To Porto Vecchio...and beaches

We take the easier road out of Corte but still find we are forever winding down the road, finally to what our map refers to as the less scenic highway. All I know is that it is straight, and I'm starting to suspect that the map's idea of a scenic drive is any road that is barely wide enough for one car, firmly serpentine, and has concrete mixers racing down it at 120 km/hour.



The goal is the beach. To be on flat ground again and float in clear water.



It's more difficult to find places to stay around here, because, of course, everyone flocks to the beach. Not so many people flock to the places in Corsica that require three hours of highly focused driving. The guide book has mentioned the "Ranch Campo," a working horse ranch only a kilometer from Palombaggio beach. After other phone calls in which I've utilized my spotty French and barely escaped intact ('est-ce que vous une chambre pour c'est soir?' -- 'je ne comprende pas! oui o no? oui o no?') this one was and easy 'oui'...





Beach days have a tendency to roll into one another. That is a good thing right now.
The next night we venture out to Le Belvedere, a Michelin star restaurant situated right on the Porto Vecchio harbor, overlooking the old town across the bay.

The food is art work. The waiters are tense. I suspect that they suspect that we're not really the sort to be dining here. The conversation of all those around us barely breaks an audible level. I find myself wondering if, when you become rich enough to eat here as though it was a nothing experience, your vocal chords start to deteriorate. No one is laughing. But the food sings.

To St. Giula's to melt beneath our frenchified blue and white striped umbrella and -- when we get too hot -- jump in the ocean, swim to the little island of rocks, and proclaim ourselves king and queen of our newly colonized land.



Unable to find a proper spa anywhere in Corsica (you'd think they'd need them to unwind from the suicidally insane driving), we venture in the opposite direction and decide to go out on jet skis (like I haven't had enough dangerous activity for one honeymoon).

We prepare for this important decision with mussels and white wine. Just when we think we're starting to run out of ideas for our 'thank you' messages, James decides to ferret away his empty mussel shells in a beach towel. We're starting to suspect that word of our mercis is spreading around the island. Will we appear on the evening news? The Merci Banditos?



We never seem to be able to hold it all together for an entire day...although our low points are balanced out by extreme highs. Tonight, things are overwhelming with worry about tomorrow -- how we will ever manage to get from Porto Vecchio to Cagliari considering the maze of public transportation and the languages we don't speak -- and, as we wander into Porto Vecchio to find 'Chez Anna' -- our choice for Andrew & Anna's dinner -- we are so completely out of our heads that we wander into the restaurant next door by accident...completely different branding, feel, look...we notice it doesn't have the gnocchi that the guidebook recommended...we convince ourselves, anyway, that we're in the right place.

We aren't.

After we realize this and dissolve into laughter, we treat ourselves to some fruity cocktails at the candy store with 500 beers. Our waiter seems to be a jockey in the disguise of a Corsican waiter. He is a man in miniature. He watches us, bemused, and we laugh at the club down the way playing Nirvana. Nirvana in Corsica.