I am standing, dithering – all gluttonous overwhelm, all heart-eyes emojis. Shelves and shelves of chocolate at Galeries Lafayette. A man – fifties, statement glasses, woollen jersey tossed over his shoulders – leans past me, and selects a bar. Places it in his basket.
He turns. Twinkly co-conspirator eyes.
(Something in French.)
Oh, pardon Monsieur! Je ne parle pas Française!
Oh!
English?
I nod.
This – (he pauses, waves his hands over the bars with art nouveau logos – bars wrapped in white, pink, yellow) – is some of the very best chocolate in all of France. He tells me he loves it.
Delighted, laughing, I ask him to show me his favourite.
He makes an agonised face.
Non! I can’t! ALL is wonderful!
I select two bars of Chocolat Bonnat – Hacienda El Rosario, Vale do Juliana. Chocolat Noir 75% de cacao. I pay a bobbed-haired woman eating sugared almonds and say goodbye to the tiny jars of mustard, the finely embellished tins of tea. I ride the escalator down, exit the gloss of the glass doors.
Back down to the gulls and the salt and the masts of the yachts.
Le Vieux Port de Marseille.
–
Marseille is beautiful. The port – the gulls and the salt and the masts of the yachts – are wrapped by the curved stone walls of old forts, striped cathedrals on hills, terracotta roof tops, macaron-coloured shutters. Soft rosy-peach mediterranean light.
Everything looks like a fresco.
I feel lighter here. And, gratefully, warm. My wool coat hangs in the closet.
My gloves, my hat. Asleep in a drawer.