MARSEILLE, FRANCE

It didn’t look like a very long or difficult walk into town and we like to walk whenever we can.  But we didn’t have to walk because there were multiple options, including an expensive luxury bus being offered by MSC.  But I had done my homework and discovered by reading some reviews on Trip Advisor that we could follow these little green arrows that were painted on the pavement that would guide us outside the terminal center to a shelter where we could catch a free shuttle bus provided by the city tourism department.

So, off we went.

It was a warm, sunny day and the green arrows led us on a winding route past large ships and warehouses.  We had a happy bounce to our step.

We eventually came to the shelter where three or four people were lounging on benches.  

We should have known right away that this was a mistake because the shelter was big enough to handle about a hundred people.  And by the time we left, there were nearly that many crammed inside, sweating impatiently and scanning the street for the phantom bus. 

We saw lots of buses go by but they were the buses servicing the ship, not the free city shuttle bus.

When several families with screaming babies arrived, we started to feel like caged animals.  We had to escape.  And it was then that I noticed the green arrows continued down the street toward town.  

We were off again, this time at a very determined pace.   About a half mile later, we were still technically inside the cruise port and we started to question our plan.  But at that point we had expended so much time and energy into hiking into town that we couldn’t bring ourselves to turn around.  So, we continued on until we came to a public bus stop.

There was a very confusing ticket machine in front of a small shack where a bunch of foreign workers were milling about.  No one spoke English.

By this point, we had been joined by several non-French travelers like ourselves who had ended up walking from the cruise ship to this curious bus stop next to absolutely nothing at the edge of the busy freeway.  No one spoke English and none of us could figure out how to buy a ticket from the stupid machine that seemed to be broken.  A few minutes later, a city bus pulled up and the locals boarded.  We all began asking the bus driver in unison, “Are you going to the City Center?” (in about five different languages)

As soon as the driver realized that none of us had tickets, he attempted to ignore the chorus, and then waved us off, barking something that he apparently thought might be helpful in French as he closed the door and drove off.

“The arrows keep going,” I said to Inna, pointing at the edge of the road.

And so, we followed the goddamn things up a steep hill to a crossroads above a six-lane freeway, where they suddenly just ended.  We were standing atop the entrance ramp onto the highway where traffic was zipping by with people on their way to happy times.

We were screwed.

“I guess we need to walk back to that shuttle bus shelter,” I said in defeat.

Inna looked at me like I was crazy.  “We need to catch a cab,” she said, barely containing her anger at me for leading us on this wild goose chase.

I laughed angrily.  I wasn’t mad at her, but at myself for trying to save some money and pretend that I knew what the hell I was doing.  Plus, we had now wasted well-over an hour, we only had six more hours left ashore, and we were no closer to our destination.  I felt like a total putz.

“We’ll never catch a cab on this interchange, ” I said as I kicked the gravel edge of the ramp in frustration.  The view from the intersection was industrial abandon and a spiderweb of ugly railroad tracks.

“Here comes one,” said Inna.

I turned around, and sure enough, there was a cab.  I couldn’t believe our luck.

We waved and the cab stopped.  The driver was a friendly Arab who spoke perfect English.

We got in, thanking him profusely.

“Where were you going?” he asked as he started down the entrance ramp.

“We had heard that it was a twenty minute walk into town.  You just follow the green arrows into town,” I replied.

He chuckled and shook his head.

“It’s a ten minute DRIVE, and you would be walking along the highway, my friends,” he said as we motored into Marseille.

The cab driver dropped us off along the main boulevard in the heart of town where I instructed. The street was lined with outdoor cafes and shops that wound around the beautiful harbor dotted with ships of all shapes and sizes.  It was noon on Saturday, every restaurant was packed, street performers were doing their thing, and the whole place was going full tilt boogie.  It was like a big carnival.