, and the ocean, while the prayers below mirror the sailboats hanging from the ceiling—dedications to sailors out at sea, gratitude for safe returns, prayers for protection, and remembrances for those lost who never came home.
These paintings depict people laying in bed, hospital halls, dark abstract scenes of shadows looming over bedsides and are above prayers relating to illness. Prayers asking for healing, thanking for their health, and prayers to those who have been lost to sickness.
The opposite side of the church wall holds another section of prayers and paintings, depicting accidents and tragedies—scenes of war, train crashes, fires—alongside prayers asking for protection and gratitude for families who were spared from one disaster or another.
Though many of these prayers are for serious matters, some engravings are surprisingly simple, like a mother giving thanks to God because her son had passed an exam.
I had never been inside a church so uniquely decorated. The paintings that correspond to the prayers, the sailboats hanging from the ceiling, the white and blue striped columns, and the sea-green and gold tones throughout—it all fits Marseille perfectly. A city by the sea, radiant and rich with culture.
Seeing the prayers etched into the walls alongside the dates above them made the experience deeply intimate. Of course, anyone can pray or light a candle in a church, but those who, over generations, have chosen to physically carve their prayers into these walls have also placed their deepest fears here—a brave act in itself.
Prayer is often a private conversation, something we whisper to ourselves, to God, to the universe, or to whatever higher power we believe in. But in this church, the prayers are visible, tangible. The words of fear, gratitude, and sorrow remain long after they were first spoken, turning this space into something deeply human. I think that offers comfort—not only to those who once placed their prayers here but to anyone who visits, reminding us that feelings of helplessness, grief, and hope are universal.
From afar the barrier around the church may seem like plain white tiles, but those are actually more 'prayer stones' which have been put around the inside as there isn't space inside the actual church anymore.
We made our way back around the church, following a secret back trail down through the hills and bushes to enter the neighborhood of Roucas Blanc. We navigated steep, narrow staircases nestled between castle-like houses, each one uniquely designed and built.
The homes in this neighborhood are surrounded by tall, thick stone walls—both for security and because, in the early days of Marseille’s expansion, these houses were occupied by the wealthier citizens, who wanted their homes to resemble grand fortresses overlooking the ocean. However, at the time, they didn’t always have access to the resources needed to build the extravagant homes they envisioned, using materials like wood, terracotta tiles, or marble. So, what did they do? They improvised—creatively and cleverly.
Many of the homes feature cement sculpted into archways designed to mimic wood, or facades scratched and textured to resemble aged brick. At first glance, it’s easy to be fooled into thinking the homes were built with more expensive materials. In fact, this architectural trickery worked so well that, even after all these years, the details still hold up—I have to admit, they fooled me for the most part.
One of the funniest things I noticed was the roofing. My guide asked, “Do you see anything strange about the tiles?” I had to take a moment before realizing that only the lower half of the roofs was covered in beautiful, glossy tiles, while the upper half was completely bare. The reason? Tiles were incredibly expensive, and covering an entire roof with them would have cost a fortune. But presentation was everything for these homeowners, so they only tiled the lower portion—the part visible to passersby—while leaving the top plain and “ugly,” where no one could see.
Another fascinating detail was just how narrow many of the streets were. I wondered how people managed to find each other’s houses, considering even a small car would struggle to fit. But, of course, when this neighborhood was built, cars didn’t exist. People got around on foot or by horse-drawn carriage, using the wider main roads. Walking through these hidden passageways made the neighborhood feel eerily peaceful, almost frozen in time. And though we weren’t anywhere near the coast yet, at certain moments, I could swear I heard the faint echo of waves traveling up the stairwells and narrow streets, as if the sea itself had found its way into the city’s quiet corners.
"wooden" concrete-made sign on the front of a house
cement walls with texture to copy that of wooden planks
Many of these homes also have these beautiful watch towers still standing on the corners of their property.
The reason why all these homes in the famous Roucas Blanc neighbourhood were built so high and near to the sea was that so with these watch towers, the owners of the homes could watch over the port, and see when new shipment arrived for resources of food and any other materials that were traded in and given to the city. These 'watch towers' were also built to keep watch over the sea for any unwelcome visitors coming into the shores of Marseille, and to be able to warn and spread word of any possible danger.
One of the islands you see in the distance is Château d'If, a fortress that later became a prison.
It is famous for being one of the settings of Alexandre Dumas’ novel The Count of Monte Cristo. The name If refers to the French word for the yew tree.
The isolated location and dangerous offshore currents surrounding Château d'If made it an ideal escape-proof prison, much like Alcatraz in California. Its use as a dumping ground for political and religious detainees soon made it one of the most feared and notorious jails in France. Over 3,500 Huguenots (French Protestants) were imprisoned here, along with Gaston Crémieux, a leader of the Paris Commune, who was executed on the island in 1871.
However, the island only gained international fame in the 19th century when Alexandre Dumas used it as a setting for his novel, published to widespread acclaim in 1844. In The Count of Monte Cristo, the protagonist, Edmond Dantès—a commoner who later acquires the noble title of Count—and his mentor, Abbé Faria, are both imprisoned here. After fourteen years, Dantès makes a daring escape, becoming the first person ever to do so and survive. In reality, no one is known to have successfully escaped. Today, the modern Château d'If maintains a roughly hewn dungeon as a tourist attraction in honor of Dantès.
As was common practice at the time, prisoners were treated differently according to their class and wealth. The poorest were placed in windowless dungeons beneath the castle, crammed together—sometimes twenty or more to a cell. Meanwhile, the wealthiest inmates could pay for their own private cells, or pistoles, higher up in the fortress. These rooms had windows, a garderobe, and even a fireplace, making for a stark contrast in living conditions within the same walls.
At the end of our long walk through the streets, we come out to Prophets beach.
The following photographs were taken as we walked back around to the Old Port, passing through hidden streets I had no idea existed, including Planier Lighthouse, Corniche, and the charming Vallon des Auffes—a quiet, secluded fisherman’s village tucked away from the roads and noise above. Nestled between docked boats, it sits right by small, colorful houses that look like little dollhouses as you pass by.
Many of the homes here do not have electricity, and some have been rented out by their owners to tourists seeking a more authentic Marseille experience—waking up right on the water. Because these homes are so incredibly old and historic, they were never officially registered, meaning the people who still live there today do not pay taxes or utility bills. Around the area, newer apartment buildings have begun to rise, but I don’t think anything—or anyone—could ever replace Fausse Monnaie or the people who call it home.
While wandering through, I met a few locals swimming in the port, as well as a man who was cleaning the water with a net. We spoke about pollution and taking care of the places we live. He sighed and said, “Parfois, marcher cinq mètres jusqu'à une poubelle est déjà trop difficile pour certaines personnes, et c'est vraiment dommage.” ("Sometimes, walking five meters to a bin is just too damn hard for people, and it's a shame.")
I helped him clean up around the area, and together, we collected twenty pieces of rubbish. When we finished, we shook hands. He smiled and said, “Merci de traiter mon chez-moi comme si c'était le tien.”
"Thank you for treating my home like yours."
