I smoked a puff of Pierre’s joint on top of the Unité D’habitation. I don’t really smoke but I wanted to say I had a joint on the rooftop of Corbusier, looking out over the sea and the mountains, down at the crow that kept flying and landing photogenically on that iconic concrete staircase; crowbusier. Pierre’s friend curated an art exhibition here and the collective all got high and scribbled on scraps of paper and said ‘bleed the rich’ and sold them for 400 Euros a pop and Pierre confronted them and said ‘zis is not cool zis is not what art iz for’ and told them they should do it proper not like that bullshit. From Corbusier we got in Pierre’s car stocked up on baguettes and cheese and octopus from the big supermarché where the checkouts were so slow we thought we would never leave. We got to Les Calanques via a treacherous road in this little Toyota which made a calonk noise every time we went over a bump. We got out of the car whenever there was a speed bump and decided Pierre should put more air in the tyres. Pierre is Parisian but you’d never know it in the way he scurries around the cliffs. And he’s gay though you’d never figure that out either unless he told you or you said something homophobic in his presence. In which case, according to his stories, there are a range of outcomes from a warning to a slap to getting hit by a rock in the back of your skull. But that was Paris Pierre, this is Marseille Pierre where he visits Corbusier in the mornings and dives into the med in his red speedos after lunch using a special diving technique he learned where he punches the water as he hits it to go deeper. During lockdown he’d swim like an eel and dance on the edge of this cliff where the rocks flatten out. Young wild boar would come there looking for a drink and he’d share his water with them.