La Marseillaise

I have made representations, my friends, about Marseilles. I promised to write an in-depth account of the pleasures of the bouillabaisse, once a stew of the fisherfolk, now the romance of the saffron rich.
This photo demonstrates the state of reverence to which I was moved by the bouillabaisse, less than a week ago. I have barely digested the five fishes and the garlic and saffron are still tart on my tastebuds. I am still coming to terms with the fact that I might never be able to concot a bouillabaisse as brilliant as that au Miramar. The memories of a certain soirée de bouillabaisse chez moi a few years ago are yet to be integrated into any disquisitive state. For all these reasons, it has been impossible for me to address the Marseilles bouillabaisse experience in writing. These things are not to be rushed.
Marseilles in summer is not a city in a rush. The Vieux Port is full of boats designed for cruising, fishing, lounging, sunning, but not for rushing.
Around the point from the Port lies this beach, les Catalans, as good an example of Med beachtrash as any other. Cold water, premium sand, leopard-skin bikinis, pig-skin tans, false eyelashes on the beach, extroverted children, a distinct lack of inhibition.