What It’s Actually Like to Live on Canal Saint-Martin in Paris

An empty red and white cross-hatched bistro chair–if you’re lucky enough to find one on the first sunny weekend by the canal, you’d know how I felt that pristine Saturday in late February. For visitors, this can be an impossible task, however, I live upstairs. In the cave, my gf and I like to joke, a reference to how little daylight we receive.

That Saturday, the neighbourhood rejoiced, winter was over, and it seemed like the entire 10e joined us to relish in the sun. The banks were full. Hipsters and homeless and thugs and young families came together to sit and chat, drink beer and play music. A real Kumbaya moment.

Idyllic times such as these are why I love the city, and this city in particular. It makes the taxing montage of commutes, workdays, and alienating transactions worth a place in your life. And while there are many nose-pinching, ear-plugging, eye-shutting moments, I think, at the end of the day, it’s worth it.

In An Immoveable Feast, Hemmingway writes of the promise of Rive Gauche; Cardinal Lemoine, Saint Michel, the Latin Quarter, Saint Germain, and Montparnasse. But I’ll be the first to tell you, these quarters are dead. Unpopular opinion; I know. But have you been to Les Deux Magots, La Rotonde, or Shakespeare? It’s the same as going to a museum. And while I’m harsh, because I am omitting the exceptions to prove a point. The city has moved on.

My ❤️and I moved to the canal at the beginning of November. It was an exciting time, and technically our move into Paris. For the 6-months prior, we’d lived in a small town called Montrouge, a metro terminus and a 5-minute walk from the Southern border of Paris. Basically Paris, but, it wasn’t the postal 75, so for a Parisian, it isn’t Paris.

The canal was calm. A day muted by Parisian Grey. Sporadic runners threaded up and down the banks. The courageous sat on terraces in luxuriant coats lined with faux fur. Our move-in had showed promise from the neighbourhood; a reward from the investment that we’d put in, fighting a war just to submit a dossier to the agency. You need to have what it takes to be ‘accepted’ into this shitshow of a club called Paris.

Ironically it was the American style cafés and cocktail bars that charmed me. On our first night’s exploration of the neighbourhood, we settled in a little den called SAam for delicious Taiwanese Bao.

Our excitement, however, was quickly hampered by the apartment. Marred by filthy floors, a condescending attitude and exigent behaviour from the agency, we were handed two pairs of keys and a weeks worth of cleaning. I mean, there were dust bunnies the size of my fists behind the couch. We found a pair of dead moths behind the fridge, and popcorn cornels in bed (Yum). Mold in the bathroom, a large stain on the mattress…the list goes on.

This would be the beginning of our delusional one-sided legacy with this negligent agency.

With that aside, we began to get into the ebb and flow of the quarter. We found out which boulangeries were open on weekends, where to find juice and grain bowls Bob’s Juice, Sol Semilla, Le Bichat and RadioDays (turns out dozens of places), where the neighbourhood haunts were–newcomers like and old faithfuls.

The cool visitors post up at the legendary Chez Prune, La Marine; tourists pound pints at Cork and Cavan and queue at Comptoir General; the local chics gather at La Patache or Brigette; and the alternative side at Cinquante, Gorbi Palace. And then there’s Gravity, a cocktail bar in a realm of its own.

Even before this first sunny day in February, I noticed a difference in my outlook upon Paris. Small quality of life improvements. The subway lines are fruitful. The rest of Paris resembled a sibling instead of a distant cousin. Peanut butter is at the supermarket. Supermarkets are open on Sunday nights. So ostensibly, I can buy peanut butter on a whim now.

We found things that we couldn’t find before–St. Marcelin filled Naan at Marcel, Pulled Pork Tacos at El Guacamole, and chicken & waffles at Baba Zulu. Line 2 from Colonel Fabian took us to Pigalle, and the 11 from Goncourt took us up to Belleville, and down to the Marais. Is this happiness? Or is it misleading.

At some point in my life, I’ll have to question why innocuous things such as these have such a high importance in my life. Brunches, happy hours and private sales for plants, artisanal jewellery, beer, and ice cream. It’s like post-materialism; instead of materials, each experience has been reduced to a set of values. Packaged and presented by Instagram. In the end, they embody the same sets of adjectives as a clothing brand or car maker.

Grain bowls and vegan super foods #healthy #vegan / Eggs Benedict and chicken and waffles #indulgence. I give a lot of fucks, because I drink green smoothies with spiruline instead of four refills of drip coffee with brunch.

At home, our cour is small enough for awkward eye-contact with neighbours, and our walls are thin enough to hear unwanted arguments and sexual climaxes. During a rainstorm, we came home to find the stairwell flooding from a massive crack in the ceiling. We started banging on doors to find help. Immediately, The neighbours assembled to find a solution. Each person donated buckets. We set up a makeshift shoot, funnelling the water from the crack out a nearby window. No person acted ‘for themselves.’ A bond grew between us. We exchanged phone numbers, ideas, and now, more than just ‘bonjours.’ I had never experienced that in a building before.

Later that night, however, our roof partially caved in. Our kitchen flooded and consequently, we had to live without electricity for a week. Why? It took our lovely agency over a week to get back to us for an evaluation. We considered moving. Was the neighbourhood worth the living conditions? In New York, I had the chance to live in East Williamsburg for 4 months, but the Canal is the Canal.

Hopping over the water each day was a panacea.

On the canal I’d see photo shoots. I’d pass music videos being shot against the backdrop. The most stylish Brits, Spanish, Americans and Koreans flocked to our hood with cameras and dazzling fashion; beautiful, proud dogs trot down the promenades, they’re enough to make one self-conscious, to make one think twice about leaving the house in pjs for a croissant. It’s funny, but really, moving to a neighbourhood like this is intimidating.

The canal itself is very dirty. But only on second glance. On first glance, it’s glossy, pristine. My impression is that tourists pass through with this quick look, forgetting that it’s a breathing neighbourhood, not just an attraction or a postcard. In reality, Parisians adore the canal but abuse it, they hang around all day tossing beer bottles, cigarette butts and driving lime scooters into the murky waters.

Dive a little deeper into the quarter, into every unmarked road, alley and impasse and you’ll find the veins, Rue Bichat, Rue Marie et Louise and the magical Rue Sainte Marthe, the point of Eugene Varlin, Rue Juliette Dodu. Dozens of small abodes and packed terraces. Not a word of English.

I’m reminded everyday about how Parisian culture is different than that of New York. It’s not about loud signage, niche marketing, or incredulous hype. It’s also not about judgment or exclusion, which can often be the pervasive stereotype.

It’s about intimacy. In both definitions of the word.

Definition of intimacy

1: the state of being intimateFAMILIARITY

2: something of a personal or private nature


While this might seem like the romantic cliché of Paris, it has nothing at all to do with romance. It’s about proximity and knowledge, being close to and in the know.

On the 2nd of June, my gf and I found an ephemeral boat.

It docks across from the dog park and next to the basketball court, but only on sunny weekends. 200m up the canal from our apartment, this boat acts as a bar and music venue.

For hours, we sat under the sun, we called friends, and we listened to Cuban Jazz while drinking Europe’s Coors Light–Jupiler. It wouldn’t have happened without proximity or knowledge.

The atmosphere in Paris can be dream-like and refreshing. On the other hand, it can leave you distanced and put-off, like it did for me during my first several months. A large part of living here is learning the language, but another part is having a neighbourhood in Paris that allowed me to learn.

I plan to stay here, not because it’s Paris–whatever that packed statement means–or for the history of the quarter, which remains largely unwritten, but rather, because I like it.

The canal is a neighbourhood with a cosmopolitan glaze, but still retains its Parisian core. And just as Hemmingway found the Rive Gauche’s when he lived here, I find the canal’s image eternal.



The Funky Art of Mixing Drinks: The Gimlet

Your Gimlet should model that badass chick from junior year–never sweet, never dull, never limeade, never soda in that flask. A little edge is key; add the ingredients to a shaker with ice, rattle and strain into a cocktail glass. Gas it with a splash of sparkling water and give it wheels…of lime that is.

.5 Parts Simple Syrup

– 1 Part Lime Juice

– 4 Parts of Boodles Gin

adapted from The Fine Art of Mixing Cocktails

Above is the Godfather’s take, found in the essential book FAoMC, but I’ve decided to add some tang.

– .5 Parts Simple Syrup

– 1.5 Parts Lime Juice

– 4.5 Parts Bombay Sapphire Gin

🔥 take

Two alternatives are French or Italian Gimlets, the French with Citadelle Gin and Perrier, and the Italian with Madame Gin from Jerry Thomas Project and San Pellegrino.

What do you think? What’s the best ratio for a Gimlet? The Best Gin?


Caché! The Secret and Wonderful Oddities of Paris: Passage du Pont aux Biches

On a black night, in the misery of a rainy Paris winter, I scamper past Place de La Republique into the upper east corner of Le Marais. Suddenly, I see a burst of color emanating from a narrow set of stairs.

This mysterious passage looks run-down, filthy even. On closer inspection one I see that it’s filled with a battery of enigmatic street-art and murals.

It’s curious, a bit eerys even. The wall reads like modern-day hieroglyphics.

A steep descension underneath several buildings.

The altitude drop is more curious–it reveals its age. In fact, Passage du Pont aux Biches is a remaining portal between medieval and modern Paris. It served as Rue du Pont Aux Biches, which led to the castle walls.

It dates back to 1550. The road below is stone-laden and narrow, and up above you have a modern road meant for thoroughfare.

As for the spectrum of colors at night, I haven’t found out the reason.

Not yet.

Tuesday 26 January

Chaque Detail Compte: The Bowtie’s Guide to a Weekend in Palermo

Palermo is a clash–a battleground of sorts where class, lifestyle and cultural identity impose on one another everyday. For me, it’s an enigma.

Sicilians are the warmest people you’ll meet, but then again, they have a legacy of tensions with North Africa, of racism and xenophobia. Palermo has a wealth of Baroque architecture, but their definitive style is Arab-Norman architecture, and now, a burgeoning street art scene. They embrace the slow-cooking movement, but have legendary street food. They are equal parts finger-snapping street vendors, as languid, sunshine dwellers.

700k reside in the capitol of Sicily, the largest city on the largest island in the Mediterranean.

Palermo’s landscape is so stark and vivid, one can’t compare it to ‘postcard’ Italy–Rome, Venice, or the ever trending Florence. Personally, I believe that these destinations verify the beauty we know exists in Italy; but in Sicily, something lies unknown, undiscovered.

The city has a rough reputation. Palermo of today seems to be falling to pieces. But in all honesty, they don’t seem too broken up about it.


Despite the reputation, you step off the plane onto the tarmac.

The first trick; how does one get to the city?

You have 3 options; a shared taxi (8€), a ticket from the bus company Prestia e Comandè (6€), or a ride on the brand new Metro station (6€).

A sweeping countryside with red, mountainous terrain out one window and a choppy sea outside the other, eventually your ride will reach the urban fringe.

Both commutes drop you near to the central walking street, Via Maqueda.

20h00 Dinner – Bisso Bistro

Via Maqueda, 172A, 90134 Palermo PA, Italy

Drop your bags at your AirBnb and head straight to this place. Sumptuous, yet inexpensive, Bisso Bistro looks like something your favorite joint in Brooklyn is trying to replicate. Exposed ceilings, beams, funky chandeliers, chatty intellectuals, a bartender with a moustache who speaks English with a thick accent; they’re all here.

There’s probably a wait-list. Tutto Bene. It’s all good. Drink a 2€ glass of Sicilian wine on the street corner and sink into the surroundings. Then, prepare for an excellent introduction to Sicilian food.

I have the theory ☝🏽that Sicilian food is the original fusion cuisine.

No, really. It starts from 2 distinct origins, Italy (duh), and North Africa. And when you surround yourself with the agricultural diversity that’s available in Sicily, you get one of the more complex culinary traditions in the world.
🧀🍕🍝The Italian base lends pastas, pizza, tomatoes, garlic, cheese, etc.
🍚🍆🍊Northern Africa brings oranges, mint, saffron, rice, semolina, tuna, aubergine.
🦑🐙Geography lends terre et mer, calamari, octopus, olives, capers, dates, pistachios.

It’d be wrong to restrict Sicilian food to ‘Italian.’

Drinks – Bonter Bar

Across from Teatro Massimo (we’ll stop here later), down the dark, narrow alley Via Orologio, young Sicilians and Erasmus gather at night.

Bonter Bar is the best on the street. This cocktail bar houses a cast of stuck-in-the-30’s hipsters with large suspenders, pinstripe trousers and hand-knit shirts. But hey, with cocktails, they don’t play around.

They use high quality products, have a good vibe, and were also friendly enough to introduce me to the Italian jewel, Madame And Monsieur Gin from the Jerry Thomas Project. A lifelong friendship was forged.


10h00 – 11h00

Via Maqueda

Everything is at your disposal on this lovely, yet often hectic road. In the morning, however, it shows its calm side. Grab an espresso, cornets, and a table on a sunny terrace. Or check a couple of things off your list.

San Guiseppe dei Teatini (Baroque)

These landmarks are within a dozen steps from one another.

Fontana Pretoria & Santa Caterina Cathedral

11h00 – 12h00

Teatro Massimo

Al Pacino, Mr. Corleone, took his last seat here in Godfather 3. The theatre, 3rd Largest in Europe is well-kept, and renowned for its stellar acoustics. Its unique round structure should be worth the visit to Palermo by itself. 8€ for a 30-min tour of this spectacle.

Teatro Politeama

While Massimo was known as the theatre for the Sicilian bourgeois, the other, Politeama was for the Sicilian middle class. I toured Politeama, and while still very beautiful, it needs refurbishing. Palermo doesn’t have a plan to make this happen any time soon, but it’s still worth a visit.

12h00 – 14h30
Castellamare & Kalsa

Breezy neighbourhoods by the water stand still as postcards. Small, winding roads with weathered buildings and fresh-swept streets. Balconies reach like an outstretched hand, ushering you through these visually stunning quarters.

Terraces, Piazzas, and Bistros–it’s the Sicilian version of diners, drive-ins and dives. Stop for grilled octopus, fresh calamari and a glass of white wine, or indulge with fat slices of Focaccia, while posting up on the corner facing some ancient fountain.

Afterwards, I recommend a good amount of wandering.

Gagini Social Restaurant – 👨🏻‍🎨🍤An elegant Sicilian, slow-food restaurant with stone interior, and large contemporary paintings.

Restorante Quattro Mani -🍝🍋A modern Sicilian restaurant sourced by organic, sustainable and almost exclusively local traders.

13h30 -15h30


Flies buzz in summer heat; a motorbike leaves white pamphlets floating in its wake. An emptied Coca-Cola bottle lies strewn to the side of a black, empty alleyway.

This neighbourhood, a bit inland from the historical center of Palermo, hosts as a plethoric number of passageways, hidden landmarks, and the sprawling Ballaro market.

Turn the corner to yammering locals, and colors, vibrant colors. Green celery stalks, ruby tomatoes, and pink filets of swordfish. Fresh and local produce, seafood and street food, Ballaro Market is a reflection of the lush culture in Palermo.

Other Places of Interest:

Torri di San Nicolo di Bari – A tower open to the public with a view of the city.

Torre Dei Federic – Bed and Breakfast in a medieval building with Norman facade and baroque interior.

MoltiVolti -🍲🎨Coworking space/ colorful restaurant, ideal if you need to stop for a snack and wifi.

15h30 – 17h30

Palazzo dei Normanni

The pearl of Arab-Norman architecture, the Norman Palace. If you visit one thing in Palermo, this should be it.

The zenith of Palermo: origins tell that this area was initially a fortress during the Roman Empire. In the 9th century, North Africa invaded and conquered the Sicilian region. They prospered over a period of 200+ years in Sicily, and are believed to have begun the construction of this building. Then, the Normans arrived.

This gorgeous palace is actually a collaboration. The Normans hired Arabs to accomplish textile work to transform the fortified area into an ornate palace for the kings of Sicily.

The vivid golds and light blues from the North African region while the characters are painted in a Norman style.

Now, it also holds congress.

Nello Musumesci serves a five-year term as the President of Sicily, which is considered a region of Italy and has the power to establish its own laws.

18h00- 20h00 Apero

Mazzini 30 Taverna
A high end cocktail bar with elegant decor and an outside area. Sicilian charcuterie plates, among other delicious tapas.

Hic! La Folie Du Vin
Another option nearby with planchas accompanied by Sicilian wines instead of cocktails. A lively crowd in a small establishment.

Dinner – Frida

There is a pizzeria in Palermo that rivals any pie that I’ve had before, and its name is Frida.

Specializing in Roman and Neopolitan style pizza, this pizzeria leavens bread for 48 hours before using it. I have no idea what that does, but the pizza is excellent.

The secret is to forego the other two styles and order a Quadro, folded corners and stuffed crust. I’d heard of this only in legend.

Also; the place also seems to be a LGBTQ hub of Palermo. So, that’s cool.



7h00 Palermo Central

What? You didn’t know you were going to get up so early? My bad. But trust me, it’s worth it.

Cefalu is a beautiful, picturesque town of stone buildings, steep terrain, and radiant waters. Spend the day here. Yes, the entire day.

Lay your towel on the sand and watch the waves roll, gregarious Sicilians surround you, and seagulls bounce upon the current. Open up that book you haven’t touched since the flight.

The beach is entirely unpretentious, one of my favorite things about Sicily. I’ve never felt classed out of a place. I never received that condescending glance from an old rich lady, or a guy who feels like he deserves priority.

13h00 Antica Foccaceria

Mouthwatering slices of focaccia, stuffed calzones, proscuitto sandwiches, this place is perfect for a brown bag lunch, either by the ocean or on an open piazza. It’s the embodiment of the Sicilian dream.

Also, the eggplant pomodoro was heavenly.

14h00 Cefalu Cathedral

A 10th century Cathedral, Norman architecture, very well-maintained and beautiful.

I’d recommend heading back before it gets too late. Grab a coffee or an Apero back in Palermo before you catch the bus to the Airport. Make sure to allow plenty of time–my commute was easy, but I’ve read horror stories about late buses and a slow airport. Tutto Bene. Enjoy yourself, and leave a comment if you enjoyed your stay.


All photos are originals.

Caché! The Secret and Wonderful Oddities of Paris: La Cité de Trévise

It’s a breezy, mid-spring Wednesday in Paris, the ninth Arrondissement. A fluffy white Samoyed pops out of a narrow road closely tailed by his athleisure fitted owner.

I stumble upon a moment of peace; a sudden gust of wind flows through the Sycamore trees. They encircle a small, neoclassical fountain. I approach. Pigeons bounce at the foot. Three mythic nymphs, holding hands, share an austere glare across the courtyard.

They stand guard over the Cité de Trévise, over the welfare of an elite who once lived in this quarter, when the quarter was gated, and the king still ruled. This was the final decade of a monarchy. 1840. 8 years later, after the outbreak of revolution, King Louis Phillipe fled into exile.

I continue my day, moved by the magic that lies in this city. The location is linked below.

Wednesday 24 April


2.2 The Blue Notes – Le HasBeen

January 4th

Le HasBeen–22h30

We turn off the canal,

And pass the intersection of Rue Bichat and Rue Alibert–Le Petit Cambodge on the SouthEast corner, the hospital on the North–there are flowers, candles, pictures from loved ones in memoriam of the 2015 shootings.

Soap suds, draining water; circa 2015 I worked as a bar-back for an indie movie theatre in Seattle. I was scrounging, saving for a two-month trip to Paris. My phone blinks with a message. It’s my gf. She’s trapped in a bar in Montparnasse, desperate, waiting for news.

3 years later, we’re together, standing on the corner where it happened.

We continue into the night.

Two slight lefts along a wide Boulevard that scales the hospital. The bar rests on a corner, the HasBeen.

An L-Shaped bar. High-tables near the front, full, but not crowded. The bar at the heel. 2 bartenders.

We salvage a low, leather loveseat at the far side. Squeezing three. I sit on the armrest to abate my oncoming fatigue.

The drink menu consists of ‘house’ cocktails. Standard drinks with an ingredient thrown in, basil, honey, etc., to mask low-grade alcohol with a dulcifier.

I’ll take a Moscow Mule. It’s been a while hasn’t it?Crisp, sure, sugary too, but it’s not bad for the price.

Surveying the room; it’s not a dive bar in the colloquial sense. Less grunge, more catwalk.

A large group of Parisians occupy a 12-person table. Black turtle-necks. Colourful air max 95’s. Friends from a high-ranked university, meeting for their bi-weekly drink and dance where they find themselves smoking cigarettes outside of a small boite de nuit at 3am before pairing up for the night.

Small squadrons of 3 or 4 separate and hover around the bar to converse with the barmen.

My focus shifts back to the loveseat.

The girls gang up on the Londoner. He’s a talker, but he’s younger. And they’re old friends. He doesn’t stand a chance against their prying, their frank questions with hidden motives.

I motion to get another drink.

At the bar,

Je voudrais un Negroni svp. (I’d like a Negroni please.)

A balding 50-something year old with a stubbled beard camps at the pine. In a heavy French accent, he asks,

Where are you from?

American. But I live here.

Ah oui, and you’ve been here for how long?

Depuis 6 mois. (For 6 months)

6 months,

Has it really been that long? What do I have to show for that time? A couple of blog entries and a certificate for A-2 French. Restaurants that I frequent. A small group of (potential) friends from ecole, whom I’ve only shared beers with. I think a lot about whether this was a good move for me. This move to Pairs. Whether I take it for granted, after all, it’s the immovable feast. To live in Paris. To understand Paris. It’s priceless.

6 months, has it really been that long!?

The barmen returns to the pine.

A rock’s glass with ruby red liquid, and on top, curved like a capsized canoe, drifts an orange peel.

Bon soiree (Have a good night).

The drink is bittersweet. When I finish, we decide to move.



2.1 The Blue Notes – La Patache

January 4th

La Patache 21h00

Two weeks later. The Gilets Jaune have given us all a break over the holidays. Paris is calm, for the moment.

We traverse the river once again, to La Patache, the same bar that we’ve been several times already. The long, narrow dive is packed. Every seat occupied. The table runner with the cap and the moustache sees us, winks: he’s going to hook us up.

Wait at the bar.

Three beers and a nice glass of white wine.

One of our friends, a Londoner, has given up beer for white wine. Every time he orders; he says, thick as molasses accent, I’ll have a nice glass of white wine.

It’s hilarious really.

We’re seated.

Planche Mixte in the mix. One of my favourites in the city. A Truffle Gruyere. It melts in your mouth. Nothing more delightful. House-made Paté too. Cornichons. A plate for 4–17 Euros.

Elbow to elbow tonight, service is slow.

Parisiennes, elegant women of lore brush passed me. Sometimes they step on my feet. I’m too large for my chair. Either way, I glance upwards.

I notice regulars. We’re regulars now, so we can spot other regulars. Like a sixth sense. A one-sided admiration. They’re much cooler looking than us. A Lennon shades guy with long black hair, another with a blonde buzz, a flowing black trench, and a neck tattoo. A well-groomed black dude with a designer button down and a cutting smile. Ragtag artistic bedfellows surround them.

The Parisian landscape is immersive yet alienating. Within reach, I could tap 15 people on the shoulder, but that wouldn’t be polite,
would it?

La Patache, at times, feels like a dystopian dive bar where all people must meet a certain threshold to enter. If your trench isn’t long or grey enough and your nose isn’t distinguished enough, if your parole isn’t witty enough, you must vacate your table.

A cat perches above, on the high shelf, sleeping. Yawning. Opening its eyes slightly and closing them. Sleeping again.

Who cares what us humans do, or think, or see, or feel, or wear, or drink to try and separate ourselves from the jungle. To you, we’re all. well. Illiterate.

Another beer and we finish the Planche mixte. The boys are overwhelmed tonight, so we’ll cut it short. Head somewhere else.

It’s rude to scarf and leave, so I nod my gf to put in a nice word for us. They’ll remember we were there, amongst the others, in the wildlife.



Chaque Détail Compte: The Bowtie’s Guide to a Weekend in Marseille

Marseille is one of those cities that make you dream—the Vieux Port, the Mediterranean, the lifestyle. It has all the qualities of paradise.

A normal afternoon consists of a large terrace, a highball of chalk-yellow Pastis, a good book, salt water, sunshine, and maybe, the occasional rabble of passing tourists. C’est la base.

But trouble swam through paradise. Marseille earned a sorry reputation as maybe the only Mediterranean city with a fat red ❌. Do not visit. An Immigration crisis, drug trafficking, and entanglement with the mafia created a melange more potent and lethal than your strongest Bouillabaisse. Each hit the city hard. Marseille and shootings are almost like, well, the U.S. and shootings.

The city fell into a state, which up until a few years ago, seemed unlikely to restore. Mars, they dub it up north.

Word around Paris now is that Mars is–out of this world 🤟🏾.

Good friends made the move southward last year, so we paid them a visit to verify this rumour.

A 3-and-a-50-cent-piece ride from Paris; our train pulls in to Gare St. Charles at 22h30.

The climate strikes first. Stark cold, and barren like a desert night.

Street lamps tacked high on buildings, they’re dim-lit, filtering down in an eery resonance. Boulevard d’Athenes is thick with fast food, mini-marts and bloated trash cans. Tram tracks slice through the gaping Boulevard, which for a Friday night, is lifeless.

The city changes.

From one block to the next, a brusque development, and by the time we arrive at our friend’s apartment on the impressive Boulevard de la Republique, the city resembles, what I know as France.


11h00 – 13h00

Le Panier

Colourful pots filled with dangling plants embellish windows. Striking alleyways, graffiti covers the facades of vibrant orange and yellow apartments. This is Le Panier–the most charming and picturesque quarter of Marseille. Located in the 2nd Arrondissement, (yes, Marseille also has them) it’s one of the cities oldest neighbourhoods.

After a winding flight of stairs that scales the Intercontinental Hotel grounds, we arrive at Place des Moulins, a small empty courtyard that serves as the gateway to the rest of Le Panier.

Translated into English, the basket is a rather lame name for an iconic quarter. The origins come from the 17th-century Inn Les Logis du Panier, which used to house beggars and homeless.

Located between the Vieux Port and a seaside promenade that hosts Cathedral La Major and MUCEM (two interesting, yet time-consuming experiences), Le Panier is known for its cafe’s, cantines and thrift shopping–in the original sense–antiques, not 90s streetwear. This area is perfect for a Saturday lunch and stroll.

@bardes13coins, 🥙a standard sit-down lunch with locals and aioli on a sunny terrace. @takosan🍜Japanese street cantine, specialising in Kansai regional Takoyaki. @ComptoirOHuiles 🥒a small olive oil dealer who serves superb local fair.


Les Docks

After Le Panier we walked along the water until we reached this massive brick and stone structure.

Built in 1856, Les Dockes serve as the storage space of the city for boat and marine equipment. At this point Le Vieux Port served as leisure marina, and trading had shifted to this area. It was the golden age for Marseille. The city had developed into an important trading port in the world.

In 2001, they renovated this historically impressive structure into an aesthetically pleasing one, and probably the closest thing that this city has to ‘posh.’ It’s a hybrid of office space, a covered market, and a food court. Think Chelsea Market. Only, it was near empty.


Notre Dame de la Garde

Perched at the apex of the Marseille is the Bonne Mere, Notre Dame de la Garde. Over 800 years old, constructed in a style not-at-all French, this immaculate and striking cathedral is another reason why Marseille seems bizarre in contrast to the rest of France. It’s also a mandatory visit.

If not for the Byzantine textiles, which I’m sure we all know and love, there is an Instagrammable panorama of the city.

You can get there on the 60 bus, scaling the hill on foot (approx. 15 min), or what I recommend, taking a Lime scooter.


7th Arrondissement

A hilly, picturesque neighbourhood that connects the Bonne Mere to our next point of interest, Vallon des Auffes. I found this neighbourhood particularly stunning.

Clothes dry on high-wire. Small chemins (alleys) suddenly open onto cliffside vistas. No traffic, in fact, the alleys are unoccupied except the occasional lone cat traversing the road and climbing the fence of a house.


Vallon Des Auffes

Les Vallon Des Auffes is a small picturesque viaduct, which used to be a common port for fisherman dating back to the 16th century. Now, it serves pretty much the same purpose, after a reconstruction in the ’60s to repair from its destruction during WW2.

A petit semi-circle of white fishing boats dipped in a rippled blue. The shadows of the viaduct and picturesque buildings distort over time, swallowing it in darkness. Twilight is the hour to view this stunning marina.

Like the rest of Marseille, the view is breathtaking, but lasts only a moment, before it’s taken away by loud traffic or a group of thugs kicking around.

@ChezFonfon, an upscale Bouillabaisse restaurant, known as one of the best in the city. Michelin-starred @L’Epuisette or @TABI are haute-cuisine at its finest.


La Corniche

Ah La Corniche, a lifestyle like none other. The Corniche is the winding road that leads along the Mediterranean coast. The goal is to get here while it’s HH, and finish a couple drinks and a planche before the sun sets.

In the summer La Corniche wild; in the winter it’s relaxing. If you’ve been trekking around, the promenade is the best place to stop and soak in the rest of the sunshine.

Along the Corniche there are several stops of interest like the sun-filled park 🌴, @parcvalmer, and the luxury villa 🏯@villagaby the public baths 🏖@plageduprophete.

Cours Julien

The freaks come out at night!

Ascend a long, dolled up staircase, weaving past potential crowds of smokers to reach Cours Ju. Around an asymmetric, man-made pond, terraces and bars convene to create this beloved district for partying.

Cours Ju is just the hippety-dippest place for a fete in all of France, they say! But mannnn, the weekend I went, it was dead. And being dead in Marseille means sketchville. I’ll have to give it a one-time pass.

That night, we ate at @LaCantinetta, an Italian restaurant on the short-list of several blogs and guides, however, the food doesn’t touch anything from the Big Mamma group.

My short-list for dinner:

@LeCoursenVert 🥗Recommended by le Bonbon for Veggies

@ElPicoteo 🌶 Spanish style

@L’Oléas 🍤Provincial with a nightly menu.

6th Arrondissement

If you’re not up for all that Coursju-ness, I strongly recommend Palais de Justice area for cocktails.

@Copperbay, ⚓️🍸one of my favorites! This nautical themed, lux-cocktail den opened a Marseille silo.

@Gaspard🍹🥘Thoughtful tapas paired with cocktails

@CarryNation– 🤫🗝 Speakeasy style




The proof is at the port, Marseille is the oldest surviving city in France.

800 B.C. founded by the Phocaea Greeks, a small civilisation from modern-day western Turkey, who were the pioneers of Greek naval exploration. They were the first Greeks documented to reach the kingdom of Spain in that epoch–and they were the Settlers of Massalia or Marseille.

They did the hard work, so you wouldn’t have to. The easiest move on a Sunday morning is the port. Sunny terraces, mediocre coffee, and tourists. Take a book. If you get bored of reading, there’s a market where local items are sold (perfect for gifts).

Try a Navette, an oddly shaped sweet-biscuit from the region.

Then, drop what you’re doing and head to @LaBoiteàPanisse for another regional staple, the Panisse. This chickpea/fish fritter is remarkable. There’s a reason Alice Waters named her institution Chez Panisse. And if the rest of the United States wises up, it’s an optimal replacement for the sweet potato fry.

Frankly, Sundays in France are awkward. Everything is closed because of the church, or ‘family time’ yet you walk outside and everyone’s waddling around like they’re searching for something to do. In Paris, the neighbourhood is waiting in line at the one Boulangerie that’s open. You’ll see people curb on benches and crack a beer at 11h30 for fear of boredom.


Les Calanques

Cliffs and blue waters that rival Greece or the Caribbean.

Marseille has the fortune of having a national park in their backyard. Designated as such in 2012, Les Calanques is a collection of limestone precipices with green vegetation sprouting directly from the stone.

Trekkers and small boats convene during the day and disperse at night.

It’s worth every second of the perilous terrain that you take to get there. We went for 2-hours, and I consider it a highlight.

There are dozens of tour offices who will get you there and back within the day, but c’mon, live a little, explore for yourself.


For late trains: Kick around Opera. It’s close enough to Gare St. Charles.

Pretty much everything will be closed, except a Beer House called @LesBerthom, where you can get a good (and surprisingly local) beer and some finger food for a real unproductive and out of it return to wherever. Other options include fast food and tourist traps…but you’ve avoided them so far, so why start now?


All photos are originals

1.5 The Blue Notes–Panic Room

December 16th

Panic Room—02h00

You still open?

Of course.

Doors down lies a packed bar. It’s where I wanted to go. Before we were sidetracked by L’Etincelle.

A caricatured overweight, black doorman hassles us.

He reels us in after a drawn out moment. Loud music. Loud people. Dirty, dark bar. Leftovers from all the other bars. 3 lagers. I find a place to sit on a dirty booth. Arcade lights from old 8-bit machines tinge the darkness.

In the corner, stairs lead downard.

A cave. Dotted rainbow lights undulate up and down the length of the ceiling. Electro music. Decent crowd, crowded at least, mostly jock boys and glam girls, guys who still flaunt their positions and wear fitted dress shirts, girls who sport heels, gold jewellery and cleavage. And the worst: Anglosaxons.

After a moment I notice mirrors on the far wall. The room is smaller than I thought.

A tall guy with a goofy haircut starts talking to us. He’s from the middle of France, works for Airbus in Germany. He talks like he’s explaining.

‘There are some girls from New York over there and you might be happy meeting them, as you are also from New York.’

Whatever’s clever.

He brings them over. They’re from Massachusetts. But they’ve been to New York. 🤦🏽‍♂️Classic mixup.

Genuinely, they seem nice. ‘Just in town for the weekend,’ they say. Like my friend.

She says that she doesn’t know him at all. Weird, he introduced them like old friends. Now he lurks over in the corner, not speaking, just watching, drinking. Either a creep, or he’s just rolling the dice. Hoping something happens.

My girlfriend has disappeared. Annoyed, perhaps. I excuse myself.

She’s in the middle of the dance floor. I wade over to her. In a sea of drunk faces. I kiss her. We’re ok. It’s time to leave. My friend joins us. Says he couldn’t keep the conversation up. We ascend the stairs. What a shit show. 

One more stop. The Photo Booth. We snap drunken, goofy photos. Forever remembering a night at this shitty little after hours club.

Out the door, up Rue Amelot. A large sculpture of a man riding a horse rests illuminated atop Oberkampf circus. Then, to République.

Marianne is bathed in Indigo, Red, and moments later, White, like an on duty policeman. But her base is tagged. It’s defiled, littered with rubbish. This is still the beginning of the story regarding the Gilets Jaune.


1.4 The Blue Notes – L’Etincelle

December 16th


On Boulevard Beaumarchais, the rain has let up. A mob of drunk French twenty-somethings storm passed us. One member kicks the steel shutters of a shop. Mocking the Gilets Jaunes. Another lets out a blasé puff of cigarette smoke.

We continue North.

The name changes: Boulevard des Filles du Calvaire. We turn on a narrow side street, Rue Amelot.

People spill into the street.

An ordinary Bar-Tabac.

Why not?
We enter. Yeah, it’s an ordinary bar-tabac. Except it kinda isn’t. There’s a cigarette stand in the front, lottery tickets in the corner. Neon lights illuminate the ceiling like a casino in Vegas. Dance party in the back of the bar.

3 demi-pints: <8€ : WTF.

An extraordinary amount of Italians are present. We discover Alberto, an Italian architect, is having a going away party. We weave through the crowd of dashing, objectively good-looking Italians. My girlfriend wishes him a happy birthday, as do I. He engages her in conversation.

I turn and ask the barman if he sells single cigarettes. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, stupid question. We ask for beer instead. He hands us two pints and a single cigarette–on the house.

What a guy.

Outside, people cluster. An Italian woman with curly, raven’s black hair, blue eyes, and a post-punk style gazes my way. She’s talking to a bohemian drunkard. He notices, and rambles towards us. She leaves, and joins a different conversation.

The drunk man has a large tome in his hand. Opens to pictures of pastoral France. Clumsy, mumbling, he loves his book, he says. A photo of a stone house surrounded by long blades of grass. He’s fallen in love with an Italian woman and wants to buy this house for her. He motions to the aforementioned woman.

My girlfriend joins the conversation.

‘Alberto has quite the reputation at this bar,’ she pokes. He’s what university folks call a stud. She jests about his vibrant black hair. No holes, no receding hairline, just a hairy Italian with good genes.

A group next to us talks about building a building. They’re all architects. They’re also all wasted.

A bumbling intellectual walks up to us. He has a broad nose, tanned skin and long salt and pepper hair.

‘My umbrella, it’s my prized possession,’ he starts. ‘It gives me a look of sophistication and it protects me from rain.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ my friend tells him.

He tells us that my friend is a fine and sensible man, but could use some refinement. An archetypally French view.

We find that the strange intellectual is from Corsica.

My girlfriend jokes that when his glasses are placed atop his head, holding his hair back, he looks like a celebrity philosopher. We all laugh.

He responds that my friend is sensible, but my girlfriend is too brutal. He continues that women need sensibility as well, because men are utter victims to their ferocity.

This upsets my girlfriend, and she leaves for the bathroom. We enter the bar with this Corsican. He buys us beers. Bingo.

For fun, my friend and I fill out French lotto tickets, and slide them in the ballot. The bar gives a last call, and we move our belongings near the door.

Grand farewells. Alberto is lost in a sea of beautiful black-haired, Italian youth.

I look around. I hear, ‘Alex!’ It’s my girlfriend.

The philosopher has cornered my girlfriend, talking to her in that uncomfortably close manner, which some men have the bad habit of doing.

I skate towards them. I force him to step back, using my arm. He acts with naivety, stunned by my action and leaves. I apologise to her. I should’ve been there sooner.

We grab our coats,

soured by that confrontation,

and part.


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