Buonghjornu Corsica!

Ever since I caught wind of Corsica, hearing stories of mountains dipping into pristine Mediterranean beaches, wild forest walks, crisp white wines, and unruly natives, I’ve wanted to go experience the French island for myself.

Read about my travel adventure Corsica for Two in Curve magazine now out on Barnes & Noble newsstands, subscribe to the best-selling lesbian magazine, or spy my itinerary below to start planning your own trip.

Corsica for Two in Curve

Corsica for Two in Curve

Before departing, may I suggest:

  • Enrolling in the Global Entry program to bypass airport lines.
  • Taking a conversational French class. My neighborhood travel bookstore Idlewild Books’ 10-week course served me well. The Living Language book and app are also great.
  • Buying the Local #345 Michelin map, especially if planning to drive, which you should.

A Two-Week Itinerary for Corsica

Fly Delta/Air France directly into Nice and transfer to Air Corsica for a quick flight to the northern port town of Bastia. Going through Paris often entails switching airports.

Rent a car from Hertz at the airport. Driving is necessary–especially if you want to to reach the hilltop towns, pottery studios, and hiking trails as we did. A U.S. drivers license will suffice; no international license is required. Take note: many rentals require diesel instead of gasoline so be sure and ask.

Hotel La Dimora

Hotel La Dimora

Head for the hills and stay at Hotel La Dimora. Tucked in the craggy northeast, the three-star spa hotel is surrounded by wild fennel, lavender, rosemary, and the fragrant native maquis shrubbery. La Dimora doesn’t offer a full restaurant service, but they do have a delicious a poolside menu, including local brocciu (ewe’s cheese), figs, and rosé wine from the nearby Patrimonio region boasting the must-have AOC stamp of approval.

Breakfast in the lively harbor town of St-Florent and stroll along the seaside promenades, cafés, and boutiques before setting off on D81 for a drive across the green, wildflower Désert des Agriates. Wander along the Strada di l’Artigiani the “Artisan Trail” for tastes of regional delights and handicrafts. Definitely stop by Poterie Terra e Focu by Isabelle Volpei in Occhiatana and follow the signs to Poterie du Nebbiu near Oletta.

You may just catch the potter at his wheel.

Poterie du Nebbiu: You may just catch the potter at his wheel.

I suggest staying at least two nights, but whenever you’re ready to move on, grab the Michelin map and take the scenic route to Corte. The Parc Naturel Régional de la Corse protects nearly two-thirds of the island’s central forests and mountains. Enjoy the craggy, green vistas along D2/N193. This “two-lane” road winds around villages, sky-scraping pine trees, mouflons, purple thistles growing on serpentine limestone, and ancient arched Genoese bridges.

Passing through Ponte-Novo, contemplate the historical significance of the 1769 battle fought here between the French troops and Corsican patriots led by Pasquale Paoli.

Passing through Ponte-Novo, contemplate the historical significance of the 1769 battle fought here between the French troops and Corsican patriots led by Pasquale Paoli.

The Moor’s head on the Corsican flag has symbolized the island’s battle cry for independence for three centuries

The Moor’s head on the Corsican flag has symbolized the island’s battle cry for independence for three centuries

In June of 1769, the French won ownership of the island. Yet, approaching Corte, it is apparent that the dream of an independent Corsica is still very much alive and surging. Black spray paint slashes through French names on bilingual road signs, leaving only the Corsican. From every shuttered window, tourist trap, and car antennae, Corsican flags wave. Tour the Citadelle, where from 1755 to 1769, the castle served as the island’s capital and definitely take a gander from the top of the Eagle’s Nest.

Stay in the valley of the Gorges de la Restonica at the Hotel Dominique Colonna for at least two nights. The three-star, family-run hotel is named after a beloved soccer hero and is surrounded by thick forests and a valley stream perfect for rock-hopping along to secluded swimming spots.

The Gorge

Gorges de la Restonica

Eat lunch and dinner at the restaurant across the pebble parking lot, but enjoy the Dominique Colonna’s bountiful breakfast. Get a jump on the morning foot traffic to the glacier Lac de Mélo (the parking lot fills up by 9AM). The 1.5-hour trek to the first glacier lake was rigorous enough. Before heading back to the room, stop by the giant Casino supermarket in town and stock up on supplies, ranging from water shoes and six-packs of Pietra beer.

Escalier du Roi d’Aragon 187 hand-carved steps to the sea

Escalier du Roi d’Aragon 187 hand-carved steps to the sea

Next, head south to Bonifacio. Go N193/D69/D344/N198 and experience the island’s mountains, forests, a super-long tunnel, and ocean views all in one epic drive. At the southern tip, Bonifacio appears to rise directly from the jagged white limestone cliffs. Check into the three-star Hotel Santa Teresa for at least a night. Take a wander around the medieval city center, buy a souvenir Ceccaldi vendetta knife, climb the awesome Escalier du Roi d’Aragon, and treat yourself to the best gelato at Ghjacci Les Glaces Corses.

At this point of the trip, we were ready to stop and soak up the sun. After a petit déjeuner in town, pack up and drive along the Mediterranean coastline to the luxury beach resort Domaine de Murtoli.

Along the way, swap out your compact car rental for a four-wheeler from Europcar at the Figari airport. You’re going to need it. Check out these all-natural hydraulics.

Now, brace yourself. Domaine de Murtoli is one of the most spectacular places on earth. The domain flourishes over 4,900 acres of rugged ancestral land that has been handed down generation after generation since the 16th century and where for the past twenty years owners Paul and Valerie Canarelli have transformed it into the extraordinary Andrew Harper 2012 award-winning destination. Our villa, one of nineteen, was a meticulously restored sheepfold a la Provençal chic with a private pool and outdoor kitchen. Murtoli is so private, with such back-to-the-earth sensuality, that it redefined my notion of an exclusive beach vacation to mean zero tan lines.

Domaine de Murtoli

Domaine de Murtoli’s Sheepfold

Attempt to leave, at least once, and visit Sarténe, the oldest and most Corsican of Corsican towns.

Sartene The Cave

Sartene’s La Cave

Stock up on charcuterie, cheese, olive oil, jam, and honey at La Cave on Place Porta.

Along the way, keep an eye out for a roadside sign for the Vitalba Huiles distillery for local essential oils. The native maquis plant smells like warm maple syrup mixed with honey and when distilled into a healing oil works wonders on sore, tired muscles.

Side note: Skip the megaliths. Unless you’re a real geological buff, trekking in the blazing sun to see them is the stuff of terrible family vacation memories.

Side note: Skip the megaliths. Unless you’re a real geological buff, trekking in the blazing sun to see them is the stuff of terrible family vacation memories.

Back at Murtoli, enjoy the five-mile stretch of beach, the delectable restaurant built into an olive grove and the other in a candlelit cave, the house Clos Canarelli white wine, the garden, daily bread, and horseback riding. Once you’re in the magical hands of Valerie and her expert staff, you’ll believe the land to be enchanted. Everything is so at ease, so thoroughly perfect, so wonderfully timed, all you have to do is say, Merci. The worst part, the only regrettable thing, was leaving. Good luck passing by reception without booking your return trip. We couldn’t. We’re going back in July.

Murtoli's Beach

Murtoli’s Beach

Fly out of Figari airport to Nice. Transfer or stay a night as we did in Monte Carlo. Helicopter is the only way to get there.

Monte Carlo

Monte Carlo

Bookstand Surprise

The Stack

The Stack

It happened. For the first time since I’ve foregone a nightstand with a stack of books for simply a stack of books as a nightstand, I accidentally knocked it over.

“No!” I screamed.

Melinda bolted upright. “What’s wrong?” she asked with immediate and serious concern, as if expecting to hear I’d received a text with tragic news, found a bedbug, or spilled coffee on our all-white bedding.

“My stack!”

The couple dozen books careened and then hit the floor with an awful crash. The titles I’d taken care to sort in a precarious yet specific order were scattered, sprawling indecently, across the hardwood floor in various states of un-read. Pencils that once marked places rolled away. Spines broke. Pages crumpled. Authors who should never touch were spooning. All systems were destroyed.

“Oh no,” Melinda said with a gasp and then ducked behind the iPad. To stifle a smile?? She lives with that 3-foot tall tower of tomes beside my half of the headboard, because she loves me. However, Melinda has ceased expecting it to ever dwindle down to one and then poof! disappear. The moment I finish reading one book; another (or three) instantly replaces it.

Some do linger. I’ve been in the middle of Siberia for months. At Home is just such a nice base. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to reread Stonewall, which came on Monday. Thanks Mr. President! No, wait. Dune (Melinda’s favorite sci-fi story) is next. It is. This time, I promise. But give me a break, some, such as 352-pages of Savage sex advice, just take minute. Yet, others hardly leave my hands long enough to rest upon the top of the teetering pile. And a moment ago, they were all stacked accordingly.

I knelt down to assess the damage. Picking through the wreckage, I discovered a book that I’d intended to give as a gift years ago, but thought I had lost it. How did it end up in my stack? How could I have overlooked it? It was a slim, quiet, beautiful book that could have only been made in Cambodia. Yet, here it was—found—with serendipitous timing. For the first time in ages, I’m seeing the person for whom I’d bought the book on Saturday. What a gift! In so many ways, books surprise me.

Has one surprised you lately?

Personally, I’m Just Essaying

The Canon

The Canon

Last night, I had the pleasure of hearing Phillip Lopate, the master essayist and editor of The Canon, read from his forthcoming book Portrait Inside My Head.

Admittedly, I was curious to see if he might slip in a comment about the recent online kerfuffle over personal writing. Considering he was quoted in the New York Times essay that kicked it off as saying, “The author Phillip Lopate complains that the problem with confessional writing is that people don’t confess enough.”

He didn’t. He just read, marvelously, about his life. And I left the bar, feeling as I always do after encountering a fully realized personal essay: amused, uplifted, braver, less alone, more at ease with being human, and reminded of the many other essays that have enriched my life.

Or in the case of these ten personal essays, literally, altered my life:

Sarah Vowell: Take the Cannoli

Ariel Levy: The Lesbian Bride’s Handbook

David Sedaris: SantaLand Diaries

Jo Ann Beard: The Family Hour or Cousins. I can’t choose.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: Self-Reliance

A.L. Kennedy: A Blow to the Head

Paul Feig: Scared Straight

Dubravka Ugresic: USA Nails

Bridget Potter: Lucky Girl

Mary McCarthy: All of them. Everything she ever wrote—even what I haven’t read, yet. I won’t choose.

There are hundreds, probably, thousands more, but these are the ones that live inside my head, sustaining, encouraging, cajoling, comforting me as I essay this life.

Wait. Of course, I have to add Michel de Montaigne, the grand-père of personal essays, and his Of the Force of Imagination.

And E.B. White’s Here is New York.

And, okay, okay, c’mon one more: Christy Vannoy’s A Personal Essay by a Personal Essay.

And? Off the top of your head, who would you add?

Ten and Change

Happy Ten Years Ms. Liberty

Happy Ten Years Ms. Liberty

Ten years and we’re officially New Yorkers is an urban myth we transplants tell one another to reassure ourselves that some day, one day, if not before, then on the 3,650th, we’ll finally feel as though we rightfully belong here.

Today is my 10-year anniversary of living in New York.

2003. Celebrating a friend of a friend's Ten Year at a perfect East Village dive.

2003. Celebrating a friend of a friend’s Ten Year at a perfect East Village dive.

On January 9, 2003, I rolled into Hell’s Kitchen with my friend Karyna. She picked me up from the backdoor of my Uptown apartment in Minneapolis and drove me to an address on Tenth Avenue that I’d scrawled on the inside cover of a matchbook. Along the way I smoked a carton of Camel Lights. Only to discover they weren’t two bucks a pack in Manhattan anymore, Toto. The plan was to crash with Melinda, who at the time I thought was only ever going to be my best friend, until I could find a place of my own.

My first apartment was advertised in the back of a Village Voice. It was a furnished, 3-month, sublet share, overlooking the high line before it was The High Line. I called the number listed from a payphone and 45-minutes later wrote out a check for the first month’s rent and security deposit, leaving me with $400 and change and a few months to make it.

On move-in day, I hailed a cab to haul everything I’d deemed worth hanging onto (or couldn’t sell) from my old life down to my new room. Panting, I stood before the third-floor walkup door and dug into the pocket my ratty Levi’s jeans for the keys. I slid in the one marked APT?, turned, and nothing happened. I tried again. I stared at the locked door. 3C. Yes. This was the right olive-green door on the right beige floor. I tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. My head exploded.

Had I been scammed?

Had I lost, like, everything?

Did this mean I had to go home?

Had I thrown away the Village Voice? Of course. How could I?

What was wrong with me?

I tried the key again. Nothing. Stepping back, I took inventory of the crumbling pile of crap that was stuffed into various sized backpacks and spilling around my soaked Chuck Taylor high-tops. Took a breath. Focused on a single dark spot on the dank maroon hallway carpeting. Took another breath.

And then panicked. I imagined having to gather up these packs that would be all the heavier now that they were steeped humiliation, hail another cab, trudge back up to Melinda’s sixth floor apartment, admit that I’d been duped, spend my remaining money on a Greyhound Bus to somewhere cheaper, and worst of all admit that I had failed at New York.

Never.

With a renewed calm more accurately called wild desperation, I tried knocking, ringing the bell, hollering, and then banging. This was a share after all. Maybe my roommate who “was born and raised Queens, baby!” was at home. No answer. I kicked the door so hard the hinges rattled and a chunk of paint chipped off. Nothing. Leaning my forehead against the doorframe, I refused to cry. I wouldn’t cry. I would just stand there until Queens came out or home or ordered delivery.

Then, reason started to ooze in like the city’s wintery mix seeping up my pant leg. I had gotten through the entryway door. Surely, the guy hadn’t only given me one working key. He a history teacher! Or at least said he was. In a last ditch effort, I slid the key in again, turned hard, and rammed my shoulder into the door. I drove myself into 3C with every iota of my hope, desire, delusion, and brokenhearted belief in Ms. Liberty lighting the way to the life I wanted to live, if only…

Click. The tricky, sticky lock gave way. The door opened. I was in.

2010. After Melinda and I made it official.

2010. After Melinda and I made it official.

Tonight, I’ll raise a glass to this moment as well as the zillion other terrifyingly euphoric moments that have transpired over the decade of living in this city. I’m celebrating at the ole New York staple, Minetta Tavern, with a burger and Melinda, who I have also since made my domestic situation with official in another way down at City Hall.

“To ten and change,” I might toast in a hushed tone as to not offend the natives. If there are any around, I’ll expect them to roll their eyes over my I HEART NY t-shirt like the wheels on the Big Apple Bus tours going round and round the tavern’s West Village neighborhood. Yet, if they happen to overhear that I am quasi-celebrating being official-ish as sorta-kinda-wink-wink-not-really one of them, I would expect them nod politely, and then–if they’re true New Yorkers–feel compelled to clarify the obvious: “Only a New Yawkah is a New Yawkah.”

That’s fine. I learned to drive.

Puzzling Through

Perhaps it is where I am in the process of writing of my first (fingers crossed) memoir, but I saw a correlation between writing and putting together a super effing hard puzzle.

We start with what we know.

Start

Start

And piece together the rest word by word, section by section, fit by fit, relying on memory and patience and curiosity.

Until it’s done.

Done

##

Egon Schiele’s Women

The first time I saw the Reclining Woman with Green Stockings she was a poster hanging on a dorm room wall. Today, I saw the actual green brushstrokes made by Egon Schiele at the Galerie St. Entienne. And thanks to Jane Kallir’s new beautiful book, Egon Schiele’s Women, I learned her name: Adele.

1917. Reclining Woman with Green Stockings in Egon Schiele's Women

1917. Reclining Woman with Green Stockings in Egon Schiele’s Women

A hundred years ago the Austrian Expressionist painter Egon Schiele along with his mentor Gustav Klimt were stripping their female nudes for the first time of the conventional religious or literary roles expected to cloak women in art–lest they be considered obscene. Not to endow him with too much of a feminist impulse–he was still a product of his bourgeoisie class that married ‘virgins’ and screwed whores–however, Schiele’s portraits presented females as sexually liberated enough to be active participants in their own pleasure.

1914. Nude with Green Turban in Egon Shiele's Women

1914. Nude with Green Turban in Egon Shiele’s Women

Schiele painted females as a Girl Undressing as a Seated Female Nude with Black Stockings as Girlfriends as a Nude with Green Turban or as Wally in Red Blouse with Raised Knees. His inspirations lined the gallery walls in all of their bruised-fruit gorgeousness as adolescents and women in their own skin.

1913. Wally in Red Blouse with Raised Knees in Egon Schile's Women

1913. Wally in Red Blouse with Raised Knees in Egon Schiele’s Women

Peep them today or always.

My First Time

It was my honor to blurb Jackson Pearce‘s frank and funny young-adult novel, Purity. Here’s what I had to say for my first book cover blurb:

Out now!

“Reading Jackson Pearce’s Purity feels like talking on the phone with a lively and honest best friend—who is telling it like it is. Shelby reminds us all to be first and foremost true to ourselves. This book is a must-read for anyone thinking about making promises to themselves or others.”

Done any firsts lately?