There is no one here. The streets echo with our footfall and, as we sit eating our crepes and café lattes out of small plastic cups, our street comes alive, one eye at a time. The shopkeepers open their doors and sweep out the last evening’s debris.
The local dogs hover alternately and roll on their backs, uncaring that the streets are so narrow, cars barely avoid hitting them. The morning ferry arrives and the tourists flood in, linen trousers and dresses flapping in the morning wind, credit cards waiting to rack up their purchases. We watch silently from our post.
We wander down the old steep steps to the marina in search of scooters, internet, food. Past the yachts of the very rich, we settle at an outdoor spot next to the moored boats and consume a feast of mussels, beef carpaccio, pork & honey, veal & green olives, ice cream, and apple tart.
(Grazie David, Diana, Bart & Debbie)
We wander around and I am intent on linen trousers. The woman in the shop insists that they should fit tightly on my calves and suggests that, as they don’t fit, I need to “try harder.” This news is highly amusing to James.
After lazy naps and frantic phone calls canceling our Sardinian hotels (for we are in love with Corsica and must stay), we wander back out to the restaurant La Scala with the waiter with crooked teeth who, confused at us ordering only one course to share, happily pushes anything else on us he can and saddles us with a bitter, yet very expensive digestive…but posed for a picture.
Writing our Merci on a gold platter with legs propped up and drunkenness setting in fast, we sit, we relax, we smile. Corsica awaits.
(Merci Matt, Marie & Hermione)
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