Corisca

Corsica | Corse

Corsica was blue. Bluer than blue. The kind of Mediterranean shade that feels invented, until you see Sardinia and realize, impossibly, there’s more. But Corsica was first. The road carved south from Calvi through the mountainous heart of the island: Corti, then Venaco, where I spotted an old woman gathering wildflowers like a scene from a storybook and heard the sound of u cignale (wild boars) crunching their way through the underbrush. Then the twisty, treacherous roads of Propriano, Olmeto, Ajaccio, Sartène, and eventually Bunifaziu. The island sang, sometimes literally. My taxi driver from the southern airport to Bunifaziu was none other than Jacques Culioli, a Corsican opera singer, who serenaded me while driving past olive groves and limestone cliffs.

Of course, no true road trip is complete without a meltdown. Mine arrived via a blown tire at the top of a mountain. No service, no passing cars, just me. A kind but completely unintelligible older man eventually pulled over, spoke only Corsican, and offered what seemed like advice, but ultimately left me to hike up the mountain alone for service. Four hours later, a tow truck arrived to bring me all the way back to the start of that morning’s drive. I was demoralized, dead tired, and still had to do the drive all over again in a new car. That night, over a very large glass of wine, the universe threw me a bone. A curious, once-stern waitress softened the minute she found out I was from New Jersey. Her eyes lit up at the mention of the Jersey Shore, the show, of course, and next thing I knew I had a free limoncello in hand.

Bunifaziu, though, what a final chapter. The town seems carved into the very edge of the world, creamy buildings perched on a limestone cliff that drops dramatically into the sea. Yachts gleam in the harbor below, and the whole city glows golden at dusk like a real-life painting. It felt like the top of something, not just geographically but emotionally, too. Haute-Corse, the north, and Corse-du-Sud, the south, are completely different, mountains and quiet villages above, seaside drama and sun-soaked glamour below. And I was different, too, by the time I reached the bottom. That road trip remains one of my proudest personal achievements, tire disaster and all. I left on a ferry to Sardinia with Calvin Harris in my ears, red coral hanging from my ears, and the feeling that I’d just passed through a very specific kind of magic, the kind you absolutely can’t plan for.