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Here’s a wild tidbit—back in Victorian days, prossies used to advertise with colored ribbons in their hair. Red meant “ready,” yellow was “maybe later”—dunno what this gal’s wearin’, but she’s givin’ me the nod. I’m chuffed, yeah, happy as a pig in mud, but then—bam!—some greasy git tries to jack her earnings. Made me furious, I tell ya! I slam my staff down, roar, “You shall not pass!” and he bolts like a scared mutt. She laughs, calls me “old man”—cheeky cow, I love it.

Tales of the Roussillon

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I stroll past the old marseillaise markets near Rue d’Aval, you know, the ones with the best cheeses and fish smells, pungent as life itself. Everything's gritty, real. It's like life’s pulse is beating right there. Some days, I crash around in the little park by the river Le Rivié – I mean, not a river in the strictest sense, more a tricklin' stream – and it's unexpected and beautiful, like a pause in all the chaos.

Brilliant Things to Do in Marseille