We Had a Good Time

A few days after he left, I was sitting on my bed with my back against the wall, the room quiet in a way it hadn’t been while he was there. The radiator clicked on and off without committing to providing warmth. On my bedside table lay two museum tickets and a postcard I still hadn’t written. I picked up my phone the way you do when your mind gets too busy and scrolled without purpose.

A notification appeared.

Congratulations! Your review has been viewed 100 times.

I laughed, then felt my face heat up. The review. I hadn’t thought about it since Marseille, since the walk back to the hotel with full stomachs but wounded pride. I tapped on it before I could change my mind.

The restaurant page loaded slowly. There it was, exactly as I remembered it: uneven pavement, chairs stacked up as if our verdict had single-handedly shut the place down. Something tightened in my chest, a small, unexpected feeling of guilt.

“What else should we add?” I heard myself say.

It was last Sunday afternoon.

We were hunched over my phone, squinting at Google Reviews, my thumbs hovering. The restaurant was still in view across the narrow street, chairs were already being dragged inside.

“The bouillabaisse tasted like sea water”, I typed, pausing.

“And regret”, he added.

We laughed, loudly. The kind of laugh that makes strangers turn around, but it faded almost as quickly as it arrived, like a wave that doesn’t quite make it to shore.

Earlier that afternoon, we’d wandered Marseille without much direction, ticking off the main sights and then drifting into side streets where washing lines cut across the sky and scooters appeared out of nowhere. The graffiti was a mixture of doodles next to murals, slogans beside fine art.

It had been a good afternoon. Although it was November, it was warm in a lazy Mediterranean way that makes you walk slower without noticing. We stopped at corners for no reason, photographed balconies we’d forget about later, admired how old stone buildings wore their marks without apology.

Hunger crept in quietly, then all at once.

It was Sunday. Nearly 15:00. In France.

One by one, restaurants pulled down their metal shutters, the sound theatrical, like a curtain falling at the end of a play you hadn’t realised you were watching. Options narrowed. Hope crumbled in front of us like a mille-feuille pastry handled by someone impatient.

“We’re by the sea,” we kept saying, passing a promising pizza place.

“We have to eat seafood”.

By that point, we’d probably have had more success fishing with our hands.

Though Marseille had greeted us properly the day before, when he arrived.

I was waiting on our hotel balcony near the Old Port as the sun lowered itself behind the terracotta buildings, turning the water into chrome. The wind was sharper than expected, but the view was too good to abandon. Below, a small band had set up on the pavement, and bubbles floated through the air, catching the golden light. Notre-Dame de la Garde stood on the hill, surveying the scene that unfolded beneath it.

When he finally appeared, suitcase wobbling behind him, it felt briefly unreal, like he’d stepped into the wrong scene.

The port stretched out before us, boats shifted gently, masts clicking together like they were having private conversations. We stayed on the balcony longer than necessary, jackets still on, as if looking away would end the moment too soon.

We don’t see each other often. Most of the time we’re planning the next visit, checking flight times and counting days. When we are together, everything feels rushed, ordinary moments made extra special.

We spent the weekend walking.

Along the port, through markets where things smelled faintly of oranges, soap and something fried. We lingered at stalls without buying anything.

Inside cathedrals and museums, we played our favourite game.

“What would you have in your house?”

We pointed at impractical chairs, paintings bigger than entire walls. It made the museums feel domestic, like more stylish, less affordable versions of IKEA.

We had brunch outside on Sunday morning, sipping strong coffee and hot chocolate, admiring the cute dog under the table next to us.

Everything felt slightly amplified. The wind by the sea that made you laugh and complain at the same time. The relief of finding somewhere to sit and having nowhere else to be.

So when we finally saw it, the taverna, it felt like fate.

Inside there was noise and clatter and life. People were still eating, still drinking, still talking, as if it wasn’t a late Sunday afternoon in France.

We sighed with relief and skimmed the menu like Terms and Conditions. Traditional Marseille fish soup was announced proudly, taking up nearly an entire page.

We should have known.

The menu was longer than the Magna Carta, translated into at least ten languages.

Still, we slid into our small wooden table with confidence. The place felt cosy. Earned.

I abandoned my seafood quest and ordered a goat cheese and honey crêpe after watching the family next to us demolish theirs with enthusiasm. The interior was almost alpine - warm light, wooden beams, and suddenly it was exactly what I wanted.

In fairness, it arrived exactly as promised. Enough cheese to drown a goat itself. No false advertising there.

The bouillabaisse, however, announced itself before it reached the table.

It was as if someone had dipped a bucket straight into the port and stirred in a spoonful of tomato paste.

He tried. He really did.

“It’s.. very salty,” he said carefully.

The family next to us was loud. Flies began to orbit the bowl with curiosity.

We exchanged a look and started laughing, helplessly, at the commitment we’d made to an idea of ‘authentic food’.

By the time the bill arrived, the laughter thinned. Numbers have a way of doing that.

Outside, the street felt brighter by comparison. Still sunny. Still alive. I opened Google Reviews.

Pressing send felt righteous. We told ourselves we were helping other tourists.

Back in my room, days later, the restaurant page refreshed.

A new review had appeared above mine. This one had photos: a large family devouring pancakes.

And there we were.

In the background, slightly blurred but unmistakably us. Heads bent together over the table. I was laughing, eyes closed, and he was mid-sentence, mouth open and spoon raised.

The moment returned intact: the sigh when we sat down, the warmth of bodies around us, the coastal wind left at the door, the relief of finally getting our drinks. The way the afternoon had slowed and softened despite everything.

The soup hadn’t been good.

Our quest for fresh seafood had failed.

But we were happy.

I scrolled down to my review.

Deleted it.

Typed instead: We had a good time.

And sent it.