September 27th, 2010
We can hear the rumbling of the waves from our picnic bench. Jesse is getting dinner ready, and I am downloading pictures from our camera to the computer. The waves are great big, white, fluffy ones that bash against the rocks and create a fan of spray that hovers in the air for a few seconds. It creates a foggy horizon, that blends in with the grey sky, post-sunset. The sound of the waves would lull a baby to sleep, but the wind –oh the wind—is enough to blow you off the side of the mountain. In fact, today as we were on the northernmost tip of Cap Corse, Bertetto nearly ended up on top of us. Jesse read in the newspapers (he, still, is the only one that understands French) that the winds were as strong as 80 km an hour. “That’s almost like a hurricane” Jesse says. I don’t reply, I just keep on pedaling, and waiting for the patches of gravel and rubble to turn into flat pavement. The Mistral has reached even Corsica.
“Do you think other people would appreciate this like we do?” I ask Jesse from the back of Bertetto.
“Who wouldn’t?” he shouts back to me through the boisterous wind.
I think to myself that other than the Madagascaran couple that we met last night near Macinaggio and the Swiss family of 5 on a bicycle built for of 5 (!!), whose picture the Madagascar couple showed us – not many would actually make this sort of trip, no matter how much they would appreciate it.
Minutes later, we descend to a black-stone beach, where we will make camp for the night. We are tired, Jesse is especially hungry, anxious to start the camp stove that tonight will cook ravioli duex fromage-basilic. I have decided to write this blog as an appetizer.
Our tent is set up, perched behind a chicken wire fence in a grassy public area and right next to a cow patty. He is pouring me a glass of red as I type. Despite our best efforts to wake up early (how early, we don’t know) we will probably sleep as long as we can tomorrow. It seems as no matter how long we are zipped up in our tent, we never are able to complete full REM cycles of sleep. We wake up, in and out of Neverland, and share our dreams with each other. Last night, I had a pet mouse that was so scared of a dog that its head popped off. Two nights ago Jesse dreamt that the Croatian border control were after us in the salt flats. I hope tonight we dream of glowing pink sunsets, and a land without wind, and maybe, if I am lucky, a land that is mosquito-free.
Today’s bike ride let us see how rugged the northern peninsula of Corsica is. Actually, Cap Corse has reminded me of Santa Catalina Island very much. Corsica is more populated, and the port cities are much more developed, but the landscape has a California feel. Pink flowers climb houses, their petals litter the ground and feel much like paper. Cactus plants present their orangey-pink bulbs of ripening fruit. Sparsely-leaved, stalky trees, looking very much like hybrids of Bonsai trees and Christmas trees, pose for photos with the azure Meditteranean for a backdrop. We have these same trees in Manhattan Beach. Caroline would know what I am talking about, because she took a picture of Anne on the strand standing next to one of these. Here, these trees don’t grow up. It seems as it every single one of them likes to slant, like they are growing towards the ocean. Perhaps they are salt-seeking as well as sun-loving.
Our bike ride took us up and down – but seemed mostly up -- today. It was the slowest 35 kilometers we have ever ridden. 3 hours of wind-in-your-face, disintegrating pavement, and my long-sleeves endlessly flapping, like that one person who keeps on clapping at a play, well after the others have stopped. We rode by restaurants, hotels, panoramic views, masons who were building walls, and construction workers who were digging up dirt and doing I-don’t-know-what with it.
Tuesday and Wednesday - September 28th and 29th, 2010
The wind dissipated as mysteriously as it started. The gavel turned into pavement. The D80 became flat. The weather was crisp, with the sun peering in and out behind the clouds. We ran into our Madagascar friends in St. Florent, and they were heading in the same direction as us. Direction Saleccia. Purported as “paradise”. Things were perfect, only a series of accidents could ruin the day. No, this is not foreshadowing: although a string of mishaps stumbled our way, nothing was ruined.
We ate and drank well that night. Feasting on meat, pork, cheese, and pasta. For dessert we had greek honey yogurt, and lots of tea. Thank you, Christine, for introducing us to what might be the best breakfast we’ve had in months: baguette + demi-sel butter + honey + goat cheese sprinkled with Herbes Provencale. MMmmmmm…
Friday, October 1st, 2010
We are on the ferry for Toulon, France. Jesse is looking for the salt, somewhere in the depths of the baby trailer, and I am preparing sandwiches for our 6 hour journey. So much has happened this week that I don’t know where to start this blog entry. We both agree that Corsica is the most beautiful place we’ve ever visited. It has everything, minus lakes and green pastures. But for me, the prettiest the world has to offer is a beach. It can be simple, as the black rock beaches we saw – or perfect, as the white sand beach “Saleccia” we camped at with turquoise, clear, water.
The past few days have been up and down, full of the good and the bad, but its only the good that I remember. Picture perfect sunsets, run-swim-runs on beaches even better than Microsoft screen savers, Rose’s that would put Sonoma to shame, and every kind of beauty imaginable: cliffs, deserts, mountains, ocean views, vineyards, etc. etc. However, we nearly killed Bertetto along a 12 km stretch of rocky, beaten, dirt path. “Only the first 500 meters are bad” the woman at the tourist office told us. From Bertetto’s state, the whole 12 km were bad. One flat tire, one broken chain ring, and a bent “tooth”. Jesse thought Bertetto was un-ridable, but the Madagascar couple helped repair our racing tandem, and he is almost good-as-new. No “granny gear” and he sports two French corks sticking out from the remaining chain rings. More bad: a fox stole one of Jesse’s running shoes in the middle of the night. It was missing for 2 days before St. Anthony saved us. The good: I found Jesse’s shoe! As we were walking Bertetto back along the treacherous 12 km dirt path two Corsicans offered us a ride in their truck. They took us all the way back to Bastia (~50 km in total).
Jesse will finish later...
how did u get in the back of the truck? maybe i should read the text... xo
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