You've spent the last decade on Madison Avenue. A woman, bucking the men. You saw the future, rode the dot com boom and came out unscathed. Yet your partner of ten years, Neal, just walked out the door with half of the assets you built together. You head for France, as you always do when you're in need of indulgent leisure. You decide on Marseille as your decompression chamber. It's full of history, hot sun, soulful cooking from the sea and the hills of Provence. And besides, its half the cost of Paris , which means that you can stay for a month.
Ambling in the old quarter, reading the local " journaux",newspapers, spending hours in local cafes and bars, you imagine yourself one of those ex-pat Habitues, that ends up knowing a town better than the resident themselves.
You decide to splurge on drinks at the Sofitel Hotel overlooking Marseille's inner harbor and see an American trying to order a "pastis". His dark curls and humble eyes make you think that something has changed and that you really want to have an affair, but quickly and without strings.