This is not a hostile take-over. Spoiled for choice when it comes to narrative voices these days I see. As a celebration for the end of my contract I’m on a trip to see the Bokke in Marseille.
My lovely French friend, native to Marseille, is hosting me, despite having greeted him with a, “So are you a thief or a hooker?” upon meeting him, we are actually quite good friends. He is, for clarification, neither a thief nor a rugby player but for one weekend he will be adorned in green and gold to accompany me in the stands.
Given my recent lack of employment the trip is, as the kids would say, “budget-core”. The 480km are being travelled by bus. A green bus though, so I’m technically just supporting the Springboks from start to finish. For all the wonders of living in Europe the Geneva bus station is one of the most run-down parking lots I have ever seen with no signs, schedules or order. I manage to beat the scramble to get on the bus because the gentleman driving the bus spots my passport and cannot believe I’m so far from home. I get ushered into the bus first when I tell him I’m going to see the South Africans play in Marseille.
“You have a long way to go and need to be well rested for the game.”
I spent my train trip cursing humanity as the garlic-scented man next to me played his videos at full volume but now, faith has been restored. I will not tell him I’ve been living 20 minutes away from this cursed parking lot for the past eleven years. He’s too excited for me and I’m far too gleeful about overtaking the noisy and rude British youth who’ve been cursing Switzerland for the past twenty minutes. Complaining is reserved exclusively for the French. It is their national sport and they are exceedingly gifted at it.
I was excited about my 2h30 layover in Grenoble but this is dampened somewhat when my friend messages me to tell me to be on my guard, “it’s like Marseille on steroids.” Yippee.
Grenoble turns out to not be as fearsome as depicted but I also do not stray too far out of the 4.5 star Google reviewed areas. There’s a charm to only paying 1,70€ for a large coffee. For those having heart failure at the conversion… the cheapest coffee you can find outside of the university vending machines (1CHF) is probably 3.50CHF, now 3.70CHF to account for inflation. Half the price makes it taste twice as nice. I’m a teenage girl in her twenties so I do dare to play Pokémon Go from the safety of the café before strolling around.
I look comical, black trench coat and heeled boots, amidst a sea of t-shirts. The incredibly large and hastily packed hikers backpack does not help in remaining inconspicuous. It’s not until I’ve returned to the bus station- impeccable with LED screens announcing arrivals and departures with actual numbers and zones (ahem, Geneva, looking to you to up the game a little) that I’m finally approached by the first beggar. There seems to be a myth about the wonders and wealth of Europe but in reality it’s just like everywhere else.
The bus driver is decidedly less friendly than the first team. I’m told to “sit wherever you f***g want” when asking where I should sit given that my ticket says 20D and the seats stop at 15. I sit where I please and for the moment the bus remains pleasantly empty and I sprawl myself across two seats. A luxury that would not be afforded to me had I taken a plane or train. I’m trying to convince myself that my departure from home at 06am this morning with an ETA of 5pm was a good idea and totally worth it. It’s actually working. I haven’t needed the loo yet which is probably a factor in my happiness.
I’m 259km away from Marseille when my friend messages me. The job he’s been pinning high hopes on, travelled a fair distance for an interview and devoted the last month of his life to has finally given him an answer- he’s in! I refrain from stomping in the bus but internally I’ve let out a scream of pure happiness and relief. The weekend will be a celebratory one.
My friend is only slightly less anxious than me and when we realise the combination of hosting the Rugby World Cup, being a city under construction and the French love affair for cars, there’s no way he’s going to be able to collect me from the station. It takes 60kms to convince him I will be able to navigate the metro without losing my wallet, bags or my life. I’m not quite sure what all the fuss is for. I’ve done it before, albeit with an alert eye and abundance of caution. I manage to beat him to the final metro stop and he navigates illegally turning, parking and departing from the bus stop in record breaking speeds all from the comfort of a baby blue Fiat 500. Finally I can relax, I’ve made it to Marseille. The rest will be a bonus.
To compensate for my long voyage I’m repaid by being taken on a long walk with excellent views. Marseille reminds me of South Africa in some ways, with just a slightly greener tinge to it. After a night of good sleep and a stint in the Med sea this morning, I’m in high spirits and very optimistic about the match tomorrow.