I like Marseilles. It has a rich and diverse culture, often cited as being Algeria's northern most town. Gangs of elderly men loitering on street corners, gesticulating feverishly with their hands between sips of espresso discussing I don't know what, whereas on the next street corner, it's more men, this time playing boule, more gesturing, cheering and jeering. Where are the women, the ladies who lunch, I wonder? And then there is my brother...an established French citizen, fluent in the language of his adopted home with a classic Yorkshire accent to match. I have answered his calling, not that he called, but I turned up anyway, so see my new nephew. He is a handsome young man. It's so not fair.
The casual nature of my brothers life, means that first we must have lunch before I get to see the little man. I like my food, a lot, and there are few things that can distract me from the job in hand, but one of them is being watched. More so when the observer adds a sound track of smacking lips. My bowl of fresh Spaghetti Bolognese with a glass of Rose was delicious, but boy did I feel guilty. Never once did dog make eye contact with me, only my food, my fork, my mouth, my lunch, but not me. It was dogs lucky day. He knew it, I knew it, my lunch was for sharing, and no sooner had I succumb to his emotional blackmail than he moved off to the next table. Used, that's how I felt.
But I was also feeling a little self righteous, as I'd snuck in a very leisurely early morning run along the canal path. My brother lives up in the hills, and your choice is to either run up them, or traverse them and one such short but attractive route is along the covered Canal de Marseilles. This route is awash with morning 'joggers'. I couldn't help but feel a little speedy, though my legs were still very heavy from Sunday's Half. Nonetheless, 5 or so miles of very sunny morning running was welcome. As you could guess, the route along the canal was flat, winding, but very flat. So I punctuated it with a few diversions, up and then down, down then up.
But the thing is, the streets around here are narrow. If you hear a car coming, then you need to duck in, or hope you can find somewhere to hide. I've driven on these streets with my brother. The cars are small, so they fit the streets. Every wall has a scar. And because they're small, they're often under powered, so you take the hill with speed, protecting any precious momentum you have by not letting your foot be tempted anywhere near the brakes. It makes for an urgent incentive to make it to the next junction.
