And here it is, Marseille part deux. So, where was I? Ah yes, I had broken the back of The Mountains de Les Calanques like a twig over my strapping, manly thigh. In other words, Saturday day-time was completely written off due to my inability to walk, or indeed to move at all. I lounged in the hostel courtyard, begging passers-by for mercy and margaritas, neither of which materialised.

But, much to the dismay of my limbs, evening rolled around, and I had promised a group of german au pairs that I would dance the dance of joy-shame for them once again. Preened, polished, and primed, I set off into the night to see if I couldn't add "pissed" to my alliterated madness.

Now, Marseille isn't shaped like a normal city. Most places that I've visited, are blobby circles, surrounding the chewy core, where all the good stuff is. This place just seems to have been splatted against the coast, so the extreme north is very, very much further from the extreme south than their east/west counterparts. Now guess were my hosts were in comparison to the place they wished to go out for the night. Oh yes.
Still, one of the girls had offered to pick me up from the centre, and since drinking at someone's house would be phenomenally cheaper than doing so at a bar, along I went. (Disclaimer for the Mother-Unit; I am not jumping into cars with any old strangers. These were three petit girls in their early 20's, and a single boy who, for reasons soon to be revealed, could only ever be a danger to his own credit card. You can stop hyperventilating now.)

Upon arrival, vodka was cracked open, and pre-party merriment began, which involved far too much Rihanna and quick clothe changes for my liking. Still, my glass kept miraculously refilling, whilst the unfortunately-situated vodka bottle (next to me) seemed to be evaporating at an extraordinary rate. Who knows. It must've been bunnies. Or maybe midgets...

The French nightlife starts really late, so by 11pm we were still at the house, I was well on my way to the fourth "P", and the others had zoomed right on past it. Our host, a tall, blonde, well-groomed Germanic creature named Oke, must have been in middle of his 14th costume change in the next room (I wish I could say it were a Halloween party we were headed to), when his friend Holly swayed up to my ear and delicately slurred that he did, in fact, think I was a hottie. She also timed it perfectly with the deafening silence between songs, and now I was awkwardly frying in the heat of three expectant gazes. Ah... Now my impromptu invite out made sense. But what could I say? That I make a point of never liking a boy who owns more shoes than books? That it would never work, what with his dedication to style in the face of my need for substance? That Bjork would materialise in a blizzard of ice shards and destroy me utterly if I ever kissed someone who (seriously) thought Iceland was part of Canada? That this whole thing was probably a prescription fault that his optician could fix with ease? What, exactly?

I settled, in the end, for a very English "Oh... that's nice". And blessed be, the music kicked back in and the boy in question returned before I could be subjected to any interrogation/water-boarding. Turns out that 15 is the charm, and we bundled into a taxi and journeyed to the south without further incident.

The club. Ah, the club. My first outside of sweet Paris, and my last in France. It was in the midst of some kind of birthday celebration, and it thought €20 was what we should pay for the privilege of an extortionately priced bar and songs indistinguishable from their predecessors. Mine and the girls eyes quickly regained their sparkle though, when the boy foolishly thought to show off and pay for all five of us, since he'd pushed them to come here, and he'd been paid that Friday. Sucker! It got us (me) another bottle of vodka and a table too, so disaster was adverted, and the rest of the night was a pleasant blur of dancing, and throwing different men at Oke until one of them stuck. Myself and the two ladies who could keep up rolled out at 6am and meandered back to the centre via the beach as the sun rose, 'twas most excellent. We bid each other farewell, and I popped into my room only long enough to grab my towel and trunks for a blissful Sunday spent napping at the beach.

An early night, and a day of going to see the obligatory sights that I'd neglected concluded my time in Marseille, and it was off to the grubby bus station for a nineteen-hour incarceration and a complete change of route. Why? Because I felt like it.

To Amsterdam! :)

Love and tacos and liver failure,

Pip