Is it because of the ‘France’s second biggest city’ competition between Marseille and Lyon, and the fact that I lived in Lyon six months before moving to the south? Or is it because my classmates at Lyon’s Alliance Française were much more friendlier than those of Marseille’s? Is it caused by normal-looking men in expensive shoes along the streets of Marseille, asking whether I’d go out with them, then calling me mefiante (suspicious) for trying to chuck my bag at them and run away upon having my arm grabbed? Is it because I always meet men who exude the ‘I-am-a-crazy-man-who-happens-to-look-normal’ aura?
Answer : all of the above.
I shall tell you why I went to Marseille in the first place, and then I’ll tell you about the crazy man I encountered while lost in the Arab quarter.
Why I went to Marseille in the first place.
Ca y est. It was a Tuesday when Monsieur N called me in for an interview for Friday at 5 pm. Taking into consideration my history of fucking up only the most important situations, I carefully planned every detail, from the bus ride I’d have to take, down to my outfit.
I swear I had everything planned. I did a better job than my planning engineer husband.
Friday afternoon, the temperature rose to 31°. Wanting to look fresh, professional, and presentable (since I had to make 3 bus trips just to get there and I didn’t exactly know Marseille that well), I put on an old shirt and stuffed my interview shirt in my bag, planning to change once I got there.
So, all smug with all my brilliant ideas, I went downtown and took the bus to Marseille.
‘I am pure genius’, I thought to myself, arriving in Marseille 2 hours before my interview. ‘I will now change into professional shirt, find the building, and sit in a café somewhere till 5 pm, then Monsieur N will interview me and beg me to work for his company, and I’ll tell him, very coolly, that I accept the offer. Hurrah!’
Lost in my dream of job domination, I almost felt like laughing out loud. (I think I even did, a bit, because the woman walking beside me moved away cautiously.)
Forking over .30 cents to use a bathroom (nothing is free in Europe : not even a public bathroom with piss all over the floor), I reached into my bag for my shirt.
Which, of course, was not in my bag. It was on my bed, probably smoking cigarettes and watching videos, back in Aix en Provence.
Looking down at the ugly stained old pambahay shirt I was wearing, I realised sadly that with this shirt I wouldn’t even get a total of one euro in change if I did backflips and ate fire as a street performer, much less a job.
But no biggie, right, since I was two — no, an hour and a half early for my interview. This was a big city, so all I had to do was find a nice, presentable shirt in a shop somewhere.
Note : all the shops in Marseille have something against simple yet elegant shirts.
Half an hour later, I was still walking all over the little streets of Marseille’s 1er arrondisement, until I found myself in the middle of the Arab quarter, where the only things for sale were Doc Martens and, surprisingly, garlic.
And then the realisation hit me : I didn’t know where I was anymore.
But no biggie again, right, because I could ask for directions, or buy a map, or ask a policeman.
Note : in Marseille’s 1er arrondissement, there are no maps for sale, nor policemen, nor a single person who knows how to get to Boulevard de la Liberté.
Desperate, I asked Stranger No. 51 where Blvd. de la Liberté was. He was a garlic vendor, and said that he didn’t know where it was, but wouldn’t I like to buy some garlic? I snarled into his face what I thought about his garlic and left, checking my watch. I only had 30 minutes to go till my interview.
You know the feeling you get whenever you recall the very first time you got lost? In a supermarket, perhaps, spending one minute too long in front of a toy robot, only to find that your mother wasn’t where you’d left her? Or maybe in a movie theatre in a crowd surging for the exit, only to find yourself holding the hand of a stranger, with your cousin (the idiot) laughing behind you?
I wanted to hit the garlic vendor, because I always feel like hitting someone when I get lost, but I hadn’t any time.
So I started looking for a metro station, because it’s a rule to always have maps in a metro station. No biggie.
*** Enter scene: normal-looking-crazy-man.
Normal-looking CrazyMan.
He was normal-looking, but believe me, he was c.r.a.z.y. After a few minutes, the guy walked up to me and asked, ‘You were looking for blvd. de la Liberté?’
‘Yeah,’ I sniffled, because I was a bit teary by now (I find it appropriate to cry during life-and-death situations.)
‘I can show you where it is, if you like?’
‘Ok.’ I stood where I was, thinking he would give me directions. He started to walk, then called after me, ‘Well, I’m walking to the place myself, follow me.’
I thought to myself : ‘I am 25 years old and following strangers in a strange city is something I shouldn’t be doing. Fuck this guy, I can find my own way.’
‘It’s here,’ he said, sensing my hesitation. ‘This is a main street right here.’
So I followed him, since it was a main street I remembered passing once or twice from my Alliance Française days, and if ever he tried something funny I could perfectly cry for help. No biggie.
Then he started to get weird. Like all men all over the world — starting out normal and ending up crazy.
‘So, I take it you’re not from here.’
Observative fucker. I grunted in reply, still walking quickly.
‘Thailand? Indonesia?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, and he probably still thinks I’m from Thailand and Indonesia, the fucker.
‘How do you find Marseille?’
One question I couldn’t resist answering. ‘It’s one big mess, and there aren’t any maps. I don’t like it, at all. So, where’s the street?’
‘Just a few more blocks. So, how do you like France?’
I didn’t answer him because I was busy checking out the street for policemen and metro stations.
Then he said, ‘If you were to stay in France, would you go out with me? I mean, I’m not too bad a chap, am I? I’m even helping you look for a street.’
I removed my cellphone, without any credits of course so I really wasn’t calling anyone but merely pretending to (FAMAS awardee, I am), and started to dial random numbers. ‘Thanks, but you know what, I think I’ll call my friend, who’s waiting for me at Blvd. de la Liberté, and just ask him to come get me here instead.’
‘I assure you, I’m not trying to hit on you or pull your leg or anything. I like Asians. I think Asians are a lovey race. I just want to know if you’d go out with me. I mean, I’m not too bad a chap, right?’ He was certainly boring with his mad-about-myself attitude.
Fifteen minutes till interview. Then I spotted a metro station just across the street. ‘There’s the metro. Well, thanks for your help. I think I’ll take the metro. I’m really late.’
‘No, really, it would be stupid to take the metro since it’s only around two blocks away. I’m not kidding. Asians are very suspicious. But you see, I just want to help you. You looked lost so I thought I’d help you. I tell you I’m not kidding.’
‘Bye!’ I said almost hysterically, starting towards the street.
Then Mr. Normal Looking grabbed my arm. Fiercely. I guessed he was going to :
a. Kidnap Me;
b. Chop Me Into Pieces;
c. Take Me As A Hostage Since the Philippine Government Always Gives In to Terrorists;
or
d. All of the Above.
So I did what any tough, brave, independent woman had to do. I shouted, ‘HEE-YAELLLP!’ like a pansy-ass at the top of my lungs. In English. (not very classy, but I was feeling very Bembol Roco-ish in my own Sa Mga Kuko ng Liwanag situation.) Me crying for help in my pambahay shirt and high heels. What a hoot.
Around 4 men started towards us, and the man ran away in the opposite directions like he had ants biting his sorry ass.
‘Are you OK?’ one man asked. By this time my French was not functioning, and I was almost bawling, and I had 5 minutes till my interview, and I still hadn’t found a shirt, and I was not going to get the job on account of my shirt, that is, if I ever got to Blvd. de la Liberté in time for the interview, and I was sure I wasn’t going to make it.
I ran to the metro station, found a map, sniffling like a goddamn idiot (I’m glad I’m used to being a goddamn idiot : I felt no shame), located the fucking place, and took the metro to where I was supposed to be.
The few minutes in the subway had not calmed me down, and I was resigned to the fact that I would be interviewed by a three piece suited businessman wearing my ugly pambahay shirt.
Then, the clouds parted, and there was a sound of a holy choir of angels singing ‘Ave Maria’, and a light pierced through a gap in the clouds and pointed towards a clothes shop, just next to the office building where I would be interviewed, that sold nice, presentable, classy interview shirts.
***End choir of angels music.
***
To summarize, I met up with Monsieur N, who went on with the interview without a clue of what I had had to endure to look smashing in my new shirt, and the meeting didn’t give me anything solid because I wasn’t mobile, meaning I didn’t drive my own vehicle and all that crap.
Then we shook hands, he said : ‘I’ll call you’. Like all the men all over the world — saying they’ll call, but don’t.
And I made a little sorrowful death march towards the place where Julien was supposed to pick me up.
I took pictures of statues at the TGV station to pass the time, and I also took pictures of Marseille, because I’d figured I’d never go back there. Ever. Again.
( When I think about how big the world is. It freaks me out, honestly, because I have the unfortunate gift of having no sense of direction. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten myself lost. This won’t be the last. And when I won’t know what to do the next time, what will happen to me and who will grab my arm and will I be able to save myself ? )
Now. Do you know the feeling you get whenever you recall the very first time you were found after being lost? Like turning around and seeing your mother in the supermarket (‘I was just here by the vegetables getting you some nice cauliflower. Do you want some cauliflower for dinner?’) Or your cousin telling you, ‘I was right behind you the whole time, you weren’t really lost, so don’t go pooping in your pants or anything’.
The best part of getting lost is being found.
