Night

Filmy curtains
made from the gossamer
of mosquito wings
swirl
like the hem
of a lady's nightgown.

Darkness,
but no sleep
tonight.

At least
the air is salt.
The night
too hot
too hot
but at least
not thirsty.

There is nothing
but nothing
like a night that is thirsty.

J'ai soif,
he whispered.
Toujours soif,
encore soif.
Marseille is salt
and heat
but not dry.

Sleep doesn't come easy
in the city
with a thousand
sins
and a single truth.

So I will remain
a servant of this night.
I will watch
the play of white
against a square of living dark
and wait
to fall...
if I fall
asleep.

The City of Sound

Marseilles is a controversial city, and a pretty awful television series. I am leaving for Aix en Provence tomorrow, concluding the first leg of my very first solo travel experience. I scoured the internet for travel blogs written by unaccompanied female travelers. I read countless articles about safety. In the end, I didn't learn anything new and it all made me rather paranoid.

So paranoid, in fact, that I stopped wearing earbuds while moving around, as was my habit in Strasbourg and Syracuse. I wanted to be aware of my surroundings, alert to possible dangers. In the end it was a good choice, but not for the initial reasons.

I mean, I don't know. Maybe those are legitimate arguments. In fact, I feel like I've read somewhere that earbuds make you more susceptible to aggression because you aren't paying attention, or something.

But before I get too sidetracked, let me explain why I found music-less travel rewarding. I can't pretend it was some earth-shattering revelation, but for the first time in a long time I was aware of the sounds around me. The laughter of children, the peculiar Marseillais accent, the sound of waves, the ugly things some men said to me in the street.

Marseilles came alive in the most mundane way possible. I saw the sun on ancient stone, I smelled the fish market at 9 in the morning, I tasted the anise-sweetness of Pastis. But without headphones to pass the time waiting in the metro station, I heard the young man next to me muttering to himself as he wrote a song about some girl in Grenoble. A girl with lips like vermilion and eyes like something from "une rêverie Marocaine".

I heard the creak of the ferris wheel at the water's edge of the Vieux Port. I heard the soldiers complaining about the heat. One of them called out to me in greeting, and he tipped his beret politely in response to my equally correct response. Funny, I didn't know soldiers talked to tourists. They never do in Strasbourg, anyways.

I heard the Americans. Whole droves of them, big and small. Californians like me, and from elsewhere. I felt a sense of solidarity to them, the Californians. It made me feel- strangely- a sense of pride, a sense of patrie. Not to America, but to California.

I heard a lavender merchant cajole an older couple from Boston into buying an entire basket of little sachets to perfume the wardrobe, and bottles of essence, to calm the nerves. I visited his booth later. He was very kind. We talked and joked for a long time- a good use of my French. I bought a little bottle of essence myself, more as a gesture than anything else.

From time to time, I noticed my own voice as I spoke French. It surprised me every time, to hear the certainty and confidence. Nobody knew I had only been learning since last September. A lady selling little bracelets asked, and was flatteringly shocked. I am very proud of how quickly I have picked up French. I may never pick up the art of French dressing, or French eating habits, or ever really be able to correctly handle my fork and knife. But at least I can speak the language.

It is late. I am tired from the sun and all the walking, not to mention my brief bout of food poisoning. And just outside my window, someone is playing the clarinet. A couple is arguing. A cat is yowling. Night magic.