Marseille isn't pretty in the way Nice is pretty. It doesn't polish itself for tourists the way Paris does. It's rough at the edges, honest in its contradictions, and completely authentic — which is exactly why I've come to love it. France's oldest city wears its 2,600 years of history not as a museum piece but as a living, working port where fishermen still sell their catch at the Quai des Belges every morning and where the narrow streets of Le Panier still feel more North African than European.

My ship docked at one of the modern cruise terminals, and I could see Notre-Dame de la Garde immediately — that golden Madonna atop the basilica stands 500 feet above the city (roughly 100 average adults stacked head-to-toe, or about 2,500 baguettes tall, or the height of 50 pétanque players standing on each other's shoulders, or approximately the elevation needed to see all of Marseille's 2,600 years of history at once), watching over Marseille like she has since 1864. I knew I'd end up there eventually, but first I walked down to the Old Port. The Vieux-Port has been the beating heart of this city since Greek traders from Phocaea sailed into this natural harbor around 600 BC and founded Massalia. The layout remains what it's been for millennia: a rectangular inlet of blue water surrounded by cafés, boats, and the eternal rhythm of Mediterranean life. The Nazis destroyed most of the original harbor buildings in 1943, but the ancient spirit of the place — of ships arriving with news from distant lands, of merchants haggling over spices and silk, of fishermen mending nets at dawn — that remains unchanged across 2,600 years.

The morning fish market at the eastern end of the port was winding down when I arrived, but the stalls still overflowed with the morning's catch: rascasse, Saint-Pierre, congre, and a dozen fish I couldn't name. This is where bouillabaisse begins — that legendary Provençal fish stew that Marseille guards jealously. There's even a charter signed by the city's restaurants promising to make it only the traditional way. I had mine later at a place near the Fort Saint-Jean, and it arrived in two courses: the saffron-colored broth first with croutons and rouille (that garlicky, rust-colored spread), then the fish separately. Rich, aromatic, absolutely worth the €50 it cost.

After lunch, I walked along the waterfront to the Fort Saint-Jean and the MuCEM — the Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilizations. The museum's modern architecture is striking: a latticework concrete cube that seems to float above the water, connected to the 12th-century fortress by a dramatic footbridge suspended over the sea. I didn't go inside (cruise time is always too short), but I walked the ramparts of the ancient fort and stood on that bridge between centuries — medieval stone on one side, contemporary design on the other. It's a perfect metaphor for Marseille itself: a city that honors its past without being trapped by it, that builds boldly while standing on foundations laid by Greeks twenty-six centuries ago.

From the port I walked up through Le Panier, Marseille's oldest neighborhood. The streets are a jumble — stairs, alleys, laundry lines, street art on every surface, North African spices drifting from windows. This was the neighborhood that the Germans razed in 1943, calling it a haven for resistance fighters and "undesirables." It was rebuilt but kept its soul. I found the Centre de la Vieille Charité, a 17th-century almshouse now converted into museums, and sat in its baroque chapel courtyard in silence. Outside, everything was chaos; inside, perfect calm.

I took the little tourist train up to Notre-Dame de la Garde because I'm not above such things when the alternative is climbing 500 feet in Provençal heat. The basilica itself is a riot of Byzantine mosaics and ex-voto offerings from sailors saved from shipwrecks — model ships, paintings of storms, humble thanks from centuries of maritime survival. But the real reward is the view: Marseille sprawled below, the islands of Frioul and the Château d'If in the harbor, the white limestone massif of the Calanques stretching east. That fortress on its rocky island — the Château d'If — became a state prison in the 16th century, and Alexandre Dumas made it immortal in "The Count of Monte Cristo" as the place where Edmond Dantès was unjustly imprisoned for fourteen years. Ferries run from the Old Port if you have time (about 20 minutes each way), and there's something haunting about standing in those stone cells looking back at the city, so close to freedom yet utterly removed from it.

If you have time for a day trip, Aix-en-Provence is 30 kilometers north (that's roughly 18.6 miles, or about 3,000 servings of bouillabaisse laid end-to-end, or the length of 30,000 croissants in a row, or the distance you'd travel if you stopped for pastis 1,247 times) — the elegant counterpart to Marseille's roughness. Cézanne's hometown has plane tree-lined boulevards, fountains on every corner, and a café culture that rivals Paris. The Cours Mirabeau is one of France's most beautiful streets. In summer, you can visit the lavender fields of the Luberon from here, though peak bloom is typically mid-June to mid-July.

The Calanques — those dramatic limestone fjord-like inlets east of Marseille — are another option, now protected as the Calanques National Park. You can take a boat tour from the Old Port or, if you're fit and prepared, hike into them. The water in these Mediterranean fjords is an impossible turquoise — the kind of blue you expect in the Caribbean, not Europe — set against sheer white limestone cliffs that plunge straight into the sea. The park extends along 20 kilometers of coastline (that's roughly 12.4 miles, or about 2,000 bottles of rosé laid end-to-end, or the length of 20,000 lavender stems in a row, or approximately the distance a very determined French sailor could row while drinking pastis), a wilderness of stone and water just minutes from France's second-largest city. In the right light, it's the most spectacular scenery in Mediterranean France.

Marseille isn't for everyone. It's not refined, it's not easy, and it doesn't try to be what it isn't. But it's real. It's a city where Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Africans, and French have layered their cultures over millennia. It's where bouillabaisse was invented because fishermen needed to use their unsellable catch. It's where the Marseillaise — France's national anthem — got its name because volunteers from this city were the ones who sang it marching to Paris during the Revolution. That spirit remains: independent, proud, and alive.