An unseen force pulls me along an improbable road both glorious and perilous. An embarrassment of riches or death lies at the end. I know not which, only that I must follow. Three months ago I was at the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington, DC pouring wine for a guest. Another night I was bartending a private party in Fairfax, Virginia and a few mornings later at the Park Hyatt on 24th street in northwest removing plates from a buffet. Now I sit at an outdoor bar in Marseille, France, Le Phonographe. Very similar to the layout in Adams Morgan, lots of bars and restaurants squished into a condensed area, plenty of people bustling about, good energy, youth, lots of drinks consumed.
I’m on my third leg of a nine-month overseas romp between Europe and Brazil. My first two months were spent in Lisbon, Portugal. A fabulously beautiful European city, one that still retains a genuine sense of antiquity throughout its hilly cobblestoned streets. The smell of salty grilled sardines ever present. Being a devout worshiper of the Roman God Bacchus I treated myself to incredible tasty wines from Duoro, Alentejo and Estremadura. Thankfully I finally had the chance to enjoy my first European beach and as a single man the occasional sexual escapade.
I met a beautiful woman from Holland at the Brazilian bar in Barrio Alto. Fair skin, long crinkly curly black hair and legs that could challenge Gisele Bundchen. She had a friend with her. I had Philipp with me visiting from Berlin, Germany. At four in the morning we all ended up back at my apartment in Santos, across from the restaurant Le Chat and the Antique Art Museum. Actually, me and the young lady with crinkly hair ended up back at my apartment. Philipp and her friend were out on the bench across the street making out in the park. For two solid hours we rolled around in my bed, kissing, rubbing but no clothes came off. What the fuck?! I broke one of my golden rules. Never have a make out session that last over twenty-five minutes, not without crowning that affair with sex. I’m too old for anything else.
In the morning we all went for breakfast. The ladies left after. Before leaving I invited my Dutch infatuation to return that evening. She did not. Three days passed and I asked if she wanted to go out, she declined. I deleted her number. A week later she contacted me on Viber and questioned why I hadn’t responded to her messages in Whatsapp. “I blocked your number that’s why.” Still, she wanted to go out. Unfortunately, she asked could I pay her taxi to my apartment. Warning sign number one! A woman should at least be able to get to your place on her own, especially when she tracks you down to hang out. When the young lady arrived the taxi cost twenty-seven euros, roughly forty fucking bucks. What the bloody hell?
It was a Sunday night. She reached my doorstep at eleven. We went across the street on the balcony of Le Chat for sangria. Hands down the best sangria I’ve had in this lifetime or the next! She was frisky from the outset, grabbed my hand as we walked, asked me to kiss her within the first fifteen minutes. I didn’t want to. I had a crush on the waitress. Me kissing another woman in her face assuredly eliminates me from later consideration. But my Dutch infatuation insisted, and I acquiesced. Jumping up and down on top of a woman was not on my mind but I assumed the bumping of genitals was a dish later to come.
After sangria we returned to my apartment. I popped a vintage bottle of Perrier Jouet. Beautiful woman, great bottle of shampoo, one would think they go together. We danced closely to Nelson Freitas. While dancing we frequently traded tongues and saliva back and forth. After, she gazed out from my window, which provides a gorgeous view of Jardim 9 de Abril park. She enjoyed the scenery. I had both hands attached to her perfectly shaped bottom, reading the braille of her curvatures. Rodin could not have created better. I thought the time had arrived. As I went for glory the unexpected slapped me. She said no. I was blown away, dumbfounded and genuinely disgusted. Who the fuck comes over at eleven o’clock at night after I dropped forty on the cab and doesn’t want to have sex? I became despondent. My desire for the pleasure of a woman extinguished.
She tried to warm up to me. Like I said, I was finished. She asked for a shirt to sleep in. I gave her one and my bed, told her I’d sleep on the couch. I was invited into my own room to lie next to her, probably decided to finally have sex with me. She looked as sexy and as inviting as any woman could in just that t-shirt, but when I’m done, I’m like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s movie career, terminated. I hate playing games.
A week later and a bottle of red in, I tried this phenomenon everyone seems to know about but me, the dating app, Tinder. Thank the Gods someone liked me. She was from Estonia. We decided to have our first meet at Santos train station. Pretty, blonde, forty-one, super nice and down to earth. Is there much else to ask for? We decided to have wine at the park across from my place. Somehow I always have a bottle of white on ice, or a bottle of red in the closet. We hung out for two hours just shooting the breeze. I wanted to occupy her evening. She had plans, but we did agree to meet in the morning and go to the beach together.
Our beach outing was short and embarrassing. We arrived at eleven thirty, left by one. The sun decided to hide from us, lucky me. Though our time wasn’t so short that I didn’t squeeze in a moment to make a loser of myself. We were sitting on separate towels on the sand, right next to each other. She was on my left. I was wearing a pair of very baggy shorts. I felt something midway up on my inner thigh. I looked down and my rock hard pecker was shooting out. The shorts had receded damn near to my crotch. I quickly pulled the shorts over the appendage. My eyes went to her. She slyly looked away, but not so smoothly I didn’t know she saw. Thankfully she didn’t say anything. I felt like an absolute moron.
With the sun tucked behind clouds, we adjourned to my place. I picked up two plate de Portuguesas at a local restaurant in Alcantara on the way. Again, I went over to Le Chat and had the bartender make me a pitcher of sangria in a plastic to go bottle. I told you I was hooked. A bottle of red and a container of sangria later we were both naked on the couch enjoying one another, an hour after that my bedroom. When we were done, my bed had found its way to the other side of the room, both of our bodies dripping with sweat. I could barely move afterwards, my body absolutely drained of all energy.
She left Lisbon back to Estonia that night. We stayed in touch everyday after by way of text or voice calls over Viber. After ten more fantastic days spent in Lisbon I was on a twenty-eight hour bus ride to Marseille. I didn’t choose to come to Marseille, the great French author Alexander Dumas made that decision for me. The Count of Monte Cristo has always been one of my favorite books, the story of Edmond Dantes. Since reading it as a youth I was destined to make this journey.
Two years ago at the A-Train jazz bar in Berlin I met Philipp. I now count Philipp as a friend. Before I left for Marseille Philipp asked me, “What’s it like to move into a new apartment every month? For a man not married, without children and any family attachments, adventurous. Twenty-four months ago I left Washington, DC to hop around the globe for one year. My first eight weeks were spent in Porto Alegre, Brasil. Next came a month in the capital of the Dominican Republic, Santo Domingo. Cali, Colombia for the following month, then two months in Berlin, Germany. I took a twelve hour train from Germany to Budapest, Hungary. I stayed in Budapest for four weeks and up to that point, Budapest, physically, was the most beautiful city I had ever seen. From Budapest I shot over to Dnipropetrovsk in the Ukraine for five days, then back to Santo Domingo for seven weeks. I left Santo Domingo for ten days in Las Vegas. My first few days in Sin City were spent slightly jittery when I heard people speaking around me. It took me a little bit to realize I had been away so long my ears were not accustomed to hearing English. I laughed to myself when I figured this out. I left Vegas for four more loving weeks of winter in Dnipropetrovsk, then I returned to sunshine and warmth in Lisbon for a month. After Lisbon I headed across the Atlantic to Salvador, Brazil for four weeks and I capped off my twelve months of indiscriminate travel by visiting the aptly named City of Eternal Spring, Medellin in Colombia.
In Sade’s hit song Sweetest Taboo, she sang, “Treat every day like Christmas and every night like New Year’s Eve.” I think it’s one of the great lines ever. It used to be my dream in life to live it. During those twelve months away I paid total tribute to the verse. Take the word of a man who adores his drink and merriment more than most, that line is best left as a sound bite. If one has a shred of character, at some point the questions will begin to surface. Is there not something else? Isn’t there more I can achieve? Some person I can aid?
Now I chase a dream not yet realized, to be a storyteller. While I travel I am writing two books and two screenplays. As I walk the streets here in Marseille I am humbled and honored to have this opportunity, knowing this city partly served as the backdrop for a story that has captured my imagination for over half my lifetime. Within seven days of being in Marseille I boarded a boat heading towards Chateau d’If, the one-time fourteen-year prison for Edmond Dantes. I spent three hours on the rock. I explored every cell and covered every inch of the fortress. Sometimes I stopped walking, performed a 360 and took in the moment. Those three hours stand marked as precious time in my life.
Another structure which stood out to me in Marseille you couldn’t miss if you tried. A basilica which stands guard over the city, Notre-Dame de la Garde. Because my knowledge of France is in its embryonic stages I thought this was the Notre Dame of world fame. It is not, and though this building is a site to behold and affords the most spectacular views of Marseille, it pales in comparison to the same named Basilica in Paris. That building is the most impressive physical structure my eyes have laid upon as of this writing. The French are truly a blessed bunch to have such amazing works so readily at hand.
Beyond Chateau d’If, Notre Dame de la Garde, the Port and more pastries and wine I want to admit consuming, Marseille blew me away with its rich cultural diversity. Many of its citizens’ faces possessing color. Marseille feels like the coming together of the Middle East and Brazil. I hear just as much Arabic in the streets as I do French. Many of those living in Marseille are not indigenous to the country. The city is truly a melting pot with a large northern Africa population. I’ve met more Algerians that emigrated to Marseille than actual people from France.
It’s funny, whenever I ask fellow travelers about Marseille I always here the same thing. The city is D&D, dirty and dangerous. After hearing that, I normally assume there must be people of color there. The sentiment buried within the observation usually go hand in hand. They say the same of Napoli, Italy. I have never been but I assume there must be people of color there as well. I bring this point forward, because I am a Black man. Though many by sight consider me to be of other ethnic origin. When I’m in the Dominican Republic or Brazil they think I am one of their own, a native. Often times when I’m overseas once realizing I am a Black American, the first question asked is, “So you are in the military?” As if the only way a Black man can travel the world and be all he can be is through the aid of the armed forces.
A question often posed to me by Black Americans who do not travel abroad is, do I experience racism while overseas? Sometimes. But since the prevailing belief which is true that most Americans don’t travel and even less of those that move around the globe are Black, I normally receive a super warm welcome. Many view me as an anomaly because I’m traveling solo. Most of the beggars and solicitors leave me alone because as a Black man they assume I’m broke. Thank you for the stereotype provided for by the Wire. Love the show, hate the fact many overseas who have viewed it believe the character of most Black Americans resembles that of Wee Bey, Avon Barksdale or Snoop.
Two weeks after arriving in Marseille I was on a train to Paris to catch a flight heading to Estonia for five days. One should not have to ask why. I could have flown direct from Marseille but I figured how many times in life do I get to see one of the truly mythical and special cities of the world, the French capital.
The train system alone overwhelmed me. It made riding the subway in DC seem ridiculously simplistic. The city itself made my mouth drop countless times. I must have snapped easily three hundred photos. I was in awe the entire time. Knowing I had only a day, I didn’t try to be the Six Million Dollar Man, though I did walk about ten miles, starting from the Lourve. It was amazing to see the art, the architecture of the Lourve Palace, the glass pyramids, the many surrounding sculptures and the Luxor Obelisk at Place de la Concorde; to me, forever a fan of Egyptian history was again a jaw dropper.
After being dead tired from walking so much I headed to Charles de Gaul airport. I got there at eight. My flight was at ten in the morning. I slept in the airport, wasn’t my first time, doubt seriously if it will be the last.
Estonia was five beautiful days and nights, filled with great beer, sauna, an interesting culture with ingratiating people, unique architecture and the presence of a good woman. Every morning began with a home cooked breakfast and each evening brought dinner by a loving hand, something I haven’t experienced in many years. I conclude this episode of my journey as it began. An unseen force pulls me along an improbable road both glorious and perilous. An embarrassment of riches or death lies at the end. I know not which, only that I must follow.
