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About Marseille

What suprised me? How some o’ ‘em got hearts o’ gold under the grit. One lass—swear it—told me ‘bout her kid she’s feedin’ back home. “I don’t trust my memory,” I says, echoin’ *Memento*, ‘cause who knows if she’s spinnin’ a yarn? Still, tugged me heartstrings, it did. Me quirks? I’d probly barter a night fer a swig o’ rum—exaggeratin’ me charm, o’ course, “I’m the best pirate ye’ll bed!” Ha! Sarcasm’s me blade—cuts through the bilge.

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I get pissed sometimes, too – especially when tourists treat it like no big deal. “Hey, God damn these old streets need respect,” I mutter. And yeah, sometimes I’m mad about the noise or the careless litter. But sometimes, I’m so damn happy, I could run naked in the streets! (Not really, but you get my drift, motherf***er!)

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