72 Hours in Marseille

documenting pastis-fueled chaos and unapologetic style notes from France’s most lawless coastline.

“Maybe I could live here,” I tell myself, chewing on a slightly-warm Sodebo sandwich at Plage des Catalans while attempting to discreetly judge everyone around me through my sunglasses. Bodies everywhere. Brown, glistening, a little soft around the edges, the kind of bodies you get from cigarettes, Pastis, and not worrying too much. I am definitely not in Paris. C’est Marseille, baby.

I’m here for the inaugural Slow Fashion Week Marseille, but before I can properly marinate in the sustainable fashion discourse, I must first attend to my boyfriend, who is currently going through all five stages of grief after learning we can’t check into our Airbnb for six hours. He is not in his Marseille era. He wants to be in a dark Paris café, chain smoking under the grey clouds of his natural habitat, not sweating through his Loewe in 35-degree sun.

I, however, am thriving.

Cagole Heaven

Around us: pure, undistilled Cagole Marseillais energy. The kind of energy that Parisian girlies try to manufacture for their TikToks but will never achieve organically. We’re talking platinum bleach jobs that haven’t seen toner since Sarkozy was in office, box-dye reds that defy the laws of hair science, metallic swimsuits reflecting full sun directly into my retinas, leopard prints fighting florals, oversized fake Gucci sunglasses the size of windshields. Unironic trucker hats. Chains. So many chains.

They’re chain smoking and laughing at volumes that would get you physically assaulted in a Paris cafe. I love them. I want to be them. My boyfriend is contemplating walking into the sea.

Slow Fashion, Fast Sunstroke

We finally gain entry to our Airbnb, shower off several layers of sweat and existential dread, and head to the first show of Marseille Slow Fashion Week.

Now, let’s be real: Marseille Slow Fashion Week is not Paris Fashion Week. This is not 17 photographers snapping a random girl outside a show because she’s wearing a Margiela Tabi boot. This is hot people sweating through vintage linen while pretending they’re not melting, surrounded by actual teenagers doing backflips off the jetty into the stupidly blue Mediterranean.

The show I’m attending is a collaboration between Studio Paillette and Sale, a Paris-based creative studio and an upcycling brand that takes old clothes and gives them new life, like a sustainable Frankenstein. My friend Pascal Douglas (ex-EIC of Paule Magazine and my designated fashion show wingman) is documenting the street style, which, here in Marseille, is less “curated avant-garde” and more “hot kid who got dressed in 7 minutes before biking to the beach.” It’s enviable. It’s infuriating. No one is trying, which is exactly why they look amazing.

The show is great. Raw, creative, and mostly free of the exhausting pretentious energy of Paris. If you want to see the clothes, look here. I’m busy sweating.

Queer Marseille: Different Font, Same Vibe

That night we hit L’Estaminet for a queer party thrown by my friend Simon. If you’ve ever been to a queer party anywhere, you know the uniform: mullets, shag cuts, bad stick-and-poke tattoos, crop tops, mesh, white tanks, and at least three questionable mustaches per square meter. Global queer dress code. But unlike Paris, where you need a referral and a three-month vetting process to speak to a stranger, people in Marseille just… start talking to you.

Random people. Talking. To other random people. I felt like I was on a hidden camera show.

The party is sweaty, and perfect. I lose track of my boyfriend multiple times. He is adopting a survival strategy of nursing a gin and tonic while pressing himself into a corner like a hostage.

Back to the Beach: The Human Diorama

The next morning, we stumble back to Anse de Maldorme for Round Two of people-watching:

• Teens in full sportswear — Adidas trackies, Nike Dunks — hurling themselves off the rocks like they have no bones. They might be immortal.

• Parisians on semi-supervised leave from their natural habitat. Relaxed in that very bobo-vintage way: sun-faded oversized shirts, linen pants that have seen a few too many Mediterranean summers, retro sunglasses that may or may not have belonged to a dead relative, and canvas tote bags that have traveled from Greek islands to flea markets in Arles. Not overly styled, but still self-aware — like they know they finally blend in here but can’t quite shake the residual Parisian anxiety. The energy is very I just escaped Paris for 72 hours and I’m pretending I don’t have 150 unanswered Slack messages.

• Lesbians (queens), topless, fully tattooed, in hiking sandals so sensible they could summit Mont Blanc between Kronenbourg 1664’s.

• Old locals who have been coming to this exact rock since 1973, reading La Provence under a sun umbrella held together by more duct tape than fabric.

The vibe? Impeccable.

The Golden Hour Cult of Marseille

That night, we’re at Palais du Pharo for the closing show of Slow Fashion Week by Studio Lausie, fashion schoolfounded by designer Marion Lopez. The sun is setting over the port like a literal Instagram filter. I’m emotionally unstable from how pretty it is.

The models, mostly students, walk joyfully through the courtyard as Marseille rap legend Shurik’n performs live (because Marseille refuses to do anything halfway). The clothes are colorful, chaotic, and thrillingly unpolished in that way that makes you believe fashion might actually still be fun.

The mayor of Marseille is here, as are dozens of impeccably dressed locals whose style I can only describe as “Mediterranean streetwear + deeply unserious jewelry.” Oversized football jerseys with Prada loafers. Neon fake nails holding artisanal cigarettes. A man wearing what appeared to be a Lidl branded outfit that I’m still thinking about. It’s lawless here, and I respect that.

Tuba Club: Where the Pinterest Girls Go to Die

Next day, against all good advice, we go to Tuba Club. Look: I’ve been here before. It used to be fun. But now? Now it’s a Pinterest Euro-Summer Influencer Carnival.

The fits are painful: tie-dyed Dior tees, Loewe raffia bags the size of small boats, colorful beaded necklaces that look like they were purchased at a children’s birthday party but cost €400, men wearing boxers as shorts (?!), and of course, Not From Paris Madame hats.

The vibe is very Corporate Girlboss Finally Made It To Europe™. They’re photographing their €28 sardines on toast like it’s fine art. Unfortunately the service is aggressively bad. Even the kebab under our Airbnb was more welcoming. I hit my limit when the server incredulously says “encore?” when I ask for more bread. My local friends roll their eyes. We won’t be back. Tuba Club is dead to me.

Salvation at Les Goudes (and Nudity at Mont Rose)

Redemption comes, as it often does in Marseille, at Les Goudes. We wander through the village, full of tiny pastel houses that seem legally obligated to have laundry drying on string lines. Eventually, we land at Baie des Singes, where local families sit on camper chairs, kids build complicated rock fortresses, and everyone eats sandwiches that look way better than mine.

When we hit our quota of wholesome family beach energy, we sneak off to Mont Rose, the gay nude beach of Marseille. There is absolutely zero fashion to report here, unless you count the sunglasses, which are uniformly excellent. Everyone is naked. Everyone is unbothered. 10/10 experience. I have achieved peace.

In Conclusion: Paris Who?

By the time we leave, something unexpected has happened: my boyfriend, former President of the Paris or Die Club, is completely, irrevocably in love with Marseille. He’s already planning my our return for Marseille Pride. He’s talking about how good the light is here. How nice it is that people smile. He even, and I’m quoting, said, “Maybe I could live here.” Growth! Or maybe it’s just the cheap bottle of rose from Carrefour.

And honestly? Same. Marseille is chaotic in the best possible way. It’s the sea, it’s the weirdness, it’s the no-one-cares energy. The style is insane but alive. The people talk to you. The beaches are made of rocks that destroy your spine but somehow you don’t mind. The Cagoles are living their maximalist truth.

Will I move here? TBD. But if you need me this summer, I’ll be reporting live from Plage des Catalans, eating a sweaty Sodebo, manifesting my chain-smoking Marseillaise rebirth.