M is for Marseille... and Monaco

I am totally on a roll.


Marseille

I haven't spent nearly as much time in Marseille as I wish I could have up to this point, but I did make a point of going this port city one day with my friend Derek. We were on a mission to find a beach, catch some southern French rays of soleil and chill like only a southern Californian can. We did some sightseeing along the way.

I like to think of Vieux Port as the heart of Marseille. "Vieux port" literally translates to "old port" and now functions as a marina for local boats. What's particularly cool about the Old Port is that it is a natural port and has been used ever since about 600 B.C. when the Phocaeans set up a trading post there. Ever since, Marseille has been a central Mediterranean hub for trade and industry. This is a large city that feels as though it has been subjected to urbanization on a much grander scale than Paris or any other large city in Ye Olde France because it feels urban and industrial. Paris gives off a sense of haughty sophistication whereas Marseille is a strange "mélange" of southern French comfort and hearty industrialization. For lack of a better term, the place feels working class. Riding into Marseille takes one through the banlieues (the "ghettos" on the outskirts of town), where buildings tower above the 4-6 storey height common to many, many buildings in Paris, in Aix, and so on. The paint is peeling from the walls, the pale blue shutters have turned a dank grey, and the graffiti covers every inch of unoccupied territory. Old buses stand on end in junkyards and the red, green and blue tents of the homeless peek out from under the greenery that frames the highway leading into town.

Also, the beaches are not as nice as San Diego beaches. MARSEILLE, I AM DISAPPOINT. But I digress. This is Vieux Port:

Well, the right side of the marina, anyway

This map of the entrance to Vieux Port dates from 1695.

The city of Marseille, ca. 1720

For all you Dumas buffs out there, Marseille is also the site of The Count of Monte Cristo, a very lengthy novel that I could never finish because I kept wondering when Jim Caviezel was going to appear and sweep me off my feet.

I think he's trying to make love to me with his eyes. And I think it's working.

For those of you who don't know the plot, Edmond Dantès, a naive and ridiculously attractive young man with an equally attractive fiancée is wrongly imprisoned  for treason at Château d'If, a prison island off the coast of Marseille, by those whom he supposed to be his friends *cough*Fernand Mondego*cough*. While there, he befriends Dumbledore, who teaches Edmond the ways of the ninja (pass your hand through the water without getting it wet) and educates him in all things badass (namely, literature, philosophy, swordfighting, and other equally lofty pursuits). Eventually Edmond escapes and tracks down the treasure of the isle of Monte Cristo, which is located near Corsica. After the duckling-swan transformation is complete, Edmond slowly takes his revenge upon those who turned his life into a literal hellhole, reunites with the woman he loves, learns he has a son, and lives happily ever after. All while look smoking hot.

I was under the impression that Château d'If was this ridiculously imposing island - as infamous as Alcatraz and as isolated as Azkaban. Nope. Take a look at this picture.

Hey! That girl looks familiar!

See those islands on the right of the photo, not too, too far offshore? The little island in front is the former island prison of Château d'If. I am 90% certain that I have gone snorkeling that far offshore before by starting at the beach and swimming out there at a leisurely pace. I assume, then, that there must be man-destroying rocks and sharks with laser beams attached to their heads encircling the place, because otherwise, assuming one could get out of the château, I can't see how escaping back to shore would really be much a challenge to anyone who knows how to doggy paddle at the very least, especially when the château is just a bit over a mile offshore. I wonder what made this place, at least in my mind, such a formidable prison?

I don't see any laser-beam-carrying sharks. Perhaps they are hiding, waiting to surprise the unsuspecting escapee.

Ah, dangerous ocean currents, you say, Wikipedia? As well as gun embrasures that I am sure were well-armed with hundreds of sharp-shooters just waiting for someone to attempt a daring escape? That is more acceptable. Although, considering the fact that the detainees were mostly political and religious prisoners, I can't imagine that they were the sort of cutthroat criminals itching to get out and get their hands bloody again. In fact, if anything, the detainees would have been white collar criminals more along the lines of Neal Caffrey, who would have schemed their way from a windowless cell to one with a fireplace and a prime view of the Marseille skyline to right out the front door and on to freedom with nothing but their wits, charm, and sizable cajones.

I like to think that all con men look, act, and dress like this man.

Charming white collar criminals aside and former formidable French prisons aside, I couldn't help but compare Marseille to San Diego. I immediately picked up on the same style of beach-front property design that one can find in La Jolla: tall, skinny homes that are much deeper and larger than you originally imagined, packed tightly together across the street from a set of cliffs leading down to the waves and boats below in some parts... and grandiose, sprawling residences hovering above beaches in other places.

And I bet all of these places cost a least a million euros

I can't decide which one I want for my fourth summer home.

 The beach that we went to was a small stretch of sand protected by a line of rocks that ran along the southern edge, creating a double beach of sorts. The water was a bit too frigid for my tastes, so I sunbathed and read up on early Christian history in Byzantium while Derek, the brave soul, went clambering over the rocks and tested the water on both sides of the sand.

We'll always have... whatever the name of this beach is...

Something I am frequently asked, normally by friends of the male persuasion, is whether or not the tales of French beaches are true. Do the women actually run around topless? Is clothing optional? Do French women actually shave? Well, besides having repeated seen French women purchasing shaving gel and razors and razorblades, I can't really answer to French personal hygiene questions, but I am pretty gosh darn certain that, yeah, French women (or, at least, the young French women that my male friends are all drooling over) shave just like American women. As to the optional clothing... from what I understand, most French beaches, unless specified, allow women to go topless. However, full nudity is still saved for nude beaches, of which there are still plenty. Don't expect to come to France looking for gaggles of twenty-something Françaises walking along the shores in naught but an itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini bottom. It doesn't happen. However, forty- or fifty-something Françaises walking along the shores in itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini bottoms can be spotted fairly frequently, much to the chagrin of the fantasizing young American men who just can't wait to catch a glimpse of the liberated French women.

If there is one thing that people should know about the French, it is that they are not so different from us. Over the past 30 years or so, they have come to more closely resemble American society. Women shave and wear tops at beaches. With establishments such as McDonald's and Quick Burger (which I maintain taste nasty, but are still common haunts for school children), the hamburger is becoming more apparent in the mid-sections of portions of the French population. A general trend toward a more conservative lifestyle seems to have slowly started to emerge. Oh, and the French can be just as awkward as any American when it comes to (1) dancing, and (2) relationships. There is still so much here that is unique to the country and makes me consider whether I shouldn't spend half my year in San Diego and half my year somewhere on the coasts of France because I love the lifestyle here - the food, the wine, the lavender, the language, the fashion, the history, the art/architecture. And yet, the great looming shadow of lazy U.S. consumerism and gluttony never seems to be too far away...

But back to Marseille. We happened to wander for a bit on our way to the beach, managed to get a little lost, and had a great time. My favorite shot from this whole afternoon excursion is a candid one that I snapped while we were wandering through the city on our way to the beach:

Somewhere between a typical narrow street with pale blue shutters framing all the windows with the provençal sun shining, and a beach-side collection of expensive homes with walls of unusual colors à la southern California, this one little street made me feel completely at home.

Monaco


I first mentioned my weekend in Monaco in this entry, but never really elaborated. Allow me to do so briefly now.

As I mentioned, I went to Monaco as a representative of Wellesley College. I was not fortunate enough to give a formal presentation on what it is like to go to women's college or even what it is like to go to a liberal arts college in the United States versus a larger research university with 20,000 undergraduates and 6,000 graduate students. However, I was available for one-on-one questions after the initial presentations where I could focus more on specific aspects of my school as well as the admissions process for international students, and was very pleased to be able to speak to several young women who seemed especially interested in Wellesley.

The location for this event was in a bank about halfway between the famous casino and the Port Hercule along a street that I came to think of as Rich Person Street because there is a whole string of private wealth management banks, aka places I could likely not even step foot into without being spotted immediately for the poor college student that I am. Some of them also seemed like really good locations for the next Bond movie... or the next episode of Chuck. The entrance to the private banking establishment opens to a grand double staircase in the art nouveau style that simply screams of the wealth of the residents of the tiny principality of Monaco. Our bank was much less ostentatious, but included a friendly and inquisitive security guard that one had to pass in order to actually see anything of any interest within the building.

But what can you expect from a principality whose per capita GDP is over $150,000 (compared to the U.S.'s measly $48,000)?

Any second James Bond is going to pop out from behind that fountain. I just know it.

Everywhere in Monaco felt out of my price range. The casino had a ten euro entry fee, which seemed silly considering how much money people must throw away at that establishment. The Buddha-Bar, which looked like a really good time, was clearly out of our league judging from the clientele dressed to the nines in heels that would make anyone else's nose bleed. The club that we ended up going to charged twenty-two euros for the first beverage since there was no entry fee, and a glass of wine at the brasserie near the casino was roughly five or six euros while a little French coffee was four euros.

I don't think Buddha would approve of your selectiveness, Buddha-Bar.

So, thank goodness for the carnival that was going on down at the harbor. Cheap fair food, fun games, silly rides, and an overall surprisingly well-executed fair. I had the best churros of my entire life in Monaco, and all for four euros! They gave me a bag stuffed full of churros, and it was so much warm, sugary goodness that I demanded that my companion help me eat them - something I don't always do when the food is as good as those churros were. I also enjoyed a specialty of the region called "socca," which is best described as a sort of crêpe made of chickpea flour and often sprinkled with black pepper. It was absolutely magnificent.

Come to meeeeee, socca!!!

FUN

More FUN.

Oh, and can we just talk about the female rock group from Thailand that covered some of my favorite rock songs ever... and did a damn good job of it? Adorable.

Peace, love, pandas, and sunshine,
Rachel

A Nice Place to Visit

This

is my current desktop wallpaper. I captured this image on my most recent travels to the Most Beautiful Places in the World.

This

is what that exact same place looked like in April of this year. I think this place certainly warrants a Seasonal Lusciousness of the Year award. Or perhaps the Ugly Duckling that Grew Up into a Beautiful Lake award.

Ok, enough capitalization. It is making me seem pretentious. Also, the lake wasn't really that ugly in April. Just nowhere near as green.

These two pictures, as I mentioned, come from one of the most beautiful places I have ever been: Wellesley College. No, this is not an underwater institution, as might be suggested by these images. That, unfortunately, would be too badass to ever bring into existence. Also, the lead levels in the sediment of the lake make it not-so-safe for underwater undergraduate schools. The actual campus is on the other side of the camera, facing Lake Waban, and is one of the most prestigious colleges in the world, as well as the most well-respected women's college in the nation. I am more fortunate that I can even comprehend to be able to attend this school.

What is so sickeningly wonderful about this place is the actual, physical location of the school. It is in the town of Wellesley, or as I like to call it, upper middle-class suburbia where the nightlife is non-existent and the cheapest stores are CVS, Starbucks, and the Gap. Luckily for us Wellesley women, this means that we are surrounded by trees and pretty houses and scenic routes. We have a lake on the edge of campus. We have our own arboretum. Our buildings are Neo-Gothic and old, so they make those lovely creaking noises when you step on just the right plank of wood on the floor. There is a sense of sophistication everywhere you go - even when you go to the Science Center, which sticks out like a sore thumb and then some. And that is how you fall - hook, line, and sinker - for the school.

I am an Admissions Student Assistant during the school year, and I know for a fact that many, many high schools girls are romanced not by the academics, not by the social life, but by the red bricks of the centenarian buildings and the sweet, wafting scent of the blooming magnolias in the spring. Of course, they have already come to the school with some idea of our excellent academic reputation our unique situation in which students are very, very much in charge of their own social lives. These are the reasons for which I originally applied to Wellesley College, in fact. And these reasons are nothing to be scoffed at. However, when it comes to romancing a student, to setting her imagination ablaze with desirable images of studying on the bench near the Paramecium Pond under the shade on a nice, autumn day, of strolling around the lake just as the sun as started to set over the trees and turn the sky into dazzling shades of pinks and oranges, and of finding oneself in an impromptu snowball fight after class in a winter wonderland... yes, when it comes to all of that, Wellesley's campus cannot be beat. Simply put, my school is gorgeous.

And yet. And yet...

I think there must be some sort of agreement between the weather gods and the big wigs at Swells in that the true face of New England weather may only rear its ugly head once students have actually enrolled in the school. And I think this because the two things they never tell you about the weather are 1) the rain, and 2) the humidity.

Let's start with the rain. I've seen rain before. I've danced in the rain before. I've walked home without an umbrella in the rain before. But I had never, ever seen rain like this:

Buckets (literally, buckets) of rain falling from the sky, drenching people within seconds of stepping outside. Torrential downpours that would put monsoons to shame. Flooding that threatened to not only destroy the 2012 class tree freshly planted by the lake, but that also threatened to turn Wellesley from a beautiful forest dotted with buildings to a swamp that required swamp boats like the one in The Waterboy to get around. I honestly thought rain like that was only used in movies for epic battle sequences (reference: Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers) or make-out scenes (references: The Notebook and Match Point).

Ok, so I exaggerate a little, but when you have to walk across that campus to get to class at 8:30 am, and it's pouring down rain, you'll know exactly how I feel.

You will also come to understand the exact need for rain boots.

When I was a naive, foolish thing, I was under the distinct impression that rain boots were for fashionable, young mothers who wanted their children to be extra prepared and super cute in the event that it ever even drizzled outside. To me, galoshes were just part of the rain wardrobe, along with the bright yellow rain coat/poncho and the bright yellow sailor's hat. Everything matched, and everything was made with extra special care to make that your child never, ever had to get wet. Even though she or he was probably dying to rip the darn things off and go streaking through the rain-soaked streets. Oh-ho-ho, how wrong I was.

Along with more winter clothes that I believed anyone ever needed, galoshes were my first major clothing purchase after moving to the east coast.

Now, let's move on to our second topic: humidity. To someone from Southern California, like myself, humidity is a vague concept that usually means that the marine layer has not burned away yet, or that it might rain at some point later in the day if we're really lucky. It is also something that only comes onstage during the last act of the year when the temperature actually dips below 65 degrees and everyone complains about the cold and the clouds (this is called winter in SoCal).

Meanwhile, in Wellesley, and apparently in the rest of Massachusetts as well, humidity is something that never goes away, and is most noticeable when you most wish it would evaporate (no pun intended), notably in the summer. Here, in Boston and its surrounding suburbs, the humidity is as much likely to get your shirt completely wet as the rain is. 85 degree Fahrenheit weather, sun, and humidity mean more sweat than you ever thought possible for one person to secrete in a 30-minute period.

My boss is from the southern tip of Sweden, so we are both originally from climates that experience dry heat. The idea that you can step outside and feel like you are breathing in water when you haven't jumped into a pool yet is at once bewildering and frightening to the two of us. Try asking us about the weather sometime after we have just walked to work. You shall get more than earful.

Seriously, I would not have changed my mind about coming to study at Wellesley if I had known about the rain and the humidity, but I would have liked to know that I was moving into a giant greenhouse before I showed up here. I especially would have liked to know that, in the summer, the humidity seems to double in evilness. I would have stocked up on t-shirts to sweat through if I had known it would be so humid. I also would have bought a snorkeling mask because it honestly feels like I am swimming some days when the humidity reaches levels known and "unbearable" and "ludicrous."

But maybe I am just prone to complaining. My mother certainly used to think so when I was younger.

In summary, I love Wellesley. I believe it is the only place where I could be half as successful and well-rounded as I have become. There is no other institution in the world where I could meet such wonderful people, receive such an excellent education, and experience such breathtaking views as the picture at the beginning of this post. But I could never live here. I could never take up permanent residence here. I need somewhere that looks like this when you look one way:

and like this when you look the other way:

And this is what it looks like in the middle of January.

Call me spoiled, but San Diego, home of In-N-Out and authentic Mexican food, will always be my one true home.