On the road...

Marseille is the second largest city in France; it is also the second largest seaport in Europe. Due to its steep streets, it is called the French San Francisco.

The location of the city, close to a bay and at the foot of a mountain is very picturesque.
One notices immediately not only a large number of small, Arab businesses but also theaters.

The so called old town, near the yacht harbor, is simply charming with its numerous local boutiques offering local olive oil and the famous Marseilles soap.
Not so charming were the hotel, the weather and the trash beloved by the local wind, Mistral and Sirocco. Also the dog turds were on every sidewalk, and that would be unacceptable in Germany.

The abovementioned hotel, as somebody wrote on the wallpaper in the room, ‘is a nightmare’. Well… for European standards it hardly classifies as a hotel, the word ‘slum’ would be much more appropriate (see the photos).

But this is precisely how the cheap hotels in the Arab or Asian countries look like. As the owner of this property was an Arab as old as the furniture in it, no wonder that the hotel was an image of desolation.
Nevertheless, this place had two indisputable advantages: it was in the strict center and cost only 12 € per night. Given French pricing, that was nearly for free.

Anyway, for somebody who usually sleeps in a tent, these conditions are comfortable enough. That there’s some bug crawling here and there… it being dirty and unwelcoming really has no significance whatsoever. I would even say that, personally I prefer these little hotels to more expensive and cleaner hostels. A bug bothers me less than an American accent that wakes me up in the middle of the night, slamming doors and loud disputes.
Here I have a cell just for myself and some peace and quite.

Of course, if one has some extra cash, one can stay for around 70 € in a nice little hotel located on the 3rd floor of a residential unit called Le Corbusier.
This residence was erected in the years 1946-1952 and according to the designer’s idea, it was supposed to be a self-contained facility for the so-called proletariat. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. The building is nowadays a little bit neglected and does not enjoy a special interest, but as an architectural curiosity, it’s worth visiting.

Unfortunately, the French Indian summer finished with Amma's departure
to Barcelona. Saturday, November 5th was the culmination. It poured all day long. I got to Arles by bus, completely drenched. Paying as little as 12 € per night was out of the question as the hostel for so-called backpackers charged 25 € per night. I managed to get a bargain: 30 € instead of 40 for a room in a rather pleasant, warm and clean hotel called ‘De poste’.

For me Arles is a real Provencal pearl of Roman origin. The old town is very pleasant. The Ancient theater, the coliseum, the thermal baths... apart from excellent roads and bridges, the Romans built those public venues everywhere, to the delight of the crowds.

It seems that, every epoch or civilization delights in a kind of megalomania and creates either huge theaters, massive shopping malls or churches that in some cases (Warsaw Temple of Providence or the Sagrada Familia in Spain) are still under construction.

Arles is not just about Roman relics and the scent of lavender in the pots. The city is also known because of van Gogh.
The painter lived here between 1888 and 1889, and although he considered the city exotic and disgusting, the southern sun and colors of Provence captivated him. Here the artist fully developed his unique, recognizable style, and many of his works from this period ('The Night Café ' or ‘Sunflowers’) are considered his greatest achievements.

Unfortunately, along with van Gogh’s artistic craftsmanship deteriorated his mental state. In Arles, he cut off a piece of his ear, after numerous arguments with Gauguin. Shortly afterwards he was locked in a mental institution. A year later the artist committed suicide.

In Arles and its vicinity there are many places connected to van Gogh. One of them is the mental institution where he was placed, another a famous raised bridge (see photos).
Some tourists look very silly, especially Asians. They run out of their buses all excited and get caught up by making funny poses for their photos and don’t contemplate what they actually see.

Not so long ago Alisa from Ukraine shared her reflection with me: ‘You know what? - she said - I was in Louvre. The biggest crowd was of course in front of the Mona Lisa. And you know what hit me? Nobody was actually looking at the painting, everybody was taking a picture of it!’

Lion didn’t bring me to my knees. In front of a cathedral, I met an Argentinean who studies in Lyon. He was so polite, as to show me some interesting places and recommend a hostel. Mariano was sympathetic, but had one annoying flaw, he would not let any pretty girl go by without first having a chat with her.
The hostel he recommended turned out to have decent prices (for French standards), was quite sympathetic and I got a room with a beautiful view of Lyon.

The weather wasn’t favorable and the bike problem was still unsolved. I decided therefore to get to Avignon by train, but instead of getting on the TER for which I paid 31€, I got on board of a delayed TGV, which doesn’t allow bicycle transportation. A small problem arouse...

Avignon is congenial, old, partly resembling Jerusalem. I do not know whether it’s because of the surrounding walls, yellow shade of the stones of the building facades, or maybe coz of a large Muslim 'minority'. Anyhow, at times I felt as if in Israel.

Besides, I don’t understand what's so special about this famous bridge, except that it spans only half of the Rhône River?

Sometimes people have very strange fantasies. They come up with a balcony in Verona, or a leaning tower and a dozen of legends about it. In Avignon, it happened to be a bridge.

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Later on I stopped a gentleman on a bike and asked about the bike trail towards Lyon, it was already getting dark. Mr. Bernard spontaneously invited me to his house, where I got my own, cozy room and his wife Brigitte looked after me with almost motherly care. It was very nice.

Sometimes there’s something Middle Eastern about the places I pass through: half-neglected houses, narrow streets, wooden shutters, all of it creating a pleasant atmosphere.

A friend asked me once how I communicate with the French, as their aversion to learning foreign languages ​​is legendary.
Indeed, the French speak little English. However, it’s not a problem.
Generally, I believe that with a bit of patience, good will, creativity, and a little bit of intelligence, one can communicate even with a monkey in the bush, especially if one has some bananas up one’s sleeve.

Of course, it would be wonderful if there would be only one language, one currency.
I know that what I write is in some circles unacceptable, but the national languages, are in my opinion simply obsolete, they divide instead of bringing together. 

Shopping mall guards were more vigilant then in Germany. Some of the Germans do complain about the Turkish people but I see that France has a bigger “issue”.

The African emigrants are often audacious. They walk around drunk and behave as if they just climbed down a tree. 

After a closer examination one sees that it is a self-inflicted situation, as it is nothing else than the result of France’s imperial ambitions.

And not only France had such ambitions.

Other developed countries, like the UK, are also facing a similar problem.

It’s a certain atonement for the years of their colonial abuse.