November 8, 2010

This was an astounding day!  I learned Melinda has been covering up part of her heritage.  There is no doubt about it now – she is definitely part mountain goat!  She is also my hero!!  Today she actually climbed a mountain, and a big one too.  I managed to get up about three-quarters of the way, maybe a little bit more, but she made it to the tippity top.  Now I promise you, this was not only a tall and steep mountain, it wasn’t like walking up on a primrose path.  The way up was steep, and there was a path, sorta’.  It was roughly carved out of rocks, and some of it was worn down by people’s feet.  The brush had been slightly cleared away from the sides.  Actually, the more I think about it, steep isn’t quite enough.  When the path was made, rather than wind up the mountain, whoever made it decided the shortest way to the top was straight up.

We left Porto Vecchio early in the AM and made our way north, where we had come from the day before, to visit the Bronze Age Casteddu d’Araggiu. The guide books described this as a castle and a Neolithic village next to each other, perhaps existing at the same time.

On the way out of Porto Vecchio I spotted a Leonidas store, the fabulous Belgian chocolatier.  Somehow the car just turned itself into a parking in front of the store.  Odd how French cars can do that.  A box of goodies to go and a hot chocolate later we were back on the road.
The turn-off from the main wasn’t far outside of Porto Vecchio and signs pointed to the Neolithic site and castle.  It was off an empty road, everything around was closed and we parked the car where indicated.  We didn’t see anything that looked like a site until we asked a guy with a shovel and he pointed behind him.  There was an arrow pointing to “site” and a dirt path.  We expected to walk a little ways and took the path as it wound through someone’s back yard and onto another path that was a bit muddy after the rain but not too bad as the soil was very sandy.

Up it went.   Us too.  We walked it for about fifteen minutes and it seemed to go straight up.  This was not easy going, over rocks, hanging onto bushes or shrubs we could grab as we steadily climbed.  Along both sides of the path was a stone wall.  It was a very primitive road, obviously built long before the Romans got there.  After about forty-five minutes of straight up we stopped to catch our breath.  And we looked down.  Whew!  We had gone a long way up.  We could see the sea that was about fifteen miles away.  We could make out traffic on the road below but we couldn’t hear it.  And we thought it was going to be a short walk to a pile of rocks in a field!

We kept going and got to a flat part that was easy going for a change.  At that point I was sure the castle and village must be right around the corner.  What was around was a higher peak set back a bit.  You couldn’t see it on the way up.  Merde!  Looking up I saw rocks piled up on the top of this second peak.  It was steeper and harder going.  We had to hold on to anything at the sides.  Our lovely and comforting stone wall that I had been clinging to on the way up didn’t go to the second part.

Sitting for a minute and looking down, we saw the ocean clearly spread out in front of us, but the cars below had turned into ants and we could no longer make out people,  cattle or sheep in the fields.  That was when the wind picked up. It came in gusts and then stopped.  I was done in.  Everything hurt and I felt like I couldn’t drag this ancient body up one more rock.  But damn, Melinda took off like a gazelle and said she was going to see what it was like further on and I should wait for her.  I sat on a rock and thought of mountain climbing at my age!  I never wanted to mountain climb at any age and here I was.  Damn again!

I looked around at the rocks, a pink and grey granite, the soil was still sandy.  The rocks were cut in jagged straight patterns, some flat and rectangular like stairs, others haphazard and facing every which direction.  Other rocks were rounded and soft looking and I could imagine centuries filled with feet climbing over them.

Corsica was attacked by every seafaring nation cruising the Mediterranean the last four thousand years.  Each one came to the beautiful beaches, protected harbors, and decided it was a great place to drop anchor and see how good the pickin’s were.  The result was the Corsicans cannily taking to the high ground.  If someone was intent enough on raping and pillaging, they had to work for it.  And find the booty to boot.  It would not have been easy finding this castle.  And I could imagine the guys at the top giving the finger while pitching rocks down on the hapless invaders struggling up the hill and cursing every step.  Sort of like I was.

So there I sat on the side of mountain thinking about ancient history.  Then I started to worry.  Melinda had been gone a long time…at least a half-hour, maybe more.  The mountain is silent other than the wind.  The wind made itself known with its sibilant threat quite a time before it curls itself around the peaks to arrive with fury.  It was getting hard to stand.  So I sat.  Maybe I’ll go a little higher, I thought.  We weren’t dressed for this adventure.  I was wearing those backless trainer clogs, no socks.  My handbag was slung over my chest and I had on a raincoat and a hat.  It had been cold so I also had a huge red scarf, wanting to be French and in style, you know.  The raincoat was like wearing a plastic bag.  When I took it off, it was soaked on the inside.  I folded it up and did the same with my handbag, putting both items in my large scarf, which I wrapped like a bandeau around one shoulder and under the other.  It left my hands free and kept the stuff from banging into me when I tried to climb.  I went up again, and up, and up.  It still looked a long way to the top.  I sat and looked down.  I couldn’t see the cows in the field anymore and the cars were gone too.  The ocean was even bigger than before.  Turning around, I went back up, hoping to catch Melinda on the way down.  She had been gone a long time.  Then I faced it.  Straight up.  I would have to use both hands and feet to try and scale this one.   Nuhunh.  I plopped down on another rock.  It started to rain.  How the hell was I going to get down in the rain?  I took my raincoat out and covered myself with it, crouching on a rock under a bit of scrub tree.  The rain stopped.  I looked at the wall of rock.  No way.

Very slowly I turned and started to make my way down.  After about fifteen minutes of very slow going I heard Melinda.  I could forget about all the emergency plans I had been making about getting the police or mountain dogs to go up and bring her back down.  I would have heard her if she fell, wouldn’t I?  I wasn’t sure, the wind drowned out all sound.

I waited on the flat part of the path, about half-way.  Finally she showed up.  She was wearing a silk sweater over a lace short sleeved top.  We both did have jeans on, and she had a raincoat and her handbag as well.  She had on a pair of Clark’s flat pumps.  We decided the next time we’d try mountain climbing we’d be more prepared, or maybe we’d find someone to carry us up?

When we finally got to the bottom and were on the road to the parking where our car was, I turned to her and said, maybe next time we’ll take the escalator they’ve installed on the other side of the mountain.  The look I got was not pretty.

But damn, she climbed an honest to goodness  mountain all by herself, and it wasn’t easy, but she got to the top!  I’m truly impressed.  It was time for a reward of some of those Leonidas chocolates.  They were well earned.

After tooling around looking for another megalith, we decided to head to Sartene.  This is where we will be going to see the menhir alignment, more than two hundred stone figures standing guard over the island for the last four thousand years.  There are several areas of them, and megaliths in the area.

Needless to say, we were starving so along the way I spotted a café/bar that was open.  Getting inside I knew we were in the wrong place.  There were two guys talking at a table in front and another two inside in a tiny room that was more like a hallway.  There was a woman bartender and I asked if they still had food to serve.  She went into the back to check and I nudged Melinda to look at the pictures on the wall.  There was a Che Guavara poster, a picture of a Corsican woman holding a loaf of bread in her hand as she incited a crowd of men to revolt, and the piece de resistance was a framed photo of a French police car and two French policemen with a young man in handcuffs standing by the car as he was being questioned. Hmmmm?

The woman came back, there was no food and I was happy to get out of there.  It looked to me like we could have ended up in the middle of a Corsican revolutionary shoot-out.  And everyone around is armed.  It’s hunting season and as we drive by there are cars parked at the side of the road with guys walking around with rifles and dogs.  We had seen the same thing the day before and I remembered it while on the mountain.  I had been thinking of going potty while waiting and decided to not bend over and give any of those hunters a large target to aim for!

The lady at the bar directed us to another place down the road that was opened and on arrival we asked if they had food. All that was left was lasagna and salad.  A cold beer with and it was a wonderful lunch.  Especially since it was homemade and a huge slab.  By then we were starving!

And  now we are in Sartene.  According to the guide books it’s the most Corsican of the villages and was called the Devil Village by everyone who came here for centuries.  It’s the home of the Corsican vendetta and was the last place known to have suffered from one.  There were times when vendettas were responsible for the deaths of over 900 people in a single year when entire population of the island was only 100,000 people.

There is nothing cheerful here in Sartene.  The houses don’t gracefully hang off the mountain in this perched village, they clutch at the rocks as if chained to them in a dungeon.  There are shutters, but not the lovely blues of the north.  These are drab and grey.  The houses are tall and imposing looking, but everything is unornamented and  looks scary.  Maybe it’s the fact that it’s foggy and about to rain, but Sartene seems to be living up to its reputation.

After stopping at the Tourist Office, I was advised that there were only two hotels open at this time of year.  We had passed one and it was closed so, duh!  We are now at the only game in town, and happy!  We have a nice big room that looks out over the mountains from a corner French door.  We are really high up and the view is spectacular, or at least it will be if the sun comes out.  Our hosts and greeters at the hotel are two charming gentlemen, one is a beige monster who I think is a mastiff, the other an overgrown black lab.  They gave us a sniff and a nod, then went back to their job of snoozing in front of the door.  This way everyone who enters has to walk over them.  Good going guys!  Keep us safe and don’t let the devils get us!

We have a clean room, a big bathroom, internet and a bar downstairs.  What more can you ask?

November 7, 2010

Tonight we are in Porto Vecchio.  It was a shock to again find the hotel with not much of a problem.  It’s a Great Western and quite modern, the room seems to be in Stockholm but the view is quite obviously Porto Vecchio.

The drive started out in sunshine and got progressively worse until we arrived in rain.  As usual, there was little direction on how to find the hotel.  We took the high road up to the old city and I parked in the parking lot for the Mairie – the City Hall.  It’s Sunday so everything is closed up tighter than a drum.  Melinda unfurled the map.  There’s something about European maps I don’t quite understand.  More than 90% of the cars are miniscule.  The maps are mammoth.  Think of opening a banquet cloth and refolding it, starched please, in the front seat of a Yaris…no, you can’t get out of the car, do it on your lap…no wrinkles mind you.  That’s the idea.

Why do they make maps larger than the cars they’re going to be used in?  Is it a French thing?  No, I’ve had the same experience in Italy.  If it was French I could understand.  Then the mentality would be that anyone who needs the map deserves trouble.   Melinda suggested with a sort of guilty look that we might cut out the part we wanted to use.  There was something decidedly uncivilized about map cutting  so we tabled the idea for the moment.  The Brits wouldn’t deface a map, it’s just not done.

We were on the search for the famous Genoese towers that dot the island.  As we hunted one down outside of Bastia, we never found the tower, but we did find a Club Canine from Bastia that was having training exercises.  We could see this from the road and decided that if we lost with the tower, at least we could see some dogs and assuage our dog deprivation for a few minutes.  We turned off the road and could see the dogs, cars parked in a neat row.  Within minutes we were lost in fields filled with grape vines, fruit trees and dirt roads that all looked alike.  Damn!  How could that happen!  But it did and we had no idea how to get back to the road.  We don’t panic, we are Girl Scouts, and after a few U-turns we made it back to the road and found another entrance to the field with the dogs.  I felt for a moment like that scary book where the characters are lost in the cornfields.

Dogs were all over the place, a Jack Russell, two Westies, a few lab and Golden puppies, a Pyrenees Mountain Dog, several Yorkies, a Bearded Collie and too many others to count.  After a half-hour of dog watching and patting our need was filled and we were on our way again.

We finally saw two of the sixty Genoese Towers that dot the Island.  Both were seemingly inaccessible, or at least we couldn’t figure out how to get to them.

On the way out of Bastia we visited one of the many village perché that hang off the mountains. It was a bit of a shock after winding around mountain and into the village perché there.  The one outside Bastia was very toney, gussied up and ready for the yuppies of Bastia to perch in, or so it seemed.  There were no little old ladies hobbling around with baguettes peeking out from under their arms. Gone was the peeling stucco and cracked cement.  These were all neatly painted around the new windows, the facades  in elegant stonework.   There were still the men hanging around the fountain talking and smoking – no women in sight.  Guess they were home cooking Sunday dinner.

Lunch was at a restaurant Melinda scoped out in one of our guide books.  It said it was a meat lover’s paradise and since I hadn’t had a steak since we left she thought it was the place for me.  We ended us with so much food there was no way we could eat it.

I started with the buffet of charcruterie – Corsican sausages, paté, langoustine, shrimp, poached salmon, and so on.  My plate filled I staggered to the table, hardly able to carry it.  Bad idea to go to a buffet hungry.  Then my main course arrived, a large pot of veal stew and a larger bowl of homemade pasta to go with.  Yummm.  But so much food!  Melinda had a plate of assorted meats that included a sausage, two big thick slabs of pork meat that looked like giant thick bacon, a hunk of pork, baked potato, and a substantial crock filled with beans.  Mine came with dessert.  We shared that.  The house wine was okay but a bit rough.  We stuffed ourselves and left half our food.  The next meal out we are going to try sharing and see how that works.

One of the best parts of lunch was the table behind me.  It was two ladies with a delightful Shi Tzu puppy that looked very much like Desi.  He was about six months old and sweet as they come.  We both played with him and ended up chatting with the two ladies.  It seemed to be mother and daughter of a certain age.  Mother spoke English well and wanted to practice.  She has a friend who lives in Greenwich, CT and had a wonderful time visiting with her a few years ago.  Since we were all dog lovers we had a good time together.  They wished us “Bon Sejour” and we were on our way again.  Within a few minutes it was raining.

Once we left Bastia, everything looks tame as opposed to the wilder Calvi side of the Island.  It is a wide and long plain that divides the mountains from the sea and is the only place we have seen so far that’s pretty flat.  The road’s wonderful, straight and perfectly maintained.  Signs are gplentiful and easy to follow.  That is, until you get into the old cities.  Then the street signs suddenly disappear and you’re on your own.

That’s how we found ourselves wrestling with the bloody map in the Mairie parking lot. I looked up to see where we were.  Across the parking lot and across a chasm that separated it from another part of the city I saw a row of buildings.  They looked familiar.  “Melinda, look over there.  That’s our hotel, I think!”  She looked up.  Then she looked at the tiny thumbnail on our internet reservation.

“Yes, I think it is.”  She peered at the hotel and reservation again.  “How do we get there?”

“I’ve no clue.  But we’ll try.”  It took two turns around the city to find the hotel, again, we couldn’t get there from here.  I’m becoming an expert in going up very steep hills with a shift car, no small accomplishment.  Our little car is grateful since I’ve stopped burning rubber.  But I make no promises, the next part of our trip entails a lot of mountain driving.

And we finally got there.  It was our hotel, and there was even a place to park in front.  I think we’re the only people in the place.  There are no cars and the only person I’ve seen is the desk clerk.  It’s nice and clean, Melinda found an English language channel on the new flat-screen television and we’re going to ride out the storm in the hotel room.  We’ve plenty of booze, a cooler full of food and Internet service, we could stay a month!

November 6, 2010

Leaving Calvi wasn’t so easy.  We realized we were going to miss our little apartment and the family.  Everyone came out to say goodbye to us this AM and we got on the road about the time we had planned.  That alone is a major accomplishment.  The car was full to the gunnels.  Jerome came over to help us – good thing he’s a tri-athlete and plenty strong.  My suitcase seems to have gained more weight than I have and I really haven’t put much extra stuff in it – I mean, it closes doesn’t it?  What’s with that?

There was almost no traffic on the road with us.  The weather was splendid, and we hear it will be tomorrow also, but then – not so much.  We have a lot of places we want to stop at on the way south and rain wasn’t in our plans.  We’ll see.

Bastia is a real city.  They have big stores, like my favorite discount shoe chain, and big hardware stores, miles of the kind of open malls we have in the states – both sides of the street filled with big new retail temptresses.  We could be outside Philadelphia, St. Louis or Ventura and see the same stuff, more or less.  The main difference is the language.  These stores exist in the suburbs all over France.  Mr. Bricolage,  Carrefour, Casino, Spar, furniture chains, outlet clothing, you know the kind of thing.

Bastia has a big urban sprawl of suburbs.  After you drive through them you hit the new city, modern apartment buildings and condos, office buildings, wide streets.  Then there is the old city huddled around the Old Port.  There’s a new port too, carved out just to the north of the old one.  This is where the ferry boats come in to let off the cars and passengers.  It’s nice and modern, slick and sleek looking at the same time.

The old port is charming and funky with restaurants ringing it.  It’s pleasant to sit outside and look at the boats.  It reminded me of the old port at Nice.  I sat and had a panaché, my favorite drink of beer and lemonade mixed – refreshing and delicious.  Melinda trekked up to look at another church.  My attitude is a bit of “seen one seen ‘em all” so I go to some of them but not every one.  Actually, I like old churches, my minor in college was Medieval art and architecture so I enjoy seeing them.  But my feet and legs were tired.  Enough!  The panaché and the port were calling to me.

Earlier in the day we had, shockingly, found our hotel with no problem.  Bastia is fairly easy to get around, it’s long and narrow and the long part faces the water on one side.  Also, the signs are right on and frequent.

Afterwards, we roamed through the Old City in search of the new Bastia museum.  Melinda had found out about it in the guide books, supposed to open in this past summer.  We all know how that goes…but there it was, open…sort of.

The Museum is housed in the former Genoese Governor’s Palace.  They did a remarkable job of modernizing it while still keeping the feeling of the ancient, albeit cleaned up and rather stark.  There isn’t too much in the museum…I mean just a lot of very nice rooms with maybe four or five items in each room.  Melinda said “It was very thoughtful; they didn’t want to overwhelm our senses or our brains.”  That’s her diplomatic training.   I just thought it looked…hmmm…barren.

We found an elevator and punched a couple of buttons and ended up on empty floors.  When we went back to the entrance a women at the desk took us in hand to show us where to go.  Down in the bottom of the Citadelle we visited  jails and storage rooms for, we think, water and grain.  They were big really empty rooms, but sort of interesting.  Quite informative were short films made for the museum showing, in one, the local churches, oratories and other religious buildings.  Another film showed the modernization of Bastia.

Shocking and a big surprise were the films of Bastia’s partial destruction during WWII.  I didn’t realize that Corsica had been a target during the war.  The glass blower’s wife told us that the Corsicans generally like Americans because of the big air force base in Corsica during WWII.  Lots of Americans were stationed there.  The Yanks made sure there was food in Corsica and got on very closely with the local population.  The Corsicans had been left to their own devices by the French and the Americans were a welcome power on their side to keep the Germans at bay.  I think this is very interesting and want to read more about it.

When the buildings and areas were rebuilt in Bastia, care was taken to keep the architecture in line with the original style and feeling.  The result is the city is newer in places than you would think, but the style is always compatible with the original.

We were ready to leave the museum when another one of the ladies came and grabbed us as we were going out the door.  “Oh, don’t go, you haven’t seen the gardens. Come with me.”  We followed her to an elevator and then up to the fifth floor.  We had already explored and knew that three of those floors were empty.  On arrival at the top she herded us out to a large area overlooking the city and the ports.  It was planted with grass and indigenous plants that had signs telling what they were.  WOW!  Now we’ll know what we’re looking at and we didn’t have to buy the darn book that cost almost $40 USD!…and I’d have to carry it home.  The garden was interesting and looked like a great place to visit of a summer evening.  The views of the city and ports was fabulous and we spent a while gawking and taking great photos.  By hanging a bit out over the wall you can also look down on hidden corners of the Citadelle.  How nice that she caught us in time, we could have missed the best part.

Tomorrow is another day.  Corsica has plenty more secrets to give up.  I have the feeling you could spend years here and still not see it all.  Every day just whets the appetite to explore more.  On the drive from Calvi we found two or three more villages perched on the side of mountains that we could have visited.  Then there was the stream that bubbled along the side of the road…wonder where it went?

 

Tomorrow we are leaving what has been our home for two weeks.  We’re off on a jaunt around the Island of Corsica, first to Bastia in the Northwest, and then south to Porto Vecchia and Bonifacio, then around the southernmost part of the island to Ajaccio.  The South is where most of the early man artifacts are to be found and we’re excited as this is really the focus of the trip.  This is the dead season in Corsica so many of the hotels and restaurants are closed until the spring.  We have to call many of the sites and museums to tell them we are coming and they will open up for us.  How nice that is!

We’re actually feeling sad to leave our apartment.  It’s been comfortable and we’ve settled into a rhythm.  The people who own the Residences are delightful.  It’s managed by two brothers after their mother decided she was tired of doing it herself.  They’re tri-athletes with lovely wives and children.  Every day the family gathers together and has lunch in the main office area that has a big kitchen and bar.  One of the brothers told us that it was his mother’s dream for the family to get together and have lunch every day.  So now, every day at about 11:30 AM someone comes into the kitchen and starts preparing the mid-day meal.  It can be the mother or either of the wives and sometimes even the sons.  The grandkids all come too, one who looks about 4 or 5 and one who is probably not yet 2.  The sons are great with the little guys, feeding them and taking care of them.  It’s such a far cry from the disparate families we are used to in the States.  Everyone is so far away from each other it’s almost impossible to image the pleasure of a family having lunch together every day, let alone at the holidays.

It’s a privileged life they’ve managed to carve out for themselves.  There are several apartments and houses rented out for the summer holidays or whenever someone wants them.  At the moment the sons are dreaming of going to Hawaii for a Tri-Athlete competition.  It’s a long trip, but why not?  They work together well and get along.  We’ve watched them working on the gardens with tractors and heavy machinery.  They play with each other’s kids and everyone looks wonderfully happy.  It’s rubbed off and we’ve enjoyed being here too.

There’s a spa on the premises also.  They have yoga and Pilates as well as stretching and water aerobics.  The outdoor swimming pool is for the people at the Residences but I think the gym and indoor pool is mainly for the spa.

Melinda and I have come down to the office every day to get on-line; it’s where the wi-fi is, so we feel a little bit part of the family.  At first we thought we might be intruding, but no one seems to care if we’re around or not.

They have a bunch of kittens around the place.  Some mom-cat must have had a large litter as there are so many lovely white with black, or grey tiger, or beige and grey tiger, or black and tiger or whatever combinations – so many it’s hard to keep track.  There is one sort of brownish grey tiger with a real attitude who stands in our doorway and yells at us if we don’t feed him – not that he looks deprived, mind you.  Then a couple of the other siblings come over to see if they can cadge something too.  Today Jerome, one of the brothers, asked if we wanted to take a couple of them home with us.  Yeah, right!  I can see my four dogs looking at the new addition to the family…I don’t think so.

These last days we’ve been visiting the artisans in the area.  We went to an amazing knife shop.  The knife-maker settled on the Island almost twenty years ago and studied the designs of the early Corsican knives.  We saw work that incorporated Neolithic designs, Corsican hunting implements, with the Japanese folded blade technique.  He then takes local materials for handles: horn, olive wood and other indigenous trees.  He was an interesting looking man and the shop was like a museum – filled with antique tools used in early knife making.

Our next foray was to visit a local glassmaker.  Again, quality combined with interesting design concepts, many taking inspiration from the waters around the island.  Turned out his wife is from New York!  Was that a surprise.  We spent a lovely afternoon chatting with her and came back the next day to watch him make a piece for a client.  The design was the head of a Moray Eel inside a bubble.  It was inspirational to watch the artist working  to get the design just right, freehand, no template or design to work from other than pictures in his head.  We gawked and thrilled to watch lumps of molten turned into amazing works of art.  What a satisfaction that must be.

After,  we were off to the ceramic artists up in the villages in the hills around Pigna.  Again, what a life style.  The villages are beautiful, relics of a life lived at a pace different from what we know.  The bars filled with people outside enjoying an espresso or a local beer as they take in the changing colors of the sky.  One of the potter’s work reflects the Corsican sky and water.  There is a clarity to the air that’s hard to fathom.  Maybe that’s what it should be like without all the pollution?  The water is brilliant blue and goes to lighter shades of turquoise.  We keep trying to get photos of it but it’s beyond the capability of even a good digital camera to capture.  I think the ceramicist has managed in his glazes.  If it wasn’t so dreadfully expensive to bring back, I would have given in and bought a very large tureen of the most vivid Mediterranean blue-turquoise.  There is no way to have snuck it into a suitcase, and it would be a shame to have it break en route.   I was covetous of taking a smidge of Corsican blue back home with me.

We’ve visited wineries and jewelry makers as well as the knife-makers, glass blowers, and ceramic artists; tried to get into basket-makers and mosaic artists and cheese-makers.  Everyone seems to have landed in Corsica because of the life here.  It gives them both inspiration and the time to create.  On this island it’s very far away from the rush of the mainland, be it Europe or America.  We tried to imagine living here.  No, we both decided we’d have island fever in not too long a time.  Civilization has conditioned our responses and we’ve been trained to need all the nonsense that goes with it, like cable or satellite TV – which, by the way, is available but we haven’t seen it.  Movie theatres, restaurants, a place where businesses don’t close up for the winter, you know the stuff…malls.

I’ve been doing a lot of writing; we’ve seen lots of places and taken lots of photos.  We’ve played with many friendly dogs, including a charming pug at the glass blowers, a very affectionate yellow girl at one of the pottery stores, a charming spaniel when I signed up for a cell phone and two wonderful rescue dogs at the jewelry artist.  The latter lives near a campground and she guards her dogs as they tend to get stolen by the campers, taken back to Italy and sold for lab experiments – at least that is what she’s afraid of.  The dogs have been well-behaved, know to alert their owner that strangers are there, and then are very polite in taking their pats and rubs once the master appears on the scene.

It’s been good to be in one place for enough time to pick up its rhythm.  When you buzz in and out of a place, you get a more superficial view of things.  Here, we’ve chatted with lots of people, nudged them to talk about themselves in whatever language they speak.  We’ve gotten to know the girl at the Parapharmacy where we keep going to oogle the packaging on the cosmetics, potions and lotions. We’ve had ladies helping us find products in the grocery store who later wave at us like old friends.

I guess all of this is just a long winded way of saying that we’ll be sorry to leave tomorrow.  Maybe we haven’t been here long enough to have island fever yet.  But darn, we do miss our dogs!

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

We are still in Calvi, and the sun is shining!  We are are off to St. Florent, a charming port on the North West side of Corsica.  It’s one of those places where you can’t get there from here.  As the crow flies, it’s probably around forty-five miles.  The way the road twists and turns it feels like two hundred.  It takes us and hour and three-quarters.  There’s a good road from Calvi to L’isle Rousse and then north for another twenty miles or so after you take a left turn onto D81.  You go through the Desert des Agrigates.

We never found out what “Agrigates” means.  “Maybe it’s the name of the area?” was one of the responses.  We thought it might have been named for some type of vegetation.  It doesn’t seem to be named after any person or legend, so there it is.  Just a desert.

But what a desert!  It’s not your sandy flat or rolling place.  It’s high mountains topped by peaks, shawled with fringes of fog, looking down on range after range of hard grey rock covered with brush and scrub.  It’s shades of bright green everywhere, over, teasing playful, under and around the rocks.  We take samples from places along the road to try and find out what the names of the bushes are.  No one really knows.  “It’s Maquis.”  Is the answer.  Huh?  It’s got different leaves, colors, some with berries.   No really cares either.  It’s all Maquis.  The term is a catch-all for the wild growths on the cliffs.

We found tiny yellow flowers like miniature daisies.  Miniscule lavender flowers with bases like elfin pine cones spring out in the middle of dense brush.  We thought they might be a kissing cousin of lavender but no, there’s no scent and again, the same answer – “Maquis” and a shrug of the shoulders.

The desert has its own very special fragrance.  We stood by the road to inhale and try to explain the wonderful and complex scent.  Was it honeysuckle? Lavender?  Something like holly?  It is a mélange, sweet, fresh and heady at the same time.

I remembered going into a perfume store or department store and saying to a salesperson “I want that one, that fragrance I just smelled as I walked by.”

The response has always been, “Sorry, but that’s a combination of all the samples blending.  May I show you…”  I’ve always been disappointed when I couldn’t have just that special blend.

But the Maquis doesn’t disappoint.  Just as you think you can say it smells like…whatever…another essence floats by and gives it a different dimension.  It’s disturbing in a way, you feel like an idiot, standing outside your car sniffing.  At one stop the air seemed to be filled with honey.  Honeysuckle?  In the middle of the mountains in November?   It was so distinct we were sure we could find it.   After sniffing up and down I found a fragile vine with almost microscopic white flowers and sharp thorns twined around a bush with small leaves like holly.  That vine provided the sweet undercurrent of the Maquis scent. We took a sample back to the residences.  Again, no one knew what it was called but they agreed, its fragrance was unmistakable.

Melinda was fascinated with a berry bush of red and orange globes the size of small marbles. On close inspection they were globes with soft spikes like tiny porcupines.  The inside skin was pale golden-orange and the spikes were bright red or a vivid orange.  While no one seemed to know the name, they were positive that if you ate too many of them you were in for a forceful intestinal event.  It seemed to be a rather universal childhood learning experience.

The last two samples we brought back were bushes also, one with berries so small they were like large grains of caviar.  The plant had fern-like branches of leaves.  Our last sample had what looks like roses the size of a large nutmeg clove.  It had a very distinct and pleasant odor like an herb mélange mixed with a bit of eucalyptus.  I couldn’t begin to imagine the diversity of plants that make up the Maquis.  We spent a few minutes noodling around and managed an assortment of completely different  samples.  I wish I knew more about botany, it would be fascinating to just study this small corner of the world.

The ride was at times frightening winding around narrow roads while hanging off the sides of mountains with no bottom in sight.  At least there was almost no traffic since it was off-season.  I drive slow and keep my eye on the road, and, since I am French in name only, I don’t mind if anyone passes me.

There’s a special quirk of culture that seems to assail all French, male or female, whatever age.  They cannot possibly allow anyone to be in front of them on the road.  I had to explain to Melinda.  “It doesn’t matter how fast or slow I’m going, or how winding the road is, they will pass me even on a blind corner.”

“What’s with that?” Melinda asked.  “Is it intolerable to have someone in front of them?”

“You got it.  There’s no way a French driver can permit anyone in front of them.  Watch.  You won’t believe it.  Even my husband was like that when he drove in France.  When we were in the States, it was another thing and he didn’t care.”  At first she laughed at me.

And then, sure enough, we’d be on a road in rain and heavy fog and whoever was behind HAD to pass us, able to see ahead or not.  I’ve had a lot of experience with this quirk.  Whenever possible, if someone is behind me, I pull over to the side and let them go by.  I think the French government should give me a citation for all the lives I’ve saved in their country.

I also have an ulterior motive.  Most of the drivers don’t really seem to know how close to pass and when to cut over in front.  We came very near to losing our front bumper a couple of times and might have if I didn’t slow down and let them get in front.

The other thing I do is refuse to play “chicken.”  Very often you can be on a two lane road and look in horror at some maniac passing on the other side of the road.  That means he is in YOUR LANE!  Heading right towards you.  And at breakneck speed so he can get in front of the other car.  I pull over.  Too bad if he hits the car behind me, who often won’t give way.  They don’t seem to have been taught the amount of space needed to pass a car without crashing into someone coming in the other direction.  I’m not about to give them a negative lesson.  So far on this trip it’s happened twice…just not finished counting.

Back to St. Florent.  We arrive after winding through the desert, it was only nineteen miles, but it seemed a lot longer and took  us close to an hour.

St. Florent is snuggled in a protected harbor with mountains cradling it on three sides.  It was a Roman port and now is home to every kind of pleasure boat you can imagine.  A veritable maritime parking lot, and then some.  A row of restaurants fronts the harbor so patrons can sit and look at the pleasure boats.  Everything is very neat and clean, no smelly fishing boats in sight.   The restaurants face the bigger boats, there’s another area for the smaller open craft.  Melinda described it as a forest of sail boats with rigging jingling in the wind.

We stopped at one restaurant that seemed to have a bunch of people in it.  Always a good sign when off-season.  It’s nice to go someplace where you are sure the food has been turned…especially seafood.

The menu was a bit of a shock.  Melinda looked at it and turned to me.  “I would have liked the sole, but look at the price.”

I did.  Thirty Euros!  That translates to about forty-five dollars!!  For a plate with a fish, a bit of potato and a few veggies.  We Americans are REALLY broke and third world.  Now, this was a nice restaurant in a nice place, but it wasn’t Cannes or St. Tropez and it was very off season.  We had spotted a “Menu” of the day as we walked in and asked to see that.  Very nice and better price.  It was eighteen Euros for appetizer, main course and dessert.  There were two different Menus; one with Corsican specialties and one “Menu Degustation” or a “sampler” to taste.  We took the Degustation and it was wonderful.  We started with Soup de Poissons, or fish soup.  This is a specialty of the South of France and is an event in itself.  A large tureen of thick and savory soup made from an assortment of Mediterranean fish appears on the table accompanied by a side dish with thin toasted baguette slices, garlic mayonnaise, a clove of garlic and grated Parmesan cheese.  The way to eat the soup is to rub the raw garlic on your toast, slather on the garlic mayonnaise and mound the cheese on top.  Place the toasts on the bowl and then ladle on the soup.  After the toasts sit for a minute or two they soak up the soup and the soup returns the favor by taking in the flavors of garlic, mayonnaise and cheese.  Dig in and enjoy!  Yummmm!

There is a downside to soup de poissons.  Don’t get anywhere near someone whose system is garlic-free.  There is so much garlic in the soup concoction that it comes out of your pores.  I once made the mistake of having a huge bowl of soup de posissons for lunch and then hugging my top buyer freshly arrived from London.  The response was “Alice, I’m glad to see you too, but you stink!  Give me a day to have some garlic in my system before you hug me.”

Melinda and I had no problem.  We both stank, and I’m sure our little car was filled with garlic fumes on the way home.  The lucky thing about garlic is, if you both eat it you can’t smell it on the other person.

After the soup, I have mussels again, this time with pasta and a savory Corsican sauce of herbs and a bit of oil.  I have no idea what it consisted of other than saffron but it was delicious.  Melinda had rascasse fillets, a small red fish, and we topped it off with chocolate mousse for her and an apple tart for me.  The only down side to our lunch was the obvious build-up of fog and clouds moving ominously towards us.  There was no way we wanted to do the zig-zag return trip in the rain and fog.  It was more than bad enough in the sun.

We got in the car and left, only to find the road clear and sunny on the way home.  We had a few minutes of sprinkles but that was it.

Melinda is the navigator and fact finder on the trip.  The most interesting one she found on this jaunt is apropos since it’s Election Day in the States.  Pascal Paoli was the leader of the 18^th century revolution to free Corsica from their then current occupier, the Genoese.  Paoli wrote a Constitution fifty years before America and we copied many of our provisions from his document.  In 1755 Paoli became leader of Corsica and introduced a constitution that provided that every man over 25 had a vote. To this day, Paoli is considered the father of his country.

The one piece of information that seems to remain shrouded in legend is the actual origin of the Corsican flag.  It’s a white flag with a black Moorish head wearing a white bandana around it’s forehead.  Since we arrived, we’ve heard and read many different stories about how it became the symbol of Corsica. They range from scholarly dissertations on similarity with other symbols on flags to Saracen capture of a beautiful woman and her subsequent rescue from a fate worse than death in Spain.

The story we like best is the following:  It seems a Moorish pirate plagued the coastline with his raping, thievery and destruction.  His raids made the Corsicans wild with rage until they finally were able to capture him and behead him for his crimes.  The head is therefore a symbol of the Corsicans telling the world – “Don’t f**k with us!”  Sounded about right.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Yesterday it rained most of the day, and today too.  Not nice to take photos so there are no additions to the Picassa web albums.

It was supposed to be the last day many of the artisan ateliers were open before closing for the season, and Sunday they are only open in the morning.  We drove around in the rain and – guess what? – we got lost again.  We managed to find a couple of the places but they had already closed.

Not much to do in the rain so we decided to drive to “L’isle Rousse for lunch.  On the way, slopping through the rain, we stopped at a cinema Melinda had spotted.  Darn, it was closed except for a kid’s show Sunday afternoon and some French movie, one showing in the evening.  We were consigned to French TV for our entertainment.

Guide books at the ready we found a restaurant near the port that seemed to have a fair review.  Oddly, most of the restaurants close the end of October, guess there is no business for them afterwards.  It’s sort of odd as there is a big hoop-la about Christmas celebrations in Calvi and environs so it seems strange that the restaurants would close.  Many of the storekeepers told us that October 31^st was the last day of the season and they were closing until Easter brought the tourists back.  It’s not everyone so when we look at the guide books it’s not easy to figure out who is open and who closes.  Seems rather a hit and miss affair.

The Residences where we are staying seem to be filled with families.  Good for them.

Anyway, we found a restaurant by the port and had a nice lunch.  They were doing a brisk Sunday lunch business with almost every table filled.  I had a good carpaccio, raw beef sliced paper-thin and sprinkled with olive oil and lemon juice, and then thin sliced Parmesan cheese spread on top.  It was delicious!  My main course was a very simple pasta with plain marinara sauce.  It was a bit too simple but OK.  Melinda had good ravioli t stuffed with Bracciu, a Corsican  cheese, and probably spinach – hard to tell.  She had a small pichet of the local red wine and I had a Corsican beer, nice amber color and full flavor that I like.  It was a good lunch and not outrageously expensive.  Back home we were able to go to the office and do a little work on the computer.  There was a warm fire burning in the fireplace and after an hour I couldn’t take the smoke any more.  A very annoying side effect of having given up smoking years ago is a sensitivity to smoke of any kind.  Cigarettes, pipe, cigars, whatever, all make my nasal tissues burn and swell and my nose runs.  It’s very unpleasant and uncomfortable for me.  I didn’t realize that a fireplace would do the same thing.  It was very disappointing to have to leave the warm cozy atmosphere but it was so uncomfortable I had no choice.

Today it rained like mad again.  It’s now five o’clock and I can finally see the sun breaking through the dense cloud covering that we have been smothered in.  Maybe we’ll be lucky with the weather tomorrow.

For lunch we had a Cassoulet which is a divine concoction made of pork, potted duck, sausage, lard and white beans.  It is from the area of Toulouse and is great with good glass of wine.  We went for a Corsican rosé from Domaine D’ALZIPRATU that was just right.  It is called a Cuvee Fiumesecca, light, fruity but with a full taste that reminds you of lunch on the beach in sunshine.  Perfect to cheer up a rainy day.

A few days ago on one of our jaunts we happened to spot a sign for a winery so we had to stop and check it out.  It was at the end of a very rutted and twisty road, but, thankfully, it was not steep.  We followed signs pointing us down a dirt road and finally to a open area with a hand painted “Park” sign.  So we did.  Melinda spotted a very nice looking dog so we decided to follow it into a barn.  There were two ladies presiding and it was a rustic tasting room.  It reminded me of the old days in the Santa Ynez Valley before the tasting rooms became chichi and Yuppified so they could charge for tastings.  This barn was filled with cases of wine stacked along the walls and back in another dark part.  There was a table set up with some written  information and a couple of wine bottles with indications of the prizes they had won.

We started speaking with one of the ladies, the other was busy with what looked like a wholesale customer and we didn’t want to interfere with her business.  We tasted two of the reds, they were all right, one way to strong for my taste.  They both had interesting flavors, different grapes from the merlot, pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, sirrah and Grenache that we are used to in both California and France.  Maybe closer to some of the Italian grapes, I don’t know.  Then, the lady who had been helping us looked at us with a twinkle in her eye.  She pulled out a bottle with a light color contents, sort of a very pale orange/apricot color.  “This, this wine is our prizewinner too this year.” She announced proudly.  “It is an orange wine, use it for aperitif.  Here, have a taste.” And she dumped out what had been in our tasting glass and gave us two new ones.

It was like drinking a little bit of heaven!  Smooth, cool liquid, orange flavor, alcohol and light with a natural sweet.  It defied description.  I wanted to try and figure out how to bathe in it.  Maybe just climb in a vat and stay there?  How much would Homeland Security let me bring back to the USA?  I was in love.  Talk about delicious… We left with one bottle, I know where the place is and I want to drink the one we have and bring another one home.  If I manage to bring a bottle home, dear friends, although I love you, I might just hide my prize in some deep dark corner of the house.  Since it is high in alcohol, it will stay for a long time and not go bad as wine does.  If I manage to bring some home and offer you a sip, take it and know I love you!  If there is a heaven and there is booze to drink there – this is it!

After a little more conversation with the ladies of the winery, they asked us where we were staying.  When we told them, one of the ladies laughed.  “That’s my sister’s place.”  Small world.

As I look at the window, it seems that the sky is really trying to clear.  There are birds flying around when before they were all huddled under the trees.  Maybe there is hope for tomorrow.  If we don’t get out it will be a problem, we will run out of books to read sooner than we had thought.  Also, there are places around Calvi that we haven’t had a chance to visit yet so we have to get cracking as long as we are here.  We can sit home and read anyplace.  But then, I remind myself of the cassoulet…and think of the pate to come for dinner…and maybe a little of the orange wine with it.  Life is not too bad after all, with or without rain.

On The Lamm in Corsica…

Le 19e Festival du Vent

My dear friend Melinda Bates and I have been touring Corsica and the South of France. Currently we are in Corsica for two weeks.

I planned the trip originally for researching a novel I’ve been working on that takes place in Corsica.  The idea was to scout locations so the descriptions would be believable.  Soooo, the first day at the office of the “Residences” for the apartment I rented, I asked one of the owners, Jerome, where in Corsica would be the best place to disappear and no one would ever find you.  I thought it was a perfectly reasonable question, but he looked at me oddly.  Perhaps my question wasn’t clearly phrased.  I tried again.  “If you were going to hide somewhere on the Island where no one would be likely to find you, ever, where would you go?”

“Are you hiding out from the authorities?” he finally asked with a great deal of trepidation.  He moved back a bit from me as if I were about to attack him.  Now I’m five foot five and a bit and he’s well over six feet and looks pretty muscular.  Could he have feared the pinch of the stiletto that most Corsican ladies of yore carried hidden in their belts?

Melinda came to my rescue. “No, not at all.  She’s writing a book and need this information for her story.”

Jerome exhaled with obvious relief.  It didn’t seem that it was hard for him to imagine two American ladies of a certain age going on the lamm from the authorities into the wilds of Corsica, or perhaps planning a caper that might call for them to hide out.  Hmmmm.  I’m still not sure what that says about him, the Corsican mentality, the reputation of American or Corsican ladies, or the Corsican image of America.  This will require more thought.

I think he’s gotten over it, but I did notice that for the last several days he’s sent his very soigné mother to deal with us when necessary.  She takes the whole thing in stride.

Tuesday,  Melinda and I went to the Festival of the Wind in Calvi.  It’s a collection of white peaked tents like you would imagine knights having at a jousting tournament.  There were even a few colored streamers here and there.  It had a good crowd considering it was off season and a weekday.  It was in the middle of the fall school vacation so there were a lot of nice things for kids to do.  The center area had a large pool with sailboats to sail and someone who seemed to be organizing races.

The idea of the event was ecological in bent.  Booths proclaimed new methods of harnessing the power of the wind, alternate energy sources, even information and discussion on the disappearance of the bees.  Recyclables were in evidence, projects were proposed to lessen everyone’s carbon imprint.  We wandered around and looked at colorful kites, beautifully hand-crafter shoes in soft leathers with flowers and charming designs.  We had designs on the shoes too until we saw the prices.  Whoof!  Not for Americans with the descending dollar.  But there was a lipstick red pair of low boots that was really spectacular…

Another booth had a display of clothes.  Think tee-shirts, windbreakers, zip sweatshirts.  The prices translated into more than a hundred dollars for a zip sweatshirt.  We walked on by.

There were a lot of booths with food, most of it fried dough things that were cold and indigestible but might have been wonderful had they been warm.  I thought of the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy in New York City with zeppoli, sort of doughnut –like things fried in front of you by dropping them in a drum of hot oil, scooped out, dumped in paper bags with an over-generous amount of powdered sugar.  The whole concoction was then shaken vigorously and was supposed to be eaten while still at least warm.  Cold, they became indigestible belly burners…like the ones at the Festival du Vent.

We sat at one of the many tables provided to eat our semi-comestibles and I went to get some liquid to float the whole mess south.  I recalled the theme of the Festival was to encourage people not to smoke and to keep the air clean and breathable.  The woman who took my money was sitting with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and puffing smoke in my face as she handed me change.  Huhhhh?  Yuck!

The flyer for the Festival had a whole front page on trying to convince people to not dump their cigarette butts on the nature, in the street, on beaches and so forth.  I found it idiotically hypocritical to have the people working at the affair smoking and blowing it at all the supporters.  Actually, maybe it was negative affirmations.  It sure worked on me.  I wanted to get as far away from the smoke as possible.  So, we took a table at the front of the eating area and found we were just where coffee cans had been provided for ashtrays and all the workers in their tee-shirts from the event stood there and smoked.

As an ex-smoker who took ten years to quit, and yes, I did, I understand how hard it is to give up smoking.  But look at it this way ladies, you can breathe better, not get such horrible wrinkles around your mouth, improve your circulation and chance of not having a heart attack, smell much nicer, and not be like licking an ashtray if someone might possibly want to kiss you.  I’m just sayin’….

Later, we went to one of the concerts advertised in the flyer given out at the entrance.  The price on the flyer was ten Euros.  Okay, that’s about fifteen US dollars.  When we went to buy the tickets, they were suddenly twenty Euros.  When we asked, the woman shrugged her shoulders in a typical Gaelic manner and said that was the amount printed on the ticket.  We said “non merci” and left.  Thirty dollars was more than we had any intention of paying for a sixty minute concert.

We went back to our little apartment and tried to heat up the beignets as our dessert.  Not so great.
I am still in search of the wonderful food of Corsica.  I admit to spectacular moules on my birthday and we have found some very nice wines.  The pizza I had for lunch after our cuisine debacle at the Festival was overpriced and less than acceptable for an island that has been shifted back and forth between France and Italy for generations.

That’s not to say we have not eaten well.  We have, but it’s been at home in our Corsican kitchen where we stuffed ourselves with cheese, pate, salads, roast chicken and pork, mostly of our own making with the added delight of fresh fruits and wonderful fresh breads.  Melinda has now agreed not to buy four croissants and four pan au chocolate at a time.  We will have them just on Sunday as a treat.  It’s a way to ease off her addiction to them.  We won’t talk about mine here…  Okay, it comes in a cup in the morning and we use French heavy cream with it.  I don’t know if it’s the water or the Carte Noire that I use with abandon, but the coffee always seems to taste better here.

Wednesday we drove through the mountains to visit small towns.  There are beautiful villages clinging to the cliffs.  Houses are all shadings of beige or ochre with an occasional pink tone thrown in for good measure.  Roofs are lichen spotted red tile and the general color for the ubiquitous wooden shutters are various hues of blue.  Melinda fell in love with the blue of Pigna which she has just described for me as a soft blue with a little lavender in it.   Other villages have tended more towards a blue-green.

Each village has it’s own breathtaking view of the valleys or mountains or ocean below.  There are some that perch on the more northern face of the mountains and other that face full south or west to catch the sun.   The way up to those villages before accessible roads and cars must have daunted all but the most determined invaders.  Not only is the going steep, but it’s through dense foliage where every branch could hide a Corsican with a gun or a knife.  Oddly, it didn’t seem to deter the various invaders from the Phoenicians, Etruscans, Venetians, Genovese, French, Sardinians, the unknown Toreens, Carthaginians,  and Greeks to the Saracens.

Thursday we tooled across the Island to visit the museums at both Corte and Aléria.  Corte is reputed to be the bastion of the Corsican revolutionary movement.  The museum is on the side of a hill at the foot of a soaring Citadel looking out over the valley below.  Melinda braved the 100 steps up to the ramparts of the Citadel while I lounged below nursing a sore hip.  Little did I know…

The museum seemed to be primarily devoted to agriculture and anthropology in Corsica through the centuries. They also devoted a fair bit of space to the Corsican Brotherhood with a general disclaimer that the information was given not as an indication of a bias on the part of the museum but to inform the public as to movements within the culture of the island.  They phrased it with more diplomacy in French but you get the point  –  no endorsement, just information.

Since we were more interested in archeology and early man sites, we moved quickly on to Aléria.  Well, that is, as quickly  as you can move on very good two lane roads that wind around sharp curves.  Once we reached the flat plain below Corte the going was much faster and we arrived at the museum and ancient Roman site in plenty of time to noodle around.

The museum was interesting for its large assortment of Etruscan and Roman ceramics and glassware.  It was filled with small burial artifacts and pottery mostly dating from the fifth through third century before Christ.  In large supply were vases, bowls and plates in the typical Etruscan black designs.  Dionysus was obviously a favorite of the invaders as he was found in a myriad of poses including masturbation.  Those Romans…

After wandering around for a while in the upstairs rooms where the collection was kept, Melinda leaned over to me and whispered “This reminds me of the dinner party scene in ‘La Cage Aux
Folles’ where the fiancé’s family comes to dinner and the mother remarks something like, ‘Oh, look at the boys playing leap-frog.’”

It was remarkable to see twenty-five hundred year old tiny and intricate glass vases, pins of bronze, bowls and urns that survived with their beauty intact.  There was a plate that caught our interest of a man walking with his dog.  Things seemed to come in pairs or sets as there were many items with the same or similar designs.  I am now going to have to research what it means to pass a rod or staff, what do men with tails represent in mythology and what is the symbol of the owl?

After leaving the building housing the rooms of the museum, we set out to find the Roman ruins, all part of the museum.  Guess what?  No directions.  There is a dirt path at the side of the square in front of the museum.  Melinda decides it has to be the right way to go as it’s the only way.  Star navigator as she is, voilá, it is the right way.  There are people coming along the opposite direction and they tell us, “yes, the Roman ruins are there” as they point ahead on the path.

Those Roman sure knew how to live!  The hill they chose is far away from the malaria of the swamp where a river meets the sea.  The view is of the valley below and the sea beyond.  We wander around the excavations and can follow the signs to get the general layout of the place, the two temples, the forum, the shops and residences, cisterns and baths.  It all seems in a small scale, but its hard to determine sizes correctly from mere foundations.  Touching the stones, you can close your eyes and imagine people bustling around, the gossip, the intrigue and commerce of a far-flung Roman outpost.

As we made our way down the hill we saw that a bar on the side of the road to the parking is open and we go inside, greeted warmly by a tiny black and brown dog that looks like a cross between a Chihuahua and a Mini Pin.  She snuggles up to Melinda for her magic fingers dog massage and decides it’s a good place to say.  When Melinda stops she comes over to me but I’m obviously not near as good with tummy rubs as Melinda.  Her name is Chlôé and the owner proudly tells us she goes hunting with him for wild boar, or sanglier.  Melinda believes him, I think he’s pulling our leg, but that’s OK too.  Chlôé is his baby and he gives her some sugar when she bats her long black lashes at him.

Another customer comes in fully dressed in red, grey and white leathers, well worn and obviously off his moto which is parked outside.  He speaks English and tells us he had an American girlfriend from Tennessee.  We hang out for a while and then have to leave to make sure we hit a market before they close.  We need soap for the washing machine and bread.

The drive home is all right until it gets dark.  The roads are narrow and wind up and down the mountains along the coast and French drivers MUST pass you.  It is intolerable for any car to be in front of them so they climb up your butt put on their bright lights and hang there until you either pull over or they pass you on some hairpin curve.  I breathe as sigh of relief as we finally get to L’isle Rousse and are within shooting distance of Calvi.  Home ground…we made it.

There was a concert we had wanted to catch.  It was part of the Festival du Vent at was at nine o’clock at the Cathédrale at the Citadelle in Calvi.  We had no money so we found an ATM, got somecassh, ran into an Italian restaurant in the lower village where we had dinner – the first meal since breakfast so we were VERY hungry.  After stuffing down dinner, we went to the Citadelle parking and then up the hill to the Cathédrale to see if we could still buy tickets to get in.

Now, I say “up the hill” in a very cavalier fashion.  Let’s be honest.  That means climb the bloody mountain because you can’t get up any other way unless you happen to live there.  I’ve been driving all day, just ate a big dinner and now I’m rushing up the mountain on dark cobblestone steps and uneven walkways.  There are no lights.  None.  I’ve visions of Corsican bandits leaping out of the shadows to mug us.  We are alone and everyone else is at the damned concert, which has probably already started.  Melinda, akin to a mountain goat, is up ahead while I puff and pant up the slippery cobblestones mentally calling her and the Corsicans who planned the city every name in every language I can speak.  As I drag my sorry and exhausted butt up the final stairs to the Cathédrale I can hear the beautiful polyphonic music spill out.  The group, Missaghju, has just begun, and Melinda has managed to wrangle two tickets for us to get in.  I decide not to kill her after all, and actually, I left my stiletto at home.  She pushes me into a seat at the back of the Cathédrale and eventually I stop puffing, the blood has stopped loudly running in my ears, the sweat has dried and the concert is eventually worth the run up the mountain.  After all, I didn’t have a heart attack so all is well.

The concert is wrapped up in it’s last selections with one of the men singing “Ave Maria.”  His flat and nasal beautiful Corsican sound fills the Cathédrale with no need for a microphone.  The quatrefoil design of the building spills the sounds across the ceilings and down to the audience with a clarity not found in artificially enhanced sound.  That alone was worth the run.

As we make our way back down the cobblestones, we are with the crowd from the concert. I hear grumbling in French, Italian and Corsican about the lack of lights and the damned slippery cobblestones.  It’s good to not be alone in internal swearing.

As we head home I announce, “Tomorrow I’m not doing anything.  I’m going to do some laundry at the apartment and give myself a pedicure.  That’s it!”

On the weary final climb –  the twenty steps to our apartment, Melinda says, “It was a twelve hour day, and I’d say we had the most culture possible in that time.”

Yep, I agree.  And I’m really glad I didn’t do those hundred steps at the Citadelle of Corte.

So, here I sit in my PJs with my coffee, and I’m looking at the flyer for the Festival du Vent.  I see there’s something called the “Eventi Verticali” at the Tour de Sel.  I wonder what that’s all about?

 

October 30, 2010 Corsica
Yesterday we decided to take the day off from driving around and do a little bit of work around the apartment. We gave ourselves manicures and pedicures and did some laundry. In Europe they mostly don’t believe in dryers. Remember, we thought there was a shortage of air in France? Anyway, we left in the afternoon with the apartment filled with wet laundry hanging all over the place.
We headed off for some afternoon entertainment at another event from the Festival du Vent. This one was in Calvi at the base of the Citadelle at the Tour du Sel (Salt Tower), a Medieval tower at the foot of the fort looking out over the harbor.
There was a crowd of people when we arrived, mostly families, sitting on the sidewalk, the walls and the tables at the restaurants ringing the harbor.
We sat on the wall and were treated to an odd event where two guys hung, mostly upside down, from the tower. One was supposed to be a Ninja, the other a detective (?) after him. They kept changing costumes while they chased each other back and forth and up and down the tower so it was hard to keep track of what they were doing or who they were supposed to be…actually we didn’t care very much. After a while we gave up and decided to cruise the harbor area, it was still early and we don’t have much light in the apartment.
At the restaurants we found overpriced pizza, and ice cream concoctions for 11€ each, which roughly translates into $15 USD. We found one where we could get a Grand Marnier or Cointreau crepe for 4€ and espresso for 1.5€ and sit at a great table overlooking the harbor. We were happy campers. There was a large table near us with two kids, the parents were all smoking and blowing smoke at us and the kids. They had surely just came from the Festival du Vent and had decided they were doing their part to keep the air clean.
Saturday we went to the Casino Supermarche and had a great time buying food and looking at all the great stuff in the pre-prepared area. We haven’t gone out to eat much as we have a good kitchen at the apartment and have been eating all the wonderful breads, pates and cooked chickens. We found fruits and veggies at the markets and Melinda has been ODing on fig jam and Caprice des Deux cheese with fresh bread from the Boulangerie. I like all the different things for salads and the Panache, combo beer and lemonade. We haven’t been starving…
Saturday afternoon we went to Lumio, a small village hanging off one of the local mountains. It is supposed to be the site of ancient sun worshippers. The town is situated so it catches the reflection of the sunset over Calvi and turns bright pink. We were there too early to catch the sunset but we saw if from Calvi and it was truly pink.

October 22, 2010

We are in Aix-en-Provence, leaving in about an hour for Nice to take the Ferry to Corsica. Since arriving in Aix, we have been constantly lost.  To begin with, we found the hotel with some difficulty, but we got here, checked in and were handed a map of the area.  I grabbed the map and headed for the car, passing it off to my star navigator, Melinda Bates.  After all, she had her reading glasses accessible and could read the mouse type the street names were written in.  I hadn’t noticed the location of the Campanile Hotel we were staying at wasn’t indicated on the map.

Just going to town to try and find the center we were lost.  It took us almost an hour to make the ten minute trip as the Centre Ville signs pointed in different directions.  In a way, it was all right as the marche was closing and there wasn’t much left to buy but we were diligent in our search.

We had a student lunch at a sidewalk café and watched the dogs of Aix parade by.  There was a small and anxious rough-coated Jack Russell who was forever hopeful someone at the restaurant would drop a morsel of their lunch.  He didn’t have much success.  A well groomed Pyrenees Mountain dog strutted by accompanied by a smaller mutt. They managed to take umbrage at any other dogs in the vicinity.

Aix is a university town.  Students fill every nook and cranny, smoking, talking, texting and gesturing with the intensity only youth can have.  The rest of us have somehow realized that taking ourselves so seriously is a futile pursuit since no one else does.

Scarves are in.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, sports a scarf.  The mode seems to concentrate on Bedouin chic with the checkered, fringed and tasseled large cotton squares winning the numbers contest.  Next are the Bedouin wannabees in all colors.  It seems that some grunge and crumple help to make the fashion.  Melinda grumbled at me when I pulled a blue cotton scarf, with little elephants strategically placed, out of my suitcase and flung it around my neck in the current style.  The middle goes in the front of my neck with the ends wrapped around the back and hang down the front.  Think of a Jihadi terrorist with Irish blue eyes and white hair…I know, I know. It’s not the profile, but what the heck, in France it’s only for style.

The next thing we notice is that there is a drastic shortage of air in France.  When you go to the loo, the machines that dry your hands go on for une second and flash off.  You bang, wave your hands at anything that looks like a magic eye and if lucky, the machine coughs at you once, if very lucky – twice, and then turns off.  I came out muttering “How the heck are we supposed to dry our hands?”

Melinda looked at me sweetly, “That’s what clothes are for.”

Then we went to the concert.  For months we had planned to go to the “i muvrini” concert last night in Aix.  I odered tickets from Fnac on-line.  “i muvrini” is a Corsican group that developed their own style as an off-shoot of ancient polyphonic music, traditional on the island of Corsica.  Some experts think some of the traditional songs might even go back as far as the Neolithic age.  It has a haunting and primal quality that weaves its way into your spirit.  Don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not simple, but a complex blend of many cultures, rhythms and styles spanning centuries. Every conqueror of the Island added a bit to the traditions.  The original polyphonic music was sung by men, unaccompanied by any instruments, and it can still be found today in small villages in celebration of the mass.

“i muvrini” has built on the ancient polyphonic sounds to include instruments, rhythms and sounds from indigenous peoples around the world.  They include a flute, bagpipe and a gentleman from the Côte d’Ivoire playing the bass guitar.  The result is a magic of harmonies vibrating into your soul.

But the Pasino, a casino and hall for spectaculars, was their venue.  The room was huge, probably more than 2000 people crammed in.  It wasn’t uncomfortable seating, but about half way through the performance the lack of air became noticeable.  It got hotter and hotter, more and more difficult to breathe, no ventilation at all.  Several times I felt myself start to get light headed as if I was going to faint and pulled out our worthless map to fan myself with.  It helped a bit.  By the time the concert was over, the entire audience literally ran out of the concert hall gulping for breath.  That part was not fun.  It was a shame it detracted from the art and beauty of the performance.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you about being lost again.  We got lost on the way back from the concert to our hotel.  It took us an hour and a half to make a five minute trip.  We were lost on the way there too but at least we could see where we were going – not that it helped much. Unless they get better signage, it’s the last time I’m going to Aix without a guide dog.

 

October 23, 2010

We’re up early in the AM, breakfast downed and on our way to Nice for the ferry to Corsica.  There is a general strike going on in France.  The social security system wants to raise retirement age from 60 to 62 and there are riots in the streets.  Never mind that will still be the lowest age of any first world country.  Sorry, Greece is lower, but they are so corrupt and bankrupt no one will ever collect.  Many of the rioters are students who haven’t the slightest clue that unless France raises the age, the system will be so broke they won’t get a thing at retirement.  Anyway, the result is no gas in many areas.  We fill up just before Nice and cross our fingers that Corsica will have gas by the time we need it.  Our car takes unleaded and it seems it is the scarcest.  We might have to go to Hertz and weasel another car, maybe diesel.

On the way we stop at Frejus and visit the ruins of the Roman theatre.  Interesting to see the people have erected a modern “tinker-toy” structure of seats over the ruins and still use the original stage.

Our next stop is Cannes for a walk on the Croisette and a short visit to the lobby of the Carlton – my old stomping grounds for so many years.  Oddly, I didn’t feel any nostalgia for the place.  I haven’t missed it even though I spent 27 years going twice a year for the television markets and often for the Cannes Film Festival.

We took the coast road to Nice visiting Cagnes Sur Mer, Juan les Pins and Antibes – all as beautiful as always.  We arrived in Nice in good time for the Corsican Ferry and were soon off for the ride across.  The food was barely acceptable, but something to fill the tummy.  There was an interesting phenomenon we saw.  The ferry provided a special room for families with toys, games, rides, cartoons.  Then, there was nice dining area for the rest of the passengers.  That room was filled with badly behaved kids having tantrums, screaming, running around, standing on the banisters on the stairs between decks, and generally being obnoxious.  The parents could have cared less.  The kids were ignored and left to screech, knock down older people, push trays out of hands.  Quelle domage…

Arriving in Calvi we were witness to French planning, similar we decided to Mexican planning.  The Ferry personnel carefully directed six rows of cars to exit at the same time, guiding them quickly out of the ship in neat lines to expedite departure.  Then, there was a delay.  Six lanes became five, five became four, four became three, three to two and then, single file we all went up a dramatic steep hill into the city.  Hmmmm.

We had directions to the hotel and a small map.  It wasn’t far and thanks to Google Earth we knew the distance to the meter.  How could we miss?  Easy.  It was pitch black on a country road and there was no visible sign.  Well, let me correct myself.  There was a visible sign, for a spa they were advertising down the road, but the sign for the residences we were staying was beneath the sign for the spa in lettering illegible at night – not to mention hidden by foliage.  No way to see it!  We’re in France, no mobile phone.  I had sent an e-mail telling them when we were arriving.  Think a light would be on?  Nah!  We drove up and down for an hour, drove into anything that looked promising and finally saw a car on the road – the only one.  We followed it into a small development and when a nice young woman got out of her car we threw ourselves on her mercy.  She was a real heroine.  She whipped out her portable, called the number for the Residences and told them she would bring us there.  We followed her to a place we had driven around several times before with no idea where we were.

 

No one was expecting us.  They figured we couldn’t get there because of the strikes in Paris.  Christophe was most polite and sorry, offering us a drink and helped us up the steep stairs with our big suitcases.  Whew!  We were home at last, for at least two weeks.  The apartment is charming and very clean.  The furnishings are basic but just fine.  There is plenty of heat once Christophe turned it on for us and we are quite okay.  The only thing lacking is light in the living area.  Once the sun goes down it is rather like being in a cave.  But we won’t let that get us down.  Hopefully, we can get around without getting lost.  It seems the Corsicans roads are blessed with excellent signs.

 

October 24, 2010

It’s Sunday and we need to stock our kitchen with some necessities.  Melinda and I make a list: butter, coffee, cream, eggs, bread, paper towels, toilet paper, salt and pepper, like that.  We stop in the office of the residence where we are staying and get general directions to the only store that might be open in the area.  It was in Calanzana, just a short drive up the mountain to the next village.

As driver, I took a wrong turn onto a tiny road; it was so narrow the car mirrors were almost touching the walls on both sides. There was no possibility to turn around, forward was the only option.  As we followed it up and down the town, Melinda spotted the car behind us.  It was much wider than we were, if they could make it through, I certainly could.  I announced “Well, if someone’s following me, there must be a way out that I’m heading towards.”  As soon as I shut my mouth there was a gate at the end of the road. I tried to pull off to the side as best I could when I realized we were heading onto someone’s private property.

The car that had been following pulled alongside and rolled down the driver’s side window.  A man of about sixty, grizzled and smiling stuck his head out.  “Perdu?” He inquired if we were lost.

“Oui, certainment.” Yes, we sure are.”

The man smiled and motioned for us to follow him into the property where we could make a u-turn and go back into the village.  The entire property was fenced with chain link.  Another man opened the gate and stood aside as both cars entered the encampment and watched silently as we turned our car around.  The property had a large house on the far end and machinery, car and tractor parts, pumps and odd bits of farm implements casually strewn around the area. As we headed back into the village Melinda read about Calenzana in the guide book, especially the part about the town becoming a mecca for retired French Mafiosos because of its proximity to Marseilles. Hmmmm…

Once we arrived back in the town, after driving around past the same woman several times and asking her where the market was, she told us “Look for the Mairie and La Poste.” Then you’ll find an Entre Libre with whatever you need.”

The ladies at the small market seemed delighted to have new customers and helped us find whatever we needed.  People from California shopping was obviously an event to be discussed.

On the way back to our car, we noticed a shop selling roast chickens.  They smelled delicious.  We inquired of a short woman turning chickens on a rotisserie.  “Do you have any available?” The woman looked at her watch.  “Can you come back in one hour?  Not done yet.”  We asked where we could find a coffee?  The woman pointed down the street. “Il y’a deux, a chaque côté.”

We went into the one with two elderly gentlemen at the bar, in an avid discussion that could only be politics.  They drank coffee laced with something stronger than coffee. We ordered two café au lait, taking it outside to sit in the sun as it warmed the cool mountain air.  A car stopped and an even older man got out, assisted by a young man at his side.  He wasn’t that old, I remarked as he checked our bosoms thoroughly before going to the next table and sitting down.  Even with a walker they still have that need to look. Maybe someday they’ll be lucky enough to find that one woman with three breasts. We couldn’t help laughing.

When we picked up the chicken we were amazed at the price – 9.8 Euros!  That was almost fifteen dollars, three times what we were used to paying at Costco in the States.