Whatever they say to hype their albums about reinventing themselves, going back to their roots, incorporating dance or electronica, U2 always end up sounding like U2. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I can never remember the titles of U2′s previous two CDs. They weren’t bad and contained some great songs, but they weren’t memorable to me as albums. No Line on the Horizon is.

I’m not religious, I don’t bleed for Africa, I’m not keen on stadium rock. What turned me on to U2 was as much their military beat as a certain Celtic mysticism, their affinity with the European landscape, their singer’s do-or-die delivery and their big ideas.

For some fans, Achtung Baby is the touchstone in assessing a new album’s worth. For others it will always be Pop. My U2 is more ephemeral, present in moments found across their vast back catalog. You can hear echoes of these moments all over NLOTH.

“Moment of Surrender” reaches levels of intensity on par with “Bad” or “Please.” There’s a dash of “Van Diemen’s Land” with “White as Snow.” You’ll hear some Zooropa in “Magnificent” and “FEZ-Being Born,” the latter of which harks back to The Unforgettable Fire, while the first is the 00′s “Gloria”. “Unknown Caller” has roots in The Million Dollar Hotel. “Breathe” comes from the same songbook as “Gone.” And you may hate the single, but “Get On Your Boots” is probably their most Achtung Baby-like track in 20 years, and the title song borrows a riff from “The Fly.”

This is U2 doing what they’re best at: being U2. Except in “Stand Up Comedy,” where they attempt to be Led Zeppelin. Give it up, lads.

I wake up early to catch the morning light, despite not having slept very well. I take pictures of the men and women setting up the fish market on the Quai des Belges. I get a lot of comments, but only one guy plays ‘take the piss out of the foreigner’. He asks where I’m from, but doesn’t really want to hear an answer. He wants to rattle off a list of Asian countries and end with ‘Mongolian’. So very funny. His friend tells him off. That’s no way to treat the nice tourists. The man feigns innocence. ‘What? I used to live in Mongolia for years.’ It would have been good natured if he’d actually looked at me and talked with me instead of about me. Prick.

Elsewhere, people are genuinely friendly. In fact, all around the city people seem to be in a good mood. On a building site a guy in a bulldozer shouts ‘Lads, smile for the camera!’ and mugs for the lens when I point it at him. Everyone seems to be in a really good mood in this town.

I have my first 512 mb of pictures burnt to disc in the Galleries Lafayettes. It takes them ten minutes, it costs me ten Euro. When I walk back up the Canebière I pass a merry-go-round. I stop to take pictures and notice the music the kids are having their little rides to is Badelementi’s Twin Peaks score. Surreal.

I buy lunch in a Spar. Water, bread, rillettes and goat cheese, a peach. Fruit smells delicious here and tastes good too. That’s because it is ripe. A wonderful concept we’ve forgotten in the northern countries. I begin wishing I was camping so I could go shopping for groceries every day.

Most of the shops close between 2 and 4 – the hottest part of the day. A French tourist wonders out loud if nobody every works in this town. Probably some stuck up Parisian.

My plan was to eat my lunch in the harbour and watch the boats go by and then sit out the rest of the day and read a book, but I can’t sit still that long. In the afternoon heat I walk to the south coast beaches of Marseille. They’re overflowing with people, mostly teenagers. I don’t like the atmosphere here, the kids are a little aggressive, but I find a most delightful little harbour away from the beach clubs where I take a lot of pictures.

I think I catch a little too many of the sun’s deadly rays. Although I drink a lot of water by 6pm I start to go a little loopy and catch myself talking to myself quite a bit. I do walk a lot for someone who claims she doesn’t like walking.

I return to the hotel around 7pm, write a few postcards, eat some bread and ‘faisselle’ (gorgeous soft fresh cheese). By 8pm I’m back in the harbour looking for ice cream. They’ve opened up a little pier that leads about 20 meters into the water. I venture out, sit down, dangle my feet over the edge and smoke a cigarette. The rocking movements of the pier make me a little queasy. On the Quai des Belges a band with a female singer plays French popmusic – not bad at all.

An odd looking man (short, with a big flat head and strangely slanted eyes) juggles burning clubs. He is covered in oil and grime. Filthy. He isn’t very good at it, drops his sticks more often than not but I’m impressed with anyone who rolls a burning club over their bare back.

My search for icecream at this hour continues until I find a ‘glacier’ where I sit down for a sorbet and Perrier. 10 Euro. Yes, that’s right, 22 guilders for a lacklustre icecream and a glass of bubbly water.

Walking back to my hotel in Rue Sainte, I count no less than six boulangers in the street. The French do love their baguette.

Saturday 7/8 Marseille

A perfect day, except for the acute diarrhea. Gah. (Nervous condition, not the food.)

In the morning I move my stuff to a hotel on the other side side (rive gauche) of the harbour. Hotel Hermes turns out to be delightful. My room’s ready for me, the staff is super nice (the sweet gay porter loves to try his absolutely atrocious English on you), the rooms are airconditioned (I’m learning to appreciate modern amenities in my old age.) and with some neck stretching I have a view of the harbour. I make a note to return here (and book the slightly cheaper ‘simple’ room – I prefer showers to baths anyway)

In town I buy a sleeveless shirt so my shoulders can get an even tan. I find an Adidas shop almost as big as the Nike shop on Oxford Circus. My teenage Adidas fetish rears its head and I drool over their new ‘retro’ line and the classic Stan Smith tennis shoes I covet so badly. They cost 75 Euro, twice as much as back in the 80s. I want a pair, but decide to buy them in Holland (upon return I find the shops no longer stock them, typical. The Adidas range in Holland is very small anyway – the brand’s popularity has waned.) I shake my head over the new black version. Black Stan Smith shoes? Sacrilege.

For lunch I eat bouillabaisse in one of the harbour restaurants. The patron clears a small table for me. The place is packed. I can’t get enough of those bottle of Badoit. The soup is a little watery but starts to taste a little better when the rouille dissolves. The waiter seems a little overworked and fed up with tourists, but as a quiet customer I get no strife from him. An elderly Italian couple, a little eccentric, comes in and ask for the menu which they work through while standing at their dedicated table. It’s not good enough and they ask for the ‘real’ menu, not ‘the one you give to tourists’. They’re told this IS the menu. The couple leave and probably pull the same stunt next door.

I discover Marseille’s old Panier district in the early evening. It’s a mish mash of narrow streets and alleys. Some of the houses are pretty run down, others renovated and there’s a fair bit of artists living here.

As I ascend some stairs two teenage boys ask if I speak French. I say I don’t for self protection, but all the guy wants is for me to take their picture. He puts his arm around his friend and I snap a shot. I ask for their names: Nassim and Michael.
A little further into the area a little boy asks the same thing. He steps up to the wall and crosses his little arms. When I take shot he says: ‘Encore, encore, j’ai bouge!’ Heh. ‘I moved.’

In the evening the restaurants are packed again and it turns out I should have reserved a table. I find a seat somewhere and to treat myself after going through a bit of an unmentionable ordeal in the afternoon I order their large plateau de fruits de mer. They’re called panaché instead of plateau in this part of the country. As long as it has lots of shellfood on it, I don’t care. I devour every single bit, including the oursins. They look like turds on the outside with a little blob of orange goo inside. The chinese waiter who speaks English with a French-chinese accent tells me it’s a local delicacy and to eat them last because they taste the strongest. They don’t.

I have some problems with the other waiter since I don’t understand a word he says. I think he has some local accent because I can’t make head nor tail of a single thing he says, which doesn’t happen to me often. He gives up in the end, leaving me embarrassed and a little frustrated. Luckily, chinese guy is easy to follow. Dessert? Sure. Nougat icecream with red fruit coulis. And coffee.

The coffee here is a treat. Tiny cups of smooth velvety brew – with a taste that’s wonderfully rich. Coffee usually smells good, but doesn’t taste anything as good. Here the smell matches the experience.