A little after 7. In Marseille.

Maman and I were catching a TGV train to Paris.

It was so hard to wake up on this morning. For starters, I’m not a morning person. At all. 9 a.m. is early to rise for me.

Plus it’s always hard when you’ve been in and out of hotels. All that packing to unpacking to packing back up again. And at this point, Maman and I had acquired quite the vino collection.

I was the mastermind behind figuring out how to lug it all around and carefully pack bottles wrapped in and between clothes.

There was a metro right around the corner from our hotel. I’m all about public transportation, and I was curious to see how it compares to the metro lines in Paris.

However.

That was wishful thinking, considering how much stuff {being vino} we had accumulated.

Taxi it was.

Cities always fascinate me in the early morning hours. How still everything is. Perfectly preserved. Knowing that just within a couple hours life will start happening again, bustling around. Cafes, breakfasts. Newspapers, coffees.

I felt such a peace on our brief ride to Gare Saint Charles. Taking in the side streets, seeing a Marseille that I had yet to see.

I found myself stunned by the beauty and serenity. I’m such a water girl.  So, naturally, any place surrounded by water speaks strongly to me. Add in some palm trees, and some mountains, and I’m done.

Yeah. Doesn’t take much to get me going.

Marseille, despite the negative comments I had heard throughout my whole trip, captivated me. Forget the haters, I had nothing but love for the place. One night and two days wasn’t near enough time.

As I stood outside, waiting for our train to arrive, I took in the rare solitude of Saint Charles. Losing myself in the majestic art deco beauty and architecture.

When.

This old man broke my chain of inner chi. His shoes made a slow click clankity sound, echoing out louder with each step. He seemed in a hurry, though he moved slow.

He caught me watching him and smiled.

I wondered where he was off to and where he had come from. Why he was carrying a briefcase on a Sunday.

I constructed an entire story about him. Playing out different scenarios.

A grandfather off to meet his grandchildren. A doctor visiting a patient. An old man returning home.

I still wonder about him.

Did he make it to his destination? Is Marseille the place he calls home? Regrets he might have? Or not have.

I think of the things, my things, and those questions that hung between a single moment of silent recognition.

Left there, in Marseille.