Feeling Home in Marseille

The last post in the France Travel series  - although feel sure its influence will be noted for years to come!

Paris made me look up.

Bordeaux made me look closer.

Marseille brought me inside the door.

And that feels like the right way to end this little France travel series.

By the time we arrived in Marseille, the train ride had been hot, our bags felt heavier than they had at the beginning of the trip, and the rhythm of travel had fully settled into our bones. On the platform, we met a German girl who had lived abroad for school for a few years, and despite her broken English, the conversation was easy and interesting in that way travel conversations sometimes are. You share stories with someone you have never met, both of you going somewhere different, and for a few minutes, your lives overlap in unexpected connections. It would turn out to set the tone for the personal connection felt in this city that was missing from the first two. 

Getting off the train in the late of the night and knowing we were no longer on our own was both refreshing and confusing - having to add the element of finding and planning with others had not been part of the journey yet. But in the sea of people and unfamiliar streets, I spotted Dad. There he was in his little car, waiting to pick us up. And just like that, Marseille already felt different. Not because it was less foreign or busy... But because there is something instantly familiar about getting into a car with your dad, knowing he knows the way - even if he literally does not.

After days of hotel rooms, train stations, restaurants, streets, cathedrals, museums, and figuring things out as we went, we were now entering a local apartment door with mom and dad's familiar greetings and hugs!

After Paris and Bordeaux had me wondering about all the hidden lives behind colorful doorways, Marseille began by taking us behind one. Not a grand cathedral door. Not a painted door with wrought iron and plants. Just an apartment door where Mom and Dad were waiting on us to arrive. Somehow, in all the noise and movement of a city, that apartment became home for the next few days.

Everywhere they are feels like home.

The first night, we came in, had a cold beer, caught up with Mom and Dad, and settled into the apartment. It was already late, so bedtime came quickly. Again, open windows and fans were a must but this time the sounds outside were not the same city noises we had fallen asleep to before. Marseille had its own soundtrack. Neighborhood voices. Cicadas. Cats. Late-night walkers. Street sweepers. The city was still moving long after we had decided we were done for the day. The breeze at the 6th floor level was dream-like and rest came easy!

By morning, our real Marseille experience began.

We quickly realized that the mirrored ceiling at the Vieux-Port would become the landmark of everything else we were going to do. 

Mom and Dad started the day with us for brunch in the main square, and we got our first view of the live fish markets. There was a bakery where we sampled all the goods, which is apparently an important part of my personal travel philosophy.

The first glimpse of the coming heat wave was already settling over France, and we quickly felt what a difference the sun could make.

Dad took Mom home, and Bo and I found ourselves doing what we seemed to do best on this trip. Wandering.

Marseille felt instantly different from Paris and Bordeaux.

Honestly, we may as well have traveled to another country. There was a Mediterranean flair that changed everything. The water. The light. The colors. The pace. The smells. The sounds.

Being near the water felt familiar to me. Maybe not “home” exactly, but familiar in my bones. We walked at a slower pace in Marseille, but somehow that did not mean fewer steps. The days felt longer, partly because of the summer solstice, and partly because the sun did not seem interested in leaving at a normal hour.

We ended up in the international district, walking through flea markets and spice stores. At any point, if someone had told me we were in Turkey, Greece, or Italy, I probably would have believed them.

There were massive monuments and fountains in nearly every square. The whole city seemed to hold the sound of water. And les cigales — the local cicadas — were everywhere. That sound became part of Marseille for me. Water, cicadas, street musicians, people talking in many languages, buses, scooters, and city life buzzing around us. Not just French here. Marseille felt layered, busy and alive. A little gritty and wild. A little coastal and less Renaissance. A little like Spoleto if Spoleto had been dropped beside the Mediterranean and given more graffiti, more seafood, more languages, and more pigeons with absolutely no regard for personal space.

There was street art everywhere. We had seen street art throughout France, but in Marseille, it felt next level. Not just scribbles on a wall, but a gallery of its own. Color and protest and personality and humor and beauty all stacked on top of old stone, storefronts, and alleyways.

And the buildings. I almost hate to call them buildings. So many of them felt more like old castles that had slowly become apartments and shops. History was not tucked away in museums here. It was just being lived in. We happened to be in Marseille around the World Cup, Festival de la Musique, and what seemed like a festival of the sea. Between the soccer energy and the music and the coastal rhythm, the city had a constant buzz.

We also happened into a seafood street-food style place and had local oysters shucked raw right in front of us.

One euro each.

What a deal.

And what a surprise to discover that I like raw oysters.

I also tried mussels and liked those too.

I still do not love peel-and-eat shrimp — or prawns — even when they are the size of my hand. Some things do not change just because you are in France.

One of the ideas we had for Marseille was visiting Château d’If. We even spotted the Edmond Dantès boat and thought maybe that would make the list.

It did not.

Some things fall off the must-see list as a trip unfolds, and that is okay. Sometimes the thing you planned becomes “next time,” and the thing you did instead becomes the memory.

Notre-Dame de la Garde was one of those places we could see from almost everywhere in the city.

Before I ever knew we would climb that hill, I kept taking pictures of it. From the streets, the port, the apartment window.... From every direction, it watched over the city from above, and we kept noticing it long before we ever stood inside it. That feels like its own little lesson, doesn’t it? Sometimes the thing God is leading you toward is already in view before you realize you are going there.

We also stopped by Saint-Laurent and Sainte-Catherine, but it was closed the first day. On day two, we passed again and found it open. So we peeked inside. And there, in this old chapel, a woman was singing “All of Me” in French during a wedding service. I stood there thinking how beautiful and strange and wonderful it would be to have these chapels and cathedrals as part of your normal list of wedding venue options. Just casually choosing centuries-old stone and stained glass for your ceremony. No big deal.

We also went inside the Cathédrale de la Major, and that building was incredible. The scale of it. The tile work. The striped stone. The feeling of East and West meeting in one place, with the history lesson at the little gift shop! My dad's Christian-themed shirt was recognized by a local, and it was a common understanding that the gift from his children was more about the scripture than the shirt. Dad bought me a treasure there to go along with our maritime spiritual moments of learning about the significance of the ICHTHUS fish to the people of Marseille. 

One thing that kept catching my eye in all the churches we visited was the rainbow effect the stained glass created inside. The light would come through and land across stone and tile and pews, as if the floors and walls needed any more beauty. They did not. But the light came anyway. It's just like God to add color where there was already beauty, to let light fall in places we did not even realize needed it.

In our shopping, we learned that lavender is definitely a thing here.

And soap. Apparently, soap is the number one souvenir of Marseille. Every scent imaginable.

We came across something called the Marseille Pebble, a clay soap scrubber for callouses and rough skin, and the vendor gave us a hand scrubbing demonstration. I did not know I needed a soap rock until Marseille told me I did. This will be the thing I wish I had bought and think about later. 

We found souvenirs, wandered through shops, bought little treasures, and I continued my important work of finding gifts for the boys. I had already found a baguette magnet for John Grady and was still searching for something small for Wyatt. Because even across the ocean, mom mode stays on. Missing them and getting home started to creep in at this point. Maybe it was the familiarity of salt air  - maybe just too far for too long - but they were in my mind constantly. 

Somewhere during the shopping, Bo and I found ourselves at a flea market. I was admiring a small Saint Francis of Assisi coin but decided to walk on.

The vendor called out, “Madame!” Then handed it to me. "Pour vous."

....For you....

What a sweet little treasure with those simple French words I recognized! Almost immediately, my brother’s protective nature kicked in. He told me to stay close. The market had a different vibe, and I welcomed that sense of protection he offered, but I will also treasure the unexpected gift. 

The beauty and the edge of this city existed side by side.

Day two was for the Calanques.

We got up early and hiked from Port-Miou to Port-Pin, then enjoyed the Mediterranean Sea at Port-Pin.

And when I say enjoyed, I mean we swam with fish and jumped off cliffs.

Now, my cliff jump was probably about six feet. But I need everyone to understand that from the top it felt significantly higher.

The views along the hike were unreal. Boats tucked into the marina. Deep turquoise water. White rock cliffs that were movie-perfection. Trees clinging to places that looked impossible. The kind of scenery that makes you stop mid-step and stare... then snap the picture you know will not do it justice.

This “moderate” hike was enough for Dad and me. Bo kept going toward En-Vau while Dad and I found a flat rock and soaked up the sun for a little while. I loved that hour. Sometimes you go as far as you can go, and then you let someone else keep climbing while you rest on the rock provided and take it all in. 

After we left, we happened upon the drive up toward Cap Canaille and the Route des Crêtes. The drive to the top and the tromping around up there were absolutely worth the extra time.

And yes, “tromping” became an important word on this trip. Mom used it to describe our activities. My brother questioned whether it was accurate. But after Marseille, I think we can all agree that “tromping” was exactly what we were doing. We tromped through streets. We tromped up hills. We tromped through markets. We tromped through churches. We tromped along cliffs. We tromped until our feet were tired and our memory banks were full. After the Calanques, we headed home for a much-needed shower and nap in the breeze-drenched apartment. 

That evening, with mom joining again, we found a view of the opera house and had dinner at Brasserie L’Entrecôte. Everyone else ordered steak, but I chose the duck leg, and it was fabulous. I also ordered Creme Brulee, which felt like a satisfying finish after leaving Creme Brulee on the table our first night in Paris.  

We enjoyed the busier Friday night life and called it a night with the sun still hanging around at 10 p.m., treating bedtime like merely a suggestion.

Day three, we opted to leave the heavy traffic of the Vieux-Port and headed to Palais Longchamp.

Absolutely a must-see!

The fountain was exquisite. Grand. Dramatic. Beautiful in that way European monuments seem to be, as if someone said, “We need a fountain,” and the city responded, “Yes, but what if it looked like a palace?” It was flanked by a natural history museum and an art gallery that could rival any others we had seen. And then, to my absolute delight, there was an upstairs visiting exhibit honoring Alice in Wonderland. Who knew Alice had such a rich history in French culture? And with my own relatively unknown obsession with all things Wonderland, it felt like a personal little nod to our timing.

After Palais Longchamp, we discussed our last sightseeing option. We missed the buses, or they were full, so we made the journey up the hill to Notre-Dame de la Garde. It really did feel like a pilgrimage. Not necessarily because we were being deeply spiritual every step of the climb. Some of those steps were just hot. But there is something meaningful about working your way toward a place you have been seeing from a distance for days. Notre-Dame de la Garde can be seen from almost everywhere in Marseille. But from the top, you can see the whole city. The port, the rooftops, the sea, the islands. Château d’If. The places we had walked. The places we had missed. The places we would probably never know.

Inside, the church was clearly devoted to sea sojourners. Boats and marine images were everywhere, honoring those who had come and gone by sea, those who had prayed for protection, those who had returned, and those who had not.

There was a reverence in that place.

An awe.

Each church we visited in France seemed grander than the last in its own way, but this one felt deeply connected to the people of the city. A church on a hill. Watching over the water. Watching over the coming and going. And from the top, we had our best view of Château d’If. Even knowing the city is a present-day Niniva, lost at sea, there was evidence of God's omniscience and love for this place. 

By then, the temperatures were rising with the heat wave, and our desire to tromp around stone ruins in the heat of the day had faded. So we settled for the view of Château d’If instead of the tour and allowed the church to be our last official tourist activity.

And I have no regrets.

We caught the bus on the way down and found a street-food fried seafood spot where we had fried baby scallops, shrimp, squid, and yes… octopus. Served with three versions of mayo, because apparently that is how they do things there.

At one point, we also ended up with a few of Dad’s friends from the church he is serving in Marseille and celebrated a birthday with them at the local pizza place near the apartment, just around the corner from the Auchan grocery store. That felt special in a different way.

Not touristy - but personal. To sit with local people, friends from church, and feel included for a little while in the purpose Dad and Mom have there — that mattered. It was a reminder that travel is not only about what you see. Sometimes it is about who lets you sit at their table.

Our last night, we enjoyed a meal at La Casa Nova with American friends who were visiting Marseille too. We wandered the streets for a few last finds to take home, and slowly the reality began to settle in.

We were ready. Because home is still home. 

One last sunset at 10:30 p.m. One last sunrise at 5:30 a.m.

And then we were off to America.

As I think back on Marseille, I keep coming back to that first feeling.

The door to Dad's car in sight.

The apartment door where we found Mom and Dad waiting.

The city being unfamiliar, but the familiar people that were there.

Paris gave me wonder.

Bordeaux gave me hidden doors.

Marseille gave me the gift of being welcomed to a home away from home.

I will carry that from this last stop in France. The world is big. There are cities full of sounds and stories and foods I have never tasted. There are churches on hills and markets with saints’ coins and strangers who say “for you.” There are turquoise waters, long walks, late sunsets, street musicians, raw oysters, cliff jumps, and cathedrals full of rainbow light. There are so many beautiful places to go.

But there is something sacred about being reminded that home is not just a place. It is the one who makes you feel safe in a strange city. Home is your dad picking you up at the train station and your mom sitting in the den. Home can be a table of old or new friends in a city far from your own bed.

Home is where your heart is!

Would do it again? ABSOLUTELY! And hope to sooner rather than later.

I would walk the miles. Climb the hills. Eat the unfamiliar foods. Buy the souvenirs. Tromp through the heat. Take the pictures. Sit in the churches. Laugh with my brother. Talk with Dad. Rest with Mom.

And look forward to the warmth of the return to my sweet little farm, where my children are ready for a much-needed mom hug, and I am ready for my husband's embrace. 

Seeing the world made me thankful for perspective and the big, beautiful world God created, for the feeling of home felt anywhere, and for the incredible life He gave me to return to. It made me ever grateful that while I grew in wisdom and faith (and maybe in scale) and this trip changed my knowledge of the world for the better, I am returning realizing that no matter where my feet take me, I am still exactly me! 

Where have you felt the gift of home lately — not just in a place, but in the people or the welcome or the peace that God provided along the way?

Lord, thank You for the gift of going and the gift of returning. Thank You for beautiful places, unexpected conversations, open doors, safe travels, and the reminders of Your presence in both the familiar and unfamiliar streets. Watch over our coming and going, and help us receive both adventure and home with grateful hearts. Amen.

Until next time, keep following the Plott, and I will be praying for us all. 💛