From an Internet cafe in Marseilles

It is so easy to forget how comfortable we are with the every day things of our own lives. Take, for instance, an American keyboard. Here in France, the *q* is where the *a* is and I cannot find an apostrophe mark or quotation marks.

That is a small price to pay for the beauty of this city. Marseilles is more urban than I thought it would be and a little dirtier, but it is crammed with character. Graffiti is everywhere, as if every young person must leave his or her mark on the city as a right of passage. Benches, walls, even the ornate statues of the art museum -which currently is closed for renovations- have become homes to markered names and less than witty phrases. Take, for example, the words sprawled underneath a beautiful statue of two women: *The girls you love,* it reads, but in French.

As for the French themselves, they move in an interesting blur of traipsing, daudling and rushing. One might get stuck behind a mother meandering with three pint-sized darlings in tow, taking up the entire sidewalk without a thought to allow others to come or go, while a scooter careens down the street next to her, completely unaware of stoplights or pedestrians. Each person seems truly lost in his or her own world here, and it is difficult for one not to follow suit.

Few people really speak English here, which is perfectly understandable, but which makes it all the more amusing that there are McDonalds, Ford, Toys-R-Us and other American-type stores littered all over. Most people, however, show extreme gratitude at my sorry attempts at *bonjour*, *merci*, *pardon moiµ, *au revoir* and *bon nuit*. I certainly believe in cultural identity, and I try to live by the addage, *When in Rome*... Which is why I am eager to try some croissants and pastis, among other -though decidedly less French stereotypical- things.