Pustules

It was probably foolish: my Marseille friends wanted to show me the refurbished Notre Dame de La Garde on its rock overlooking the sea and the city, and I hated the thought of leaving Marseille without seeing either the church or the fabulous view I remembered from the top. We found out which bus could get us there from the Vieux Port so I limped to the metro and it all worked. I was right about the view - we looked out beyond Chateau d'If to the rocky Iles du Frioul whose hidden sandy beach and turquoise sea had been on the now-abandoned itinerary. And looked the other way to these hubristic pustules.

When I was last in Notre Dame de la Garde, it was dark from candle soot. I had no idea how much the mosaics glisten. I sat and admired Noah's Ark, and the sparkling peacocks and boat in the main apse, and we all tried in vain to decipher the texts round the base of the domes in Latin and Greek with their fiendishly super-imposed letters. I especially liked the ex-voto model boats, six or seven attached to each long string suspended from the ceiling, to save seafarers from death by storm. The hundreds of plaques all round the church from people thanking ND de la Garde for saving their lives made me ponder who was responsible for the fate of those who didn't survive to pay for a plaque. Nonetheless, I hope that she can do something for the clearly very sick woman with a nurse, praying in a side-chapel of the crypt.

Even after resting over our picnic lunch in the sun and the wind, my ankle wasn't up to any more. We made our way back to prepare for the guests invited for apéros, one of whom, I was assured, I danced with back when we were all students. I was relieved that Marcel had no better recollection of me than I had of him, and we agreed to take our acquaintance from zero.

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