crossing

(The paragraphs that follow contain the first words inspired by last weekend's quick trip to Corsica. Four days were too few to do the island justice but too many to write something up in an afternoon without getting horribly lost and completely messed up. More will come, but it will take time. Let me for now emphasize an unusual aspect of the trip. I didn't fly.

This had nothing to do with my desire to save the planet or to pay homage to Paul Theroux. Instead, the Queen's Diamond Jubilee was used by all airlines as an excuse to price me out of tickets. I took the train instead. It's a journey of 760 miles to Marseille that Google estimates one can drive in about 13 hours. On the train, it took less than eight, including one to get to St. Pancras and check in and another one to transfer between stations in Paris. In Marseille, Flucha picked me up at the station and we went to the port. Off you go.)

Finding the boat in the far reaches of the Port of Marseille wasn't too difficult. The area had a name that was occasionally signposted and once inside Porte 4, there was a blue line on the tarmac that the gatekeeper told us to follow. A few minutes later, we stopped next to an enormous warehouse. Its doors had been pulled open, revealing the vastness of its interior. It stood abandoned and empty of economic function. Inside were four portable sanitation units and a soda pop vending machine. Right behind the warehouse, and visible in patches showing through pairs of doors, was the boat.

The boat was technically a ferry, a ship for the transport of passengers and vehicles, traveling on a scheduled route between two and more points. One of these points was our port of departure and the warehouse, with its scant amenities, was the terminal building, though official business was conducted outside. Seeing us approach, stewards in high-visibility vests waved us into one of the four parallel lanes of cars and camper vans, checked the ticket we had printed at home and stuck a sticker to our windshield. We were handed our cabin information and door code and the wait began.

It was a hot day, clear, bright and with more than a hint of summer in it. Most cars' trunks were open. Some people were sorting their luggage, others had stayed in their cars, apathetically reading the news or excitedly browsing guidebooks. Given that everyone was going on holiday, I had expected barbecues or picnics but the party hadn't begun. Then engines were started at the front of the lines and twenty minutes later we were aboard, the car tightly parked in a space nearly the size of the warehouse outside, and found our cabin.

A bunk bed filled most of the space. A small desk on the wall folded up to reveal a washbasin. The entire space was enclosed in molded plastic. There was no window. In the hallway near the shower hung the fetid smell of moist towels left on the hooks for too long. Deck 4 felt like a cheap youth hostel, an impression that continued higher up. Sure, there were nicer cabins and a proper restaurant, but we were in the oldest ferry in the fleet for that connection and it showed. The sheen was off; everything looked neglected and worn. The self-service appeared cheap and cheerful and the bar was positively low-key. Later in the night, people without cabins would camp down among the tables and chairs there. We quickly went outside again, just in time to witness the starting of the engines.

When the last truck had been loaded and the ramp closed, the boat started rumbling and then shaking from deep inside. Hectoliters of marine diesel flowed heavily into combustion chambers that needed some serious prodding to get going, even after only half a day of inactivity. Gray smoke exploded through two high chimneys and a burning smell of exhaust filled in the air, temporarily voiding all thoughts of a cruise of the seas. Then the pitch of the rumble changed and the shaking lulled. The smoke thickened and turned pitch black. A minute later the pistons had been blasted. Mighty propellers started churning the dregs of the dock and the boat slowly set in motion. The smoke changed to a light gray of the sustainable kind, and we were off.

As Marseille drifted towards the horizon and water spread all around, we turned a chest holding life jackets into an al fresco dining table. A fresh baguette, cherry tomatoes from the market and a Tortilla Española cooked the night before made for a delight way beyond anything on sale inside. After the meal, the last cup of Pinot Gris in hand, I leaned back and stared towards the disappearing sun. Flucha, sitting opposite me, marveled at the moon rising ahead. It was a magical moment. Above us, the evening jet into Figari drew sharp contrails into the darkening sky. We could have flown Ryanair, I mused. But why would we have?