Day 11: Valence to Marseille

Alex:

Having seen our fill of the Rhone, we jumped a sweltering train to Marseille today. We wrestled our bikes into the cramped cars with our eleven bags and take-out from Istanbul Kebab. 

Kenneth:

I wanted to ride the tgv, but with the bicycles that turned out to be too daunting a task even for the kindly SNCF ticket lady. Determined, we headed to the regional station to catch our train. Apparently, the only non-tgv trains are the equivalent of cattle cars in rural china. No air conditioning was just the start: they were loud, rattled like they were about to roll off the tracks, and smelled like a very cheap motel (or at least what I think one might smell like. I have never been to one). Still, these cattle cars got us and our bikes to Marseille in one piece, and it was worth it.

The Mediterranean is fabulous! I have been to the ocean before, but this is truly something else: a perfect hue of blue, stretching as far as the eye can see, bordered by cliffs, hills, and, of course, the city. We rode uphill for 45 minutes to reach the hostel, and the view was worth it: all of Marseille was spread out before us.

Alex:

The hostel is a massive, elegant, old building which seems to date back to the 2nd Empire, with fine plasterwork and mirrored walls in the atrium. The accommodations, themselves, definitely date from the 70s. 

The crotchety old grounds-keeper only guffawed when I asked for room keys and gradually closed the teller window on me as I continued to press him with questions. Was there Internet? No. Food nearby? No. Public transportation? No! 

We trudged up to our dormitory to be instantly greeted by the strangest character we have met thus far: Arthur the Actor from Armenia. No kidding.

I could write a short story on this guy, but I will endeavor to give you a brief introduction.

After finishing studying drama in Paris Arthur was traveling alone in France before returning to help put on a film festival in Armenia. He was lonely and morose in the hostel until we entered the scene--catapulting him into a prima donna paroxysm of histrionic glee. He sang, told tales, pantomimed, and impersonated various dramatis personae.

 He was a one-man circus, babbling incessantly in broken French and English as he led us out into the Marseille twilight for dinner, not eight minutes after we had arrived. Before we knew it, we were on the subway with Arthur arguing about everything from the most beautiful singing language and Armenia's ancient claim to the Nogorno-Karabakh region (as a poli sci major, it was fun to witness some actual heartfelt irredentism for once).

We were back at the hostel before the doors shut at 11:30. Growing weary of our irreverent and cracked-out companion, and tired from the day's journey, we turned in less than an hour later. 

The following morning, Arthur bid us farewell before heading out to Aix-en-Provence. And that's the last we saw of Arthur the Armenian... For now, at least.