Returning from anywhere in Europe involves a long series of transitions. This trip was for me one of the longest. It took on epic proportions, and I began to picture myself as Odysseus, wondering if I would ever again see the sweet hills of Ithaca (or, in my case, El Cerrito).

On a warm Sunday afternoon Maryl and I bid goodbye to Arles and set off on foot for the railroad station, skirting one end of the Roman amphitheater en route. We bought tickets for Marseille and waited on the platform. Before our conventional train arrive, several high-speed express TGV trains passed through without stopping. Approaching at speeds of 120 mph or so, these electrically powered trains seemed ominously quiet; nothing but the rapidly intensifying whine of wheels followed by a brief blast of air as the locomotive rushed by just a few steps from the bench where we sat — an unnerving effect. When our train arrived we re-learned the lesson of being a Sunday tourist: it seemed that half the population of France was out touring as well. Every second-class seat was taken and we crammed ourselves into the vestibule of one car, straddling our luggage and bracing ourselves against a wall. Fortunately, even the regular trains in France move at a rapid clip, and we were in Marseille within an hour and a half.

That evening we strolled along the marina among hordes of Marseille citizens and stopped for a pastis at an outdoor cafe with a view of the harbor. We scouted a half dozen restaurants, hoping to find one that could serve us a satisfying bowl of bouillabaisse, the renowned seafood soup that originated here. Alas, our Rough Guide warned us that all of the accessible, relatively affordable restaurants in the waterfront area serve a mediocre product aimed to amuse the casual tourist. And, I'm sorry to report, the restaurant we selected met these pessimistic expectations. The most notable thing about the meal was occasionally casting a glance at the French couple at a table across from us. Their dinner and dessert looked far more interesting than ours. And as they rose from their table to leave, a medium-sized white poodle emerged from beneath the table.

That night the sky clouded over and the winds began to stir. Unable to sleep with the anticipation of a grueling flight with many transfers, I lay in bed staring up at the red numbers on the television's clock, which was fast by an hour and a half. My alarm was set for 5 a.m. but I was started out of a fitful drowse even earlier by a loud clap of thunder. Maryl and I hurriedly dressed and packed, put on ponchos and rushed out the door and up the tall, broad staircase of the train/bus station in pouring rain. We caught a shuttle and made it to the Marseille airport in time for my 6:40 check-in. Maryl's return to Thessaloniki via Frankfurt would depart later.

From that point it was just a matter of shuffling feet and luggage. I arrived in Paris at 9 a.m., but at the domestic airport, Orly, instead of the international Charles de Gaulle. Shuttles run regularly between the two, but because of horribly congested traffic the trip, skirting the city from south to north, took two hours. I arrived just in time to check in for the transatlantic flight, with no free time to enjoy the amenities in the outer part of the airport. During the westward flight, time froze in mid-day. I dragged myself through customs in Philadelphia, straining my diminished concentration just to keep track of everything and present whatever was required: luggage, camera, backpack, tickets, passport, and customs declaration. My one consolation was finding the time for a Philadelphia microbrew at a stand-up bar within sight of the boarding gate. While drinking I had a stroke of good luck. The woman standing next to me, also drinking beer, struck up a conversation with me. She too had been traveling in France — visiting friends in Lyon. She too was returning to San Francisco, to El Cerrito, in fact. Damned if she didn't live just a block away from me. Her boyfriend would be picking her up at the airport, and she generously offered me a ride to my door. It was a welcome relief not to have to deal with the door-to-door shuttle, which doubtless would have wound its tortuous way through the hills of Berkeley dropping off other passengers before delivering me to the place where I could rest.