After making my way back to Nice airport, I board the Flixbus for a 3+ hour ride to Marseille. Marseille is approximately 200 km (124 mi) southwest of Nice. Tourism is not as big in Marseille though it is also part of the Côte d'Azur. Spending time in the Côte d'Azur is a bonus for me while I am in France and along the way to lesser-known and less populated medieval towns of southern France.
The bus ride to Marseille is slow. It appears they have a new driver in training today. We stop to make three driver changes along the way, alternating between the two drivers. One of the drivers, who I assume is the rookie, is not very smooth with her techniques yet. Nevertheless, we get there in one piece.
Along the way, I am constantly watching out on both sides of the bus. I notice the area is very arid. Vineyards are plentiful and are the only crop I see. Every low-lying area has been tilled and planted with grapes. The soils in this region are limestone and dry. This gives the grapes a great flavor. The region is known as the Provence part of France. Although the region produces 7 different grapes, Provence is predominately known for Rosé wine. About 38% of the world's Rosé wine is made in France, with approximately 40% coming from Provence. One of the young vineyards we pass along the way. Notice how arid the landscape is.
We pass a French power plant. Centrale Thermique De Provence is the tallest power station in France at 297 m (975 ft). This is a rare example of a coal-burning power plant that has recently been retrofitted to burn wood pulp. France's primary power source actually comes from nuclear power. Following the 1973 oil crisis, France's Prime Minister Messmer launched an aggressive initiative to develop nuclear energy. The initiative's slogan was "In France, we don't have oil, but we have ideas." Today nuclear power accounts for 76% of France's power production, though they plan to reduce this to 50% by 2035.
I arrive in Marseille late in the afternoon in France's 3rd largest city, Marseille. Although the population is 1.8 M people, the density is slightly less dense than Nice at 3,600 people per sq km (9,400 per sq mile). Marseille feels denser. I suspect this is a reaction to seeing a combination of historic and modern concrete buildings.
The city is quite diverse and has experienced several waves of immigration from other parts of the world. Italians and Greeks settled first. Russians and Arminians followed after WWI. Vietnamese, Corsicans, and Spanish immigrated here between the wars. Following WWII, North Africans and Sub-Saharan Africans followed. Today Marseille boasts a large population from Algeria and Comoros, dominated by Armenians, and Corsicans, although Chinese, Comorians, Turks, Maghrebis (Western Arab Region), and Vietnamese.
My first impression is quite different than Nice. As I walk from the bus terminal to my hostel, I notice quite a bit of litter in the streets. I am surprised by this, though this is common in many large cities.
I get settled in and realize it is much later than expected. Since today is Bastille Day, I decide to head down and join the Happy Hour Social at the hostel. After grabbing a beer, I find my way to a table with a couple. I already miss Guinness stout. How about that, Fellow Canadians!? Both are in their mid-20s. Jordy and Liz met at a hostel a few weeks ago and decided to travel together. Jordy only has 4 or 5 days left before returning to Montréal. Liz is from Victoria (Vancouver Area). The two have completely different travel styles. Jordy has his 3-week itinerary dialed in, including the famous tradition of Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain.
We chat for a while when we are joined by two other Canadians. One makes a quick introduction. He is from Montréal and speaks only French. He's here studying abroad and now is traveling Europe on his motorcycle. Caroline, also from the Vancouver suburbs, joins the conversation. An Irish lad from Kerry, interested in traveling to Canada, joins the group. The conversation quickly devolves into a version of a bad Canadian slang show. "Hack a Dart," means to smoke a cigarette, says Caroline. And "Tackies," those are tactical vomiters says Liz. Eventually, we hit full bottom when Jordy starts speaking "Hockey Dusche." I think to myself, twenty-year-old culture is the same everywhere. We've all been there and can't help but laugh at the absurd situation.
I head to the Old Port to grab something to eat before another fireworks show. Tonight is the Bastille Day celebration. Doesn't take long for me to realize that I made a mistake and ought to have grabbed dinner earlier. It feels as if the entire city is headed to Old Port where I can hear the celebration several blocks away. Below is a photo of the gathering crowd at Old Port around 830 pm. 
The show opens with a line of fireworks being fired off coordinated to Pink Floyds' The Wall.
The gathered crowd is in a festive mood. I can see everyone around me enjoying the show. Not a single incident of bad behavior from the crowd. Everyone is respectful of the people around them. The 45-minute show is a well-orchestrated spectacle! Marseille manages to top the previous day's festivities in Nice. The show's final set is a compilation of intense white starbursts, stacked on top of each other, that fade into waterfalls. This was another spectacular show! What a great way to spend Bastille Day with the French!
Sometime in the middle of the night, I am woken up by the sound of someone entering our room. They let the door slam behind them as they stumbled to the bathroom. Unfortunately, the bathroom is next to my bunk. I can hear them priming the pump by spitting into the toilet. After a bit, they leave and stumble back to their bed. About 10 minutes later, they are back. This time, they drag their hands along bunks and walls as they stumble to the bathroom. I suspect they are fighting a severe case of “The Spins” by now. Back at it, priming the pump. This time, relief comes, and the toilet flushes. The door opens, but the light stays on. As I peel the curtain back, I catch a glimpse of the Tackie, slithering away on all fours back to her bunk. She’ll be alright in a few hours. I think to myself. Oh, the joys of hostels. I laugh as I turn off the light in the bathroom.
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