A Personal Account of Corsica

By Gypsy Flores

September 11 to September 22, 2003

Home page | my email|

ancient village laundry site

While I sit at my house and write these words, my heart travels back to Corsica. I am again walking under the pale green light of the chestnut trees and merging with the violets that carpeted the soil of the Castagniccia. Sometimes in my dreams I soar over the mountains of Bocagnano like the many hawks that I saw on my walks.

Ajaccio—September 12 & 13

I had had so many fantasies, so many dreams about what it would be like if I was ever to go to Corsica. I had thought them to be grand reveries and yet compared to what really happened, they were minor wool gatherings. I found an island both ancient and sacred. I found moments of such profound beauty that I am still deeply moved by these experiences. I found friends whom I had never met before. I found myself.

When I opened the window of my hotel room that first morning in Ajaccio and saw the Mediterranean for the first time, I felt like the characters in Shakespeare's Tempest, that I had "undergone a sea-change" and certainly there was a tempest going on in the stirrings of my blood as I gazed out the window at the citadelle and the sea beyond.

Yet, everything felt right, everything felt in rhythm to my body—the air on my skin, the smell of the sea, the coffee in the hotel café, the language, the color of the light. I had returned home for the first time and in my mind, I heard the turning of a key and I felt that doors were opening.

I had left my home in Santa Cruz on the afternoon of Thursday Sept. 11 but I had not arrived in Ajaccio until Friday evening. I took a taxi to the Hotel San Carlu where a generous client of mine had made a reservation for me. After I checked into my room, I called Pierre and Marie-Noël, friends of Carla Venezia's, the Vice-President of the Corsican American Association in Los Angeles. They came to the hotel and picked me up, taking me back to their apartment for dinner. When I got in the car, I told Marie-Noël that I was in Corsica and I wanted to speak French as much as possible. "D'accord." We had a lovely time and managed to email Carla to tell her that I had arrived safely. I gave them one of the bars of dark chocolate made in San Francisco that I had brought as gifts.

In the early morning, I walked through the city watching her come awake. I stopped at the farmer's market and bought pears that tasted of honey and sunlight. They became one of the tastes of Corsica for me. Figs and the blackberries that grow in the maquis, black coffee served in tiny cups, a chestnut gateau, baguettes and croissants, a lunch of grilled fish and zucchini, and an omelette of fresh eggs linger on my senses.

I walked along the waterfront and down the narrow streets listening to the conversations of men sitting outside the cafés sipping their morning coffee. Women were busy working inside or sweeping the sidewalks in front of their shops. I saw no other tourist just walking down the street "on holiday" like myself—but no one seemed to mind. The men never threatened or made rude comments—they just smiled, or nodded, or said "bonjour".

Corte—September 13

I found the train station and bought a ticket for Corte. Corte is in the center of the island and is the old capital—when the island had its short years of independence from around 1750 under Pascal Paoli. I had seen photographs of the citadelle and the mountains of Corte and I knew that that was where I wanted to go. I suspected that there would be places to camp and I had come to Corsica prepared to do just that. I love the independence of traveling alone with a backpack and sleeping bag. Yet, as things would have it, I never did pull out my sleeping bag to use while I was there. Fate would have it otherwise.

Leaving Ajaccio, the tracks are lined with Eucalyptus globulus, the blue gums of Australia. (Sad, to see them planted there as they are native to Australia and Tasmania, not the Mediterranean. With Corsica's fire problem, I felt them to be a great mistake to plant as they are highly volatile trees. Besides being a fire hazard, they are extremely invasive and an allelopath, poisoning the soil around them so that nothing else can grow except them; thus preventing the native plants from proliferating. A mistake that we are beginning to realize in California. Later, I discussed this with Jean-François Bernardini and he agreed that it is best to try to plant native plants in the landscape).

The train goes through some of the most beautiful scenery in Corsica, moving slowly over bridges and tunnels and through the center and along the west coast of the island (between Calvi and Ile Rousse) depending on which line one is on. The cars are divided in half—one half for smokers, one half for non-smokers. The top part of the windows open so one can stand up and lean against the windows and smell the fragrant maquis. This I did quite often, especially through the area around Bocagnano with its dry craggy granite peaks and dense growth.

Later, on my many walks in Corsica I noted down some of the plants of the maquis (unfortunately, many are not native to the area and invasive). I saw olive, fig, Arbutus unedo, Cistus sp. (Corsica has many endemic species of Cistus known as "mucchiu" in Corsican and actually is the plant where the Corsican word for maquis "macchia" is derived I have read), pokeweed (Phytollacca americana), hellebore, oregano, chestnut, lavender, a species of clematis, myrtus communis, mint, walnut, marjoram, lemon balm, elderberry, alder, violets, cork oak, datura stramonium, fennel, hops. Crocus and cyclamen sp. in bloom carpeted the ground.

When I arrived in Corte, I walked into town carrying my heavy backpack. I felt rather silly and conspicuous, especially since I had chosen that morning to wear a dress and what I called my city shoes, rather then be sensible and put on my long pants and hiking boots. The center of town was crowded with people sitting in outdoor cafés or shopping in markets and patisseries, so I am certain that most people thought nothing of this obvious tourist; but I am very shy and I felt self-conscious anyway.

Somehow, I never made it up to the citadelle in Corte even though that had been one of my goals. I walked along the road and out into the country for some time enjoying the lush green landscape and distant views of the mountains, then turned around walked through the town and along the road in the other direction—taking photographs of the wooden doors in stone buildings (a never ending source of fascination for me) and breathing thank you everywhere I went. I bought some pears and figs for lunch and sat near a fountain in the Place Paoli to make telephone calls.

I called Jean-François Bernardini, the leader of I Muvrini, whom I had met two years before when the band was on tour in California. He was in Paris but he said he would be returning to Bastia either the next day or Monday. "You call me then and I can give you one, maybe two hours."

I called Elizabeth from the women's group Isulatine who lived nearby. We made arrangements to meet later in the day since she was busy with her children.

Then, I contacted Annette, a Corsican woman whom I had met two years before at a dinner at Carla's restaurant, Il Boccaccio in Hermosa Beach. She had been living with her family in Northern California at the time and was the Vice-President of the Corsican American Association in San Francisco. I knew she and her family had moved back to Corsica and had built a home. I wasn't really sure she would remember who I was, but Carla had advised me to call her and at least say hello. I hoped she could tell me some places to camp. Annette not only remembered me, she was thrilled that I was in Corsica. "Come, you must come to my house and stay." So, I consulted the train schedule and found the evening train left around 5 p.m. Good thing I had two hours until it left, for that is how long it took me to find the train station again—I think jet lag confused my mind. No matter, Corte is beautiful and I didn't mind wandering around and around looking for "la gare".

At the station, I called Elizabeth and left a message that I had to cancel our appointment as my train was leaving soon. Somehow, I managed to lose my ATM/Visa card; though I didn't discover the loss until the next day.

Annette lived near a train station in a little village surrounded by lovely mountainous country that is green and lush with water. When I arrived, I had no idea where her home was and there was absolutely no one at the train station. It is below the village and has only a small, dilapidated building that was always closed and with piles of garbage lying around. I walked up and up the switch backing road that looked like someone had waved a magic wand and sprinkled crocus and pink cyclamen everywhere. I stopped often to rub my fingers against the aromatic plants growing along the way. I was wondering how I would manage to find Annette's house since I did not have her address.

Fortunately, when I arrived in the village there was a man walking down the paved road with his dog.

"Perdonnez-moi monsieur. Je cherche la maison d'Annette et Pierre."

He literally turned me around and pointed, "La bas. La grande maison! La bas."

Oh. Feeling a little intimidated, I walked up the path to their mansion. Michel, their housekeeper showed me to my room—the pink room on the third floor—private bath included. I set my heavy pack down, took off my shoes, and sprawled on the bed. Home at last. After reviving myself with a hot bath, I then took a walk around the village waiting for the family to return. Church steeples seem to be the dominant feature of every Corsican village—that and stone houses with curved narrow alleys leading between them. People were outside chatting with each other, sweeping their front walkways, or sitting watching life pass by. I was stared at, but not in an unfriendly manner. In this village was a "gite d'etape", a place where backpackers congregated. It has six rooms and a total of 16 beds and is a stop on the "Mare a Mare Nord"—which according to the guidebook is a hike of about 12 days.

Annette and Pierre's home

That night in my bed, while the family was sleeping, I lay there listening to an incredible storm happening with thunder, lightning, and rain. I snuggled deeper under the blanket and was grateful to be inside and in a warm, dry, safe place. (I had not brought a tent with me and I kept imagining what it would be like to try to sleep outside on a night like this. I suppose I would have found some sort of shelter. I remember sleeping in the pouring rain under a bus stop awning once in Basel, Switzerland many years ago).

Sunday morning while everyone prepared for the grand "inauguration" of their home, I tried to help out; but at Annette's suggestion I went for a walk to explore more of the countryside. This time I walked north to the neighboring village. I rambled through the dense brush along a stream, surprising a salamander in the shade of a rock, crossing and re-crossing the stream. I slipped on the rocks and got my shoes a little wet, but fortunately the water didn't penetrate through. I went higher and higher under the branches of fig and chestnut trees listening to the birds, feeling the soft air on my body, hearing dogs barking in the village below. I turned around, went back down to the bridge and headed through the village looking at people's gardens and seeing what they grew there—bougainvillea, grapes, apples, roses, lavender, figs, olives, etc. Water in Corsica is apparently very expensive and though seemingly quite abundant, distribution is a problem I was told. Consequently, one doesn't see great expanses of lawns; but instead the plants characteristic of a Mediterranean climate—something we could learn in California.

Returning to the house, I needed to pack my things and change for the party. Annette already had a full house of guests for the evening, so I needed to find a place for the night. I was perfectly happy to go camping and was even looking forward to a night under the stars, somewhere either on the west coast of the island or in the valley of Restonica. Annette had a shepherd friend who lived in a cave near Restonica and that sounded like an interesting place to be. She was fascinated that I had lived in a cave in the Sierra one winter and she really wanted me to meet her friend. Unfortunately, he did not come to the party so I never had an opportunity to meet him.

There were many people who did, though, including Edmund Simeoni, who is the head of the UPC (Unione di u Populu Corsu/Union of the People of Corsica), a non-violent organization that he and his brother co-founded in 1977. He has become the symbol of national unity in Corsica. Bernardu Pazzoni, who is the director of the Phonothèque of the Musée de la Corse in Corte, was there playing his violin. He accompanied a young woman who was actually from Greece but sang Corsican songs. Also, documentary filmmaker, Phillippe Raffali came. He had made the documentary film, Moutan Sacre, about the cultural exchange between Navajo and Corsican shepherds. I had seen the film at a dinner at Carla's restaurant and had met Phillippe at that time.

Annette and Pierre presented their impressive slide show of the building of their house and the history of Agostino Giaffieri, a Corsican martyr. (I later did an interview with Annette about her and her family's history, the history of Agostino Giaffieri, and the purpose of the house). During this incredibly professional slide show and with all these important people of Corsica there—who is presented as the guest of honor—Moi!—and to applause no less. I stood there a bit incredulous. I was always described as "la journaliste de Californie" while I was in Corsica.

Calvi—September 14 & 15

I slept that night in a trailer in a campground in Calvi listening to the wind blowing and rattling the awning outside. Although I was happy to have walls around me again during another storm, I turned on the light and wrote in my journal: "This wanderer seeks the solace of sleeping within the silence of a starry night."

Phytolacca dioica

I climbed around the cliffs and over the finely sculpted rocks and finally made it down to an empty little beach where I tore my shoes off, rolled up my pant legs and went wading in the sea, baptizing myself in the warm water. I felt blessed by the warm sun, the rocky beach, and the sea in that early morning solitude. I didn't want to be with anyone or ride in a car or a train, so I decided to walk all day. I returned to the campground for my things and headed north towards Ile Rousse. I walked along the roadside hoping to find a trailhead but I never did. No matter, I was walking in Corsica and there was much to see. I did find a sign that said it was 23 kilometers to Ile Rousse.

Somewhere near Lumio, I saw a sign that pointed towards a 13th century church. Unfortunately, I didn't write the name down, it didn't seem important at the time. Everything was quiet and I was the only one around. The doors of the multi-colored stone church were locked so I could not go inside; but instead I walked through the adjacent cemetery and sat on the stone pathway to rest. I lay back and stared up at the incredibly blue sky, said another thank you, shed more tears, and listened to the silence around me.

Shouldering my pack once more, I returned to my walking just as some people arrived in the parking lot. I still wasn't ready to be with anyone. I left the road and headed downhill through the maquis towards the sea, picking my way carefully through the dense but low brush. When I reached the train tracks, I decided to follow them to the nearest train station where I could return to Annetta's village. I was starting to rub a blister and hoped that it wouldn't be too much farther as I had already walked a considerable distance.

Arriving in Algajola, I found I had less than an hour for the next train and I was hungry. I walked to the nearest "terrace" restaurant and ordered a salad nicoise. Everyone around me was talking and smoking and drinking; I wanted to fold into myself and just savor the experience of sitting, eating and being in Corsica. I loved relaxing listening to the variety of languages and feeling the exuberant quality of the other diners. Returning to Annetta's house felt like going home and I was eager to see her and the children again. When I walked in the door, Annetta said I looked like I needed to take a Jacuzzi. Indeed! So there I was lying back in the warm water with the jets soothing my tired body. I kept thinking, "I am in Corsica and here I am in a mansion, sitting in a Jacuzzi in this amazing bedroom with an incredible view!" And I thought when I came to Corsica; I would be roughing it, just throwing my sleeping bag wherever I happened to be when it grew too dark to hike. Oh la la!

Faustine (12), Amandine (7) and Myself (photo by Annette)

Annetta and Myself (photo by Faustine)

After dinner, while Annetta and I were sitting back having our coffee, Jean-François Bernardini telephoned and we arranged to meet the next morning at the train station in Casamozza. He was going to his village in eastern Corsica to meet with the architect who was remodeling the house that he had bought. He wanted me to see this house, the olive grove that he had planted, and to meet his mother. Since the train didn't arrive in Casamozza until after 8 a.m., Annette said that she would drive me; thus began our early morning drives to various train stations. I am always up by 5 a.m. so this was no difficulty for me and I think Annette is one of those people like I am, who just sleep a few hours a night. We would meet in the kitchen in the early morning and have our coffee then take off in her car while it was still dark—driving the two-lane road towards Corte.

Casamozza /Bastia—September 16

In Casamozza, I walked in the early morning chill to the station. Thank goodness, I had packed a heavy jacket, because the mornings were usually very cold. I sat on the side of the station that I thought JFB would be coming from and waited—and waited and waited. When it got to be 10 after 8, I decided that he had forgotten me; but that I would call and say I was angry with him. " Oh well," I thought, "I will take the train somewhere and go exploring for the day." I went around the front of the station and then to the other side looking for a telephone. Someone had ripped out the receiver and that left me frustrated that I couldn't even vent my disappointment out on his answering machine. I heard a car honk and there he was sitting in his car on THAT side of the station.

When I got in, he said, "Oh, I was so mad at you. I am late and I thought you were not coming." I told him that I had been waiting since 7 a.m. He had been there since 7:30—both of us on opposite sides of the station not seeing each other. I felt a little guilty because I had made him late; but fortunately, he thought this was enormously funny.

I cannot describe most of the countryside that we passed through as we were lost in conversation and I forgot to look out the window. After Folelli though, the road becomes narrow and winding as it enters the mountains of the Castagniccia. This is one of the most traditional areas on the island and also where there are large chestnut forests, hence the name. I couldn't wait to begin exploring on foot.

J.F. is remodeling a home near the village and he had had a new road built so that the larger vehicles that needed to reach his house wouldn't have to drive through the narrow streets and interrupt the life there. He and his brother Alain are the youngest of six children. Their father, Jules, was one of the most famous singers and poets in Corsica. He was known as the "poet of the paghjella." He died in 1977.

When J.F. and Alain were small boys, they and their father would walk down the road and sit under two big oak trees (one of them fell down in a recent storm). This is where Jules taught his two very talented sons to sing. Nearby was an old empty house that Jules always wanted to buy but never did. This is the house that J.F. bought and was remodeling. He owns much of the land around it and has planted hundreds of olive and some citrus trees. While J.F. was speaking with his architect, I walked up to the top of the olive grove and inspected most of the trees. Beyond the wire fence (used to keep livestock out, not people), there were chestnut trees and hellebores (Helleborus lividus var. Corsicus) everywhere. I was up there lost in thought when I heard below me Madame Bernardini calling, "Gypsy, venez, venez. Mangez!" Ooh---this became the mantra for my stay with her—"Gypsy, come, come, eat!" After a while, I begin to feel like a little bird in the nest with my gracious host, Mme. Bernardini, flying around me trying to stuff food in my mouth.

Madame Bernardini with her son, Jean-François

She spoke in very rapid French and only slowed down when I begged her to "parlez lentement, s'il vous plait!" After a while, we developed a rhythm and thoroughly enjoyed each other. On this day, she served coffee and chestnut cookies. I am never particularly hungry when I am traveling, I would rather do almost anything else than sit and eat; but I had to be polite and at least try one. They were really good, though I still only managed to eat 1/2 of one.

J.F. needed to return to Bastia to work. He said, "People think that when I am not on tour, that I must be on holiday; but that is not the case ever." That was obvious to me, he works all the time. I thought he would take me to the train station and that the one or two hours that he said he could give to me while I was in Corsica were over. Instead, when we returned to Bastia, he wanted to have lunch. We went to a restaurant near the harbor. I asked him to order for me as I thought that he knew the restaurant and the menu very well. Turns out he had never been there before. We had grilled fish with zucchini and I think it was one of the best meals I have ever had. By then, we were very comfortable with each other and chatted away like old friends. He is well known so people wanted his autograph. He was kind and considerate about it. I told him how I had lost my bankcard and he said, "Yes, I was in Paris shopping and I just came out of a store with bags in my hand and my credit card. Some people came up and wanted my autograph, I think that is where I lost my credit card."

After lunch, we went to his home. This is his sanctuary and he rarely takes people there, so I never took any photographs while I was visiting with him. We sat in the kitchen and had tea while he answered many phone calls. He looked at his cell phone sadly and said, "This is my life." He said I could go exploring while he did some business. I wandered around the house without trying to be intrusive. He has a great library of books and all the surfaces in his house are overflowing with books, articles, CD's and papers. I went out to his terrace and explored his garden. There was a beautiful fountain with no water in it. Later he told me that he had built it himself but that water was very expensive in Corsica. He had one lavender plant and bemoaned the fact that he didn't have more. "I plant them but they all die except this one. I do not know why." Someday, I would like to return and design a garden for him of myrtle, Arbutus unedo (he loves to eat the fruit), olive, loquat, pomegranate, citrus and lavender.

When I wandered back into the house, I heard music so I made my way to where I thought the sound was. He was sitting at his piano.

"Do you like the way I play piano?" "Yes," I said, "very much."

"I don't think I play so good."

I thought it was beautiful. I sat on the floor to listen. He played and sang for me for what felt like hours. I was lost in his music. I felt honored to be sitting in the home of my favorite singer in the entire world and having him play and sing just for me.

"You come back on Thursday and visit with me and then you can stay with my mother. You would like to do that?"

"Yes."

He needed to work, so he drove me to an area near the train station and told me that Annie, his sister, would be at the station with a print out of the English version of his book Umani (not yet published) for me. I bought my ticket hoping to see Annie and hoping that I would recognize her. When it came time to board the train, she still hadn't arrived but I kept careful watch out the window. Finally, I saw a woman, with light hair looking very much like her brother Alain, approach with papers in her arm. I opened the window and called out "Annie." We exchanged "bonjours" and promises to meet again. Annie, like her mother and brother Alain, speaks no English. I rode the train filled with emotions, clutching the print out that Annie had delivered and the three copies of the published version of Umani (in Corsican and French) that JF had given to me—one for me, one for Carla and one for Annette. I had given him a copy of Howard Zinn's The People's History of the United States as a gift.

When I arrived at Annette's home, she greeted me at the door with some rather exciting news.

"You are to go to Calvi tomorrow and have lunch with all the people from the Rencontres de Polyphonique. You will meet everyone and they are very excited to meet you. Here is the information you need. They want you to stay for the festival and go to the concerts and everything."

This was great news but a little disconcerting. I had arranged to meet with Jean-François on Thursday and go to his mother's house and stay for the weekend. (Annette's husband Pierre was returning Thursday evening and preferred to have no visitors while he was home resting.) I decided to go to Calvi the next day and see how I felt about at least staying the one night. For months before actually going to Corsica, I had tried to make arrangements with the people running the festival for a "media pass" and accommodations. I sent them all my credentials that they had written and asked for, but I had received no answer from them. Now they were telling me if they had only known I would be there, they would have made arrangements and so on.

That evening I spoke with Jean-Claude Soletti on the telephone. Annette had spoken very highly of his guitar playing and said that when he and his son had performed at her house she had been deeply moved. I found him to be charmingly shy over the telephone, but he promised to send me a recording of some of his music. (Which he did after I had returned home. He sent a demo CD with two incredibly beautiful pieces of music--one with him just playing classical guitar and another with him singing in french to his guitar and his son's piano accompaniment).

In the early morning Annette drove me to Ponte Leccia so I could catch the first train to Calvi. I needed to find a bank to change money, even though I had lost my bankcard, I fortunately had brought some cash. I needed to buy Euros and some postcards and stamps and a new pen. Amazingly, I never once went into a CD store the entire time I was in Corsica. I actually did little shopping (except to buy fruit occasionally) until I was at the airport in Ajaccio and in Nice—where I bought books, more postcards and some dried myrtle berries for Carla. This was mainly to save the limited amount of money I had with me; but also because I had no desire to spend my time shopping. I preferred to walk in the countryside and meet people.

Calvi—September 17

This time in Calvi, instead of being shrouded in solitude, I arrived when the town was already bustling with activity. No matter, it suited the mood of excitement that I felt about meeting some of the musicians from A Filetta and perhaps other Corsican musicians. I had made phone calls during the week to Jerome Casalonga (of Zamballarana); but somehow although we hoped to be able to meet, it never happened. Stèphane Casalta and I had hoped to meet also; but unfortunately, by the time he was back in Corsica and Jerome was available for visiting, I was on the east side of Corsica without transportation. I never felt comfortable using Madame Bernardini's telephone for phone calls (I didn't want to cause her any undue expense or inconvenience) so I didn't try calling them again.

View from Radio Calvi

I walked from the train station into Calvi stopping at the bank to change the little cash I had left from USD's to Euros, buying stamps at the post office, and stopping to show some people from England how to use their telecom card. I wandered around the citadelle until I found the right door for Le Poudrière—the offices for the Rencontres de Polyphonique de Calvi. I assumed that they would know who I was, as Annette seemed to imply that they were all expecting me. Everyone gave me a look of confusion when I introduced myself. Although, they were quite willing to give me a press pass, they had no idea what I was talking about. I left feeling rather embarrassed. I decided to find Radio Calvi and ask them if they knew anything about what I was supposed to be doing there. I wandered around the citadelle until I found the narrow little staircase that led up to a wooden door in the stonewall. I debated whether I should knock or just go in. As no one answered my knock, I tried the door. Upon opening it, I made my way in the dark up more stairs until I reached the door to the office.

Radio Calvi is three small rooms, the first one being an office, the other two production rooms. They broadcast via a computer so all the programs are pre-taped and just run while Antò (Antoine Letuzean) and Jean-François Rouchon prepare other shows. I did not meet any of the volunteers there but I assume that there are. They were busy making an announcement for A Filetta's new CD Si di Mè. At least they knew who I was but they needed to finish work. I waited patiently taking photographs and staring out at the sea through their window. We walked back to the Svegliu for the promised luncheon. The food was good and plentiful. I chose lots of sliced tomatoes with fresh mozzarella, basil, and garlic.

After lunch, I was introduced to Jean Témir who was to act as my interpreter during my interview with Jean-Claude Acquaviva from A Filetta. Radio Calvi loaned me a mini-disc recorder. The interview went well in spite of language difficulties and lots of background noise from people eating their lunch. Jean-Claude spoke in rapid and passionate French and I followed as best I could. He, like Jean-François Bernardini, is an incredibly intense and brilliant man. I enjoyed meeting him very much. After the interview, I tried to tell him in my poor French what Corsican music means to me. I could see in his eyes that he understood exactly what I was saying to him, for we were both speaking a language that came from our hearts.

Jean-Claude Acquaviva and Myself (photo by Antò of Radio Calvi)

I knew I could not stay for the concert that night as I was absolutely sated. I decided to return on the last train to be with Annette and her children one more time. Everyone there was incredibly gracious and wanted me to stay, but I needed to leave. I did not want to spend my limited Euros for another night in the little trailer in the campground. I had also promised J.F. Bernardini that I would return to Bastia the next morning. At that point, I thought it would be my last night with Annette and I wanted to be with her and her children. For the most part, I felt only a tinge of regret about missing the Rencontres even though that was the reason I chose to visit Corsica at this time rather than earlier or later in the year.
Antò said he would drive me to the train station so we walked back towards Radio Calvi to return the mini-disc recorder and to pick up a few "souvenirs" that he wanted to give to me, mainly a tee shirt that I practically lived in after that.

On the way back, Jean-François Rouchon was sitting in his kitchen drinking a coffee and he gestured for us to come in. We sat at his table drinking coffee. I knew he was a singer and I asked him if he would sing something for me so that I could record him on the mini-disc. "No! I do not sing solo, I sing polyphony." "I know, I know, but could you just sing something? You are such a great singer. I heard you back at the radio station."

"No, I don't sing monody, I sing polyphony, I need other voices with me."

"Please, for me?"

He rose from the table so hastily and went out his front door that I thought he was angry; but he found his neighbor Antoine and quickly returned. The two of them discussed a few songs, acted very shy, but were also visibly excited about singing. They got off to a slightly ragged start; but as they warmed up they relaxed and forgot their initial shyness and sang with voices rich and powerful.

I sat there with tears flowing from my eyes, knowing that this was one of those special moments in my life. Antò kept watching the time and didn't want me to miss my train; whereas, I was perfectly content to just sit there and listen to these two men forever. Although they were shy at first, once they started to sing, they didn't want to stop. Unfortunately, we had to stop after they had only sung two songs for me. I left the kitchen with a sigh; but on the train back I felt so full that I just sat there staring out the window dreaming.

Jean-François Rouchon and his neighbor Antoine

I hoped that Annette wouldn't be angry with me for not staying—but of course she was not. The children were happy to have me back and Amandine and I sat on the floor so she could show me her card trick. I always enjoyed our dinners together, with Annette, Pierrine, Don-Antoine, Faustine and Amadine all trying to talk at once.

That night, I was also given a tour of the house for the first time. Annette, Amandine, Faustine took me from floor to floor showing me all the details of their incredible home. I knew the house was big, but I hadn't realized how big until we went into each room on the five levels. Every room had beautiful tile work on the floor and the twelve bathrooms had gorgeous tile work on the walls, too. The top floor was one huge room set up for concerts, films, lectures, and as a family recreation room. The floor I slept on had four other bedrooms besides mine, a laundry room and at the end of the hall was another large room for workshops, meetings, etc. The hallway had black and white photographs taken by Pierre beautifully framed. Every time I returned to my room, I would walk down the hall and look at them they were so lovely and intriguing. The main floor had a large living room sparsely furnished and during the few days that I was there, it was only used for the party on Sunday. Most of our time was spent either in Annette's incredible kitchen, the "biblioteque", the dining room or in the children's playroom (where Faustine taught me to play dominoes).

Annette had received a phone call from Pierre and he was not returning until Friday, so I was invited to stay one more night. I decided to do that and then go to Madame Bernardini's on Friday and stay until Sunday when I was to leave for the Ajaccio. I thought I would take the train to Casamozza and then hitchhike the rest of the way. I just hoped I wouldn't get lost.

Instead of having to lug my big pack to Bastia the next day I was able to travel lightly with just my daypack. This turned out to be advantageous because as it happened, I spent the entire morning wandering around Bastia on foot.

Bastia—18 September

On Thursday morning, I took the train to Bastia to meet with J.F. Bernardini as planned; but we hadn't really set a time. When I arrived, I called but he wasn't home. I decided to go visit the citadelle and to see the town. I had also spoken with Bernard Bettancourt a friend of Annette's on the phone and had arranged to meet him at the tattoo store where he worked. Besides being a tattoo artist and plumber, he is also a musician in a band called "Buccaneer."

The citadelle has spectacular views of the Mediterranean and of the harbor. I walked around and enjoyed the views for quite some time. I went into the church, which has incredibly beautiful art treasures such as a really gorgeous piece of framed alabaster. I lit a votive candle and said more prayers and another thank you.

Back outside, I noticed a tiny stone building, below the citadelle, with a sign that said Musée de la Miniature Dans Le Poudrière. I climbed down the stairs to it and entered. René Mattei, greeted me in French and asked me if I wanted to come in. I nodded yes and he told me in rapid French the price. For some reason, I could not understand the amount he was saying. He asked me what country I was from (almost everyone in Corsica thought I was from Italy). In the background, he was playing a CD of I Muvrini so I took the opportunity to tell him why I was in Bastia.

"Oh, je suis animatrice à la radio en Santa Cruz, Californie. Je joue beaucoup de musique de Corse en mon émission. Je rend une visite à Jean-François Bernardini, aujourd'hui."

"Entrez-vous, entrez-vous," he answered pulling back the little gate and allowing me passed the first exhibit. He gave me a personal tour of his little museum of miniatures that he had created. The main room was filled with a miniature Corsican village made from stone. He had fashioned people and showed the traditional lifestyle of a typical Corsican village. I found it fascinating. He had me go upstairs and look down while he turned off the lights and showed me the village at night each building glowing with light—all the time speaking in very rapid French (which to my amazement I could follow for the most part) and playing on his CD player I Muvrini's À Bercy.

Upon leaving the museum with promises to Mr. Mattei to tell JFB hello from him, I decided to go find Gerard's Tattoo. I had the address but no map. I assumed that somehow I would be able to find it as Bastia didn't seem that big. I wandered around and around and around, but finally came out on a street that I thought might be close to where it was located. I looked across the street and there it was.

Young people were standing around outside and inside and Bernard was busy giving a young woman a tattoo. I stood at the counter a moment, and he must of known who I was for he gestured for me to sit down and said he would only be a few more minutes. Since I had been walking all morning, sitting down sounded like a very good idea. When he was finished with the tattoo, he came over and sat down handing me a copy of his group's CD. Before I left, I lowered the top of my dress just a little and asked him if he would give me a tattoo of the island of Corsica on the top of my left breast. He paused a moment and said, "Your kidding!" in a shocked voice. I smiled and said "Why, yes, I am." We both laughed and he said "Well, I could draw it in ink."

I wandered around Bastia for a while longer and finally returned to Place Saint-Nicolas, a huge public square. I called JFB again but he still wasn't home, so I left a message saying that I was going to take the 2:30 train back to Corte since he didn't seem to be answering his phone. I called Annie at Muvrini's office to ask her if she knew where he was and she said that he was probably at the spa but he should be home soon.

I walked around the square and then decided to try one more time. This time he answered with a shout, "Gypsy!" He said he would come pick me up; but I told him traffic was really bad. I offered to walk towards his house; but he needed to give me directions. He said go to the port and follow the road and to keep the sea on my right. "When you walk to my house, always keep the sea on your right." I remembered that description later when I was returning to the village after a long walk after having been lost in the maquis—"always keep the sea on your right".

I did that, walking and walking for what seemed like quite a long ways before he finally came up behind me. He had gone to the harbor, because after he talked to me some people from Poland had called him. They were in Bastia and just about to leave on the ferry, but they really wanted to meet him. He told them where he would be and what his car was like. He went there and waited but he never found them. "Oh, I am so disappointed for them, they really wanted to meet me." I wondered how they gotten his phone number; but he didn't know. I could tell that their probable disappointment disturbed him; he is such a kind, generous, and gentle spirit.

He took me back to his house where he had lunch waiting for us—roast chicken, salad, avocado, bread, and yogurt for dessert. He had a bar of chocolate on the table and offered me some. "My friends know I love chocolate and they are always giving it to me. I wish they wouldn't do that, " he laughed. There is so much joy, sorrow and compassion inside of him.

He had been working out at the spa all morning and wanted to lie down for a few minutes. He invited me to make myself at home and explore his library while he rested. He had a wonderful book of photographs on the Basque Country that I wanted to look at, so I took that outside on his sunny terrace. Instead of looking at it though, I laid on the ground and closed my eyes absorbing a few moments of silence and solitude.

When J.F woke up, we went to his music room, where he played piano and sang again. Later Annie came to pick me up and drove me to the train station. We needed to stop at the office so I could go over some errors in the English translation of Umani. When we arrived, Axelle greeted us at the door. Axelle had been my first contact with I Muvrini and we had corresponded for quite some time. She had been the one to put me in touch with our mutual friend Daniel Aubin. (And it was Daniel who had introduced me to Carla, and Carla had introduced me to Annette,thus we had now come full circle). The meeting was a little sad as Daniel had died shortly after we had had an almost daily correspondence for about a month. Axelle and I went over the few errors I had found in the translation. Axelle gave me a tour of the office, while we waited for Annie to finish some business. Annie then drove me to the train station and I returned to Annette's for my last night with her and her wonderful children.

On the train ride back, I felt sad knowing that I would not see Jean-François again and that it would be my last night at Annette's. I really enjoyed being with her and I felt like she had become a sister to me. I was looking forward to visiting with Madame Bernardini, of course, I also felt very connected to her. That night, I said goodbye to the children and Amandine took some strands of my hair and put them in her locket. She gave me a necklace and earrings and Faustine gave me a ring. I made each of them tell me what they wanted me to send them from the U.S. Perrine wanted physics books, Faustine and Don-Antoine wanted stickers, Amandine wanted wash-on tattoos and they all wanted the kind of candy they couldn't buy in France—like Nerds and Lemonheads.

September 19

Friday was one more early morning with Annette driving me to Corte. I went up to the ticket counter and asked for "un billet pour Casamozza." I laid my wallet on the counter while I was waiting for the handsome young man behind the window to issue my ticket. He saw my driver's license and said

"Ah! Californie!"

"Oui, je viens de Californie."

He switched to English so he could practice. He handed me my ticket and I lugged my heavy pack back to a chair and sat down. A few minutes later, he came bursting out the door and said,

"You lost your bank card!"

"Oui, j'ai perdu mon carte de credit au telephone samedi dernier."

" I have it!" "Oh la la."

He made me show him my license to verify that it was mine and then he handed it to me. Never missing the opportunity to kiss a handsome man, I stood on tiptoes and gave him "un gros bisou" on his cheek with a very sincere "Merci beaucoup."

Unlike the time with JFB in Casamozza on Tuesday, Annie was waiting for me as I got off the train. We drove the road to the village chatting away in French. By then I was feeling quite comfortable speaking in french, even though I still wasn't all that great, but at least, I was no longer afraid to try.

When we arrived, there was JFB standing in front of his house grinning at us. He needed to be there to talk with his architect again. Annie and I walked up to her mother's house. Madame Bernardini pointed to the apartment attached to her house where I was to stay. We walked up the stairs and she handed me the key. Inside was a terrace, kitchen, bathroom, living room with a dining table and fireplace and two bedrooms. My bedroom had a window opening out to a beautiful view of the countryside and the Mediterranean beyond. She pointed to the bed and said, "Dans ce lit, vous dormirez comme la reine." Indeed, she was right, I slept well each night to the sound of "le hibou" (an owl with a pretty one note song) and crickets outside my window.

We went downstairs where she showed me all the food she was cooking and told me about "un gateau de châtaigne" that she wanted to make for me before I left. She wrapped a big lunch in a blue cotton napkin for J.F. to take home with him. When he came in later, he showed it to me with a little schoolboy grin on his face. "My mother…"

Madame of course didn't want to miss feeding me too. After lunch, I told her I wanted to take a walk but that I would be back soon. I walked into the village trying to be unobtrusive and not invade the privacy of anyone by staring into their homes. I passed what became my favorite building in Corsica, an ancient looking structure of slate. Heavy stone steps led up to the spaces where the original doors must have been; but had been replaced by stout, but rotting wooden barricades that looked more like gates. I took photographs of these "doors" that I thought were so fascinating. Old wooden doors in stone buildings had become my favorite photogaphic subject in Corsica.

I found a dirt path beyond the village and decided to follow it. When I came to a cemetery, I opened the iron gate and went to all the graves looking for Ghjuliu Bernardini's (JF and Alain's father). I managed to find his site. I sat down near his headstone and sat with him for a while, whispering secrets to him, staring out at the lovely view, and shedding a few tears of joy and sorrow.

The cemetery where Jules Bernardini rests

I continued on the path and wandered along goat paths up through the chestnut forest trying to see if I could get to the top of the ridge. I managed to make my way through the dense growth of brambles, Arbutus unedo and chestnuts to the top where I could see over to the other side. Thin cows with huge horns were standing alongside the path just staring at me. I felt like a little girl again trying to cross my grandparent's pastures. I had had a great fear of cows when I was a child and there I was feeling that old fear again, even though I knew for the most part that cows are very gentle creatures. I forced myself to try to pass them and of course, as soon as I drew near, they became very skittish and ran off down the hillside. After that, I greeted them with a fond "bonjour" as they stared at me with their placid gazes until I became a certain distance from them and then they would run off.

Off in the distance, I could see what looked like a stream running down the hillside; the plants looked greener and the hillside seemed to invite me to come exploring. I wasn't certain if the path I was on would get me there so I kept wandering off into the maquis on animal trails looking for other pathways. Of course, that is exactly the thing that one is warned about when reading guidebooks about hiking in Corsica. "Do not wander off the trail into the maquis!" Even though I had stayed on animal paths to avoid soil erosion and trampling of precious plants,I learned the hard way why one doesn't stray—one: it is so dense that it is easy to get lost and two: it is filled with very prickly brambles and the skin on my arms and hands were soon torn and bleeding. Fortunately, I was wearing long pants which prevented my legs from coming to harm, although my pant legs had prickly weed seeds stuck like Velcro all over them (which Madame Bernardini always felt compelled to brush off while I picked at them. She would click her tongue and say "pick, pick, pick."). I had left my backpack back at my apartment and I not only regretted that I didn't have what had become my inseparable notebook with me but also my water bottle. I was hot, thirsty, bleeding and happy. Whenever I came across brambles with ripe berries I ate them to help quench my thirst. I kept walking and coming across animal trails, which I would follow for a while and sometimes I would encounter crosses in the maquis made of stone, iron or wood.

At this point, it was getting late and I decided to head back. I wanted to find the same path that I had taken but I knew that it was somewhere above where I stood, so again I plunged into the maquis finding my animal paths would inexplicably disappear and I would find myself confronted by an almost impenetrable barrier of arbutus and brambles. I kept having to backtrack and then push my way through as the dense growth kept trying to cling to me and pull me backwards. I left some more flesh and quite a few strands of my hair; but I managed to find my way back to the path. As I came around a corner a whole herd of goats came running down the hillside, stopped in the middle of the path and stared at me. There it was again, my childish fear rising but I was too tired, too thirsty, and too stubborn to let the goats diminish my determination to continue on the wide path. So, with a nod to them, I made my way forward. Unlike the cows, they reluctantly parted so that I could pass by—but none of them threatened—they just moved a little ways away and continued to chew their cud and stare.

Phytollacca americana (pokeweed)

I finally came out on the path above Jean-François grove of olive trees. What a welcome site to see Madame Bernardini's house below and know that there was a hot shower waiting for me in my little apartment. I wanted to clean up before Madame Bernardini saw me with my arms and hands covered with bleeding scratches. She, of course, saw me coming and called to me to come and eat; but I called to her and said "Je voudrais me doucher, Madame."

Dinner, of course, was ready when I finally came down. I told her that I wanted to work in her garden the next day and she seemed okay with that. I wanted to help her a little; but she of course wanted me to be a princess, something I could just never be. I would rather do my share than sit around and cause her to have more work. Even at her age, she continues to be tireless.

Later, she followed me up to the apartment taking the key in her hand. She went around and closed and locked all the windows and the door to the terrace. I thought she was going to lock me in but she walked out the door and stood there while I locked myself inside. (In a village of about 50 people, I wasn't quite sure who was going to come and disturb me during the night; but she was adamant. I think she felt that she was responsible for the safety of her son's friend). I told her I would join her in the morning at 5:00. I asked her that if Jean-François called to be sure to come and tell me. I wanted to say good night to him. When I was in bed, I heard the phone ring and I waited for her to come to the window and call to me. After a while, I heard her come out and call "Ma cherie." "Oui!" She told me he had called but that she had told him that I was already in bed and that he must call tomorrow. I was disappointed but after raising six children, Mme. Bernardini makes the rules.

September 20

At 5:00, Mme B. and I had our croissant and coffee. I asked her to show me where she kept her garden tools. I weeded, pruned, and watered. After a while, she came out and took the tools away from me and told me that I was not to do any more. I had been eager to finish but she was quite firm—I was a guest and I was not to spend all my time working. After lunch, I decided to take another walk. My ankle was sore from having rubbed a blister on the day that I took a walk from Calvi to Algajola, so I decided to walk barefoot; which meant that I needed to walk along the road rather then in the maquis. At least this time I remembered to bring my pack with water and my notebook, but I left the camera behind.

I walked along the roadside and came to a junction that led down the hills to Folleli or through the hills to neighboring villages. I decided to just walk to the next village—had I known at the time that the great singer Feli lived nearby and that he wanted to meet me, I would have walked to his town. (I only found out about this after I had returned to Santa Cruz via an email from Annette).

Fortunately, the road had enough of a shoulder that I could walk along the dirt and stay off the pavement for the most part, because cars whizzed along the curvy mountain road very fast. I balanced on stone bridges, passed beautiful stone fountains where springs flowed clean and clear, avoided the prickly husks of chestnuts with my bare feet, startled a horse behind a fenced enclosure, and pulled out my notebook dozens of times to write down the thoughts welling up inside of me. Along the way, I saw one of my favorite sites on my walks in Corsica. Someone had placed an amber cloth lampshade with brown fringe on a wooden fence post alongside the road. This incongruous sight was a great source of pleasure for me and I wished I had remembered my camera.

When I entered a nearby village, I asked a woman sitting outside her home if it was okay if I entered the churchyard. She nodded and said of course. I walked around the church grounds and found an ancient baptismal font with the cemetery just beyond the fence. I found Corsican cemeteries to be fascinating with their above ground tombs and little photographs on them. There were always bouquets of faded plastic flowers in the urns on the more recent graves. The church doors were locked so I could not go inside and say another silent prayer of thanks at the altar; instead, I just touched the big wooden door and said a thank you there. It really didn't matter; I found the air and the ground of Corsica to be sacred. To me every breath I took while I was on the island felt like a silent prayer, somewhat like how I felt taking my first communion when I was seven. I do not mean to imply that I am particularly religious, for I am not; but somehow my time in Corsica felt like a profound sacrament.On the way back, I made my way down to a stream that flowed below one of Corsica's beautiful stone bridges. I sat in the cool shade by the stream for a few moments watching insects glide on the water. In the hollow of a tree, I found a deep red mushroom that seemed to glow in the dark. When I returned with my dirty bare feet, Madame Bernardini was sitting on a stone across from Jean-François' new house. I sat next to her and she pointed to my feet and said with a sigh something I must have heard her say a thousand times while I was with her. "Oh yi yi yi, pauvre…" We walked slowly back to her house together where I said I would shower and join her for dinner.

After dinner as we sat talking, she told me about the time people came to her house and recorded her husband singing. This was one of the first recordings of traditional Corsican music made. I asked her if she sang. "Oui!" She told me about how her sons had taken her to Ajaccio to record a song her husband had written, ("Lettera' a Fratellu"), for their second album, È Campa Qui in 1981. She stood up and walked next to me, standing straight like a schoolgirl preparing to recite and with her hands folded against her stomach, she sang this song for me. She sounded exactly the same as she had sounded on the earlier recording that her sons had released 22 years ago. While she sang, I put my hand and forehead against her hands and wept quiet tears.

I Muvrini's manager, Jean-Pierre Weiller telephoned and I spoke with him about some ideas for a U.S. tour sometime next year. After dinner, Madame B. gave me a tour of her house and showed me photographs of her "boys" on stage. I saw their gold records and Daniel Aubin's book (En Corse: Il Y A Longtemps Deja…), which he had told me about but I had never seen before. Unfortunately, it was still in its original plastic wrap so I could not look inside. Madame B. showed me "la petite chambre de Jean-François." I assumed this was the one he wrote about in the story in his book, Umani when he had had whooping cough as an infant. I opened the window to see what his view was like as a child. It wasn't a grand view but just the back of the hillside, actually.

While I was there, Madame B. kept handing me gifts. I kept saying I couldn't take them because my pack was already full and too heavy; but she insisted. I told Jean-François and he said, "you just leave them there if you do not want to take them." Okay. I did take a lovely floral dress, four jars of jam (cedrat, chestnut, fig, and homemade apricot) and the promised chestnut cake, but I left a few of my own things in return. In the evening while she sat watching the news on television, I took out some of her books on Corsican polyphony and tried to practice reading in french. She had one that I promised myself to try to find: Polyphonies Corses by Phillippe-Jean Catinichi printed by Cité de la Musique/Actes Sud in 1999. I knew I wasn't going to be at any bookstore before I left, so I thought I might find it on the internet, or if not, I would just have to come back to Corsica some day and buy it then.

Casamozza/Mezzana/Ajaccio—September 21

I went to bed with a heavy heart knowing that the next day would be my last in Corsica. Le hibou sang me to sleep and I awoke again at 5:00 eager to spend my last day in Corsica saying goodbye to each of JFB's olive trees, Madame Bernardini, whom I had grown to love, Monsieur Bernardini, the chestnut trees, the village, the soil of Corsica whom I had knelt and kissed when I was lost in the maquis on Friday.

I spent the morning pulling weeds around the base of as many olive trees as I could before Madame B. called me in for lunch. I re-staked some baby trees that had fallen over, weeded, picked up some garbage that had blown down from the construction site, and climbed the oak tree that JF and Alain had sat under with their father when they had had their singing lessons as children. I promised if I ever returned that I would bring my tools and do a little pruning on the trees in the grove—the oaks, the citrus, and the olives.

After lunch, Madame Bernardini slapped my wrist lightly and told me I was not to go back out and work. We both laughed. I told her that I wanted to go to the cemetery and take flowers and say "au revoir" to her husband. I slipped away and walked through the village one last time and walked the pathway to the gravesite, picking up garbage along the way and throwing it into the village dumpsters.

I had gathered a few herbs from the maquis and some flowers from Mme Bernardini's garden that I wanted to take to the graveside of Mr. Bernardini along with a little note that I had written for him and two pieces of cork oak that I had found lying on my path the day before. Before I went into the cemetery, I walked further on the dirt path to say goodbye to the beautiful stone fountain and to pick a few sprigs of the nearby chestnut trees to add to my bouquet.

I sat near Mr. Bernardini's grave, cried a little and feasted my eyes on the views of the mountainsides of the Castagniccia and the Mediterranean in the distance. When I returned I packed my things and tidied up my little apartment.

Annie would be picking me up around 2:00 p.m. and taking me to the train station in Casamozza. Jean-François had made arrangements for his friend Shelly to pick me up in Mezzana and take me to a hotel near the airport in Ajaccio. I hoped the hotel wouldn't be too expensive since my plans had been just to camp somewhere near and then take a taxi to the airport at 5:00 a.m. (My plane would be leaving for Nice at 7:00 a.m.).

I brought my big pack down and laid it near the outdoor table where I had sat so often. Annie came and we loaded up her car. With tears in our eyes, Madame Bernardini and I hugged and kissed. She said, "Je sera seule ce soir." We drove away through the village and back to Casamozza.

Annie went inside the train station with me and paid for my ticket even though I tried to tell her not to do that. I should have been used to the generosity of the Corsican people by then; but I somehow can never learn to take such things for granted. We sat outside together on a bench and chatted casually. My french still wasn't quite good enough to have long deep conversations and I regretted that. I wanted to know Annie better. We took photographs of each other and kissed goodbye. I rode the train with a heavy heart pressing my face against the glass and holding my notebook tightly in my hands. Every few moments I found myself writing in it or reading passages from days before. There were so many names, addresses, telephone numbers—people I had met, people I had wanted to meet but only spoke with on the telephone, and people whom I would have to contact when I returned to Santa Cruz via email.

The train took almost four hours to go from Casamozza to Mezzana and I worried that I would not recognize Shelly when I arrived. Jean-François had said there should be no problem as I would probably be the only one getting off the train at that station. This was not the case, but Shelly and I knew each other immediately. I suppose JF had said something like just look for a short, dark woman. She later told me that because my last name was Flores she thought I was probably Mexican and I assume that is why she recognized me even though she had never seen me before. (My heritage is actually Portuguese, all four of my grandparents immigrated to the U.S. from the Azores Islands).

Shelly had grown up in the U.S. and spent her summers in Corsica with her father; but she had been living in Corsica for the past 20 years or so. She had been working with I Muvrini as their road manager for their tours in Corsica since the beginning. Her house looked to me more like a dwelling in New Mexico with its stucco walls and red tiled roof than the houses I had seen in Northern Corsica. Inside, her living room was filled with souvenirs from Disneyland. Her daughter was outside riding a pony with the supervision of her husband. She took me into her office and showed me the archives for I Muvrini. She had made huge amounts of food but I begged to be allowed not to eat. "Oh Shelly, I am so tired of eating. Every time I turned around Madame Bernardini was trying to stuff more food in my mouth. She was incredibly hospitable and generous; but I do not like to eat that much!" I felt a little guilty as she laid a platter of snacks such as pizza, olives, cheese, bread before me and showed me the bowl of gnocchi in her kitchen. I hoped she didn't think I was being rude; but fortunately, Shelly seemed okay with me not eating.

After relaxing and visiting a while, Shelly drove me to the hotel and helped me to check in. There was no elevator in the hotel so I climbed the narrow staircase to my room lugging my heavy pack.

I called Frederick Poggi from the group Cinqui So and he called me right back to save hotel charges. We had hoped to meet that evening as he lives in Ajaccio; but he had had to remain in his village as his father was having car troubles. I then called JFB to say goodbye and he also telephoned back. I thanked him and told him how grateful I was to have stayed with his mother. She had made me feel so welcome in her gracious and regal way.

Ajaccio, Nice, Paris, San Francisco, Santa Cruz—September 22

I tried to sleep but couldn't, so at 4:00 a.m. I decided to take a walk along the waterfront and say goodbye to the Mediterranean. I passed an ancient church shining luminescent white in the misty moonlight. (I took a photograph of it with my last shot left in the camera. Later, when it was printed, I found that even though the lighting had been wrong I had a photograph of an eerie looking building with an orange crescent moon half covered in a wispy cloud.

When I returned to the hotel at about 5:00, my taxi was waiting for me. I ran up to my room, gathered my things, and handed in my key.

My plane wasn't leaving until 7:00 and check in didn't open until 6:00, so I just sat waiting, writing in my journal and on the postcards I had purchased in Calvi. Reluctantly, I boarded the small plane to Nice. As we taxied down the runway and took off, I leaned my head against the window and quietly sobbed. I knew everyone on that small plane was having to partake of my very personal experience of grief; but I just did not know how to stop crying.

Thank you Catie for being at the airport to catch me when I fell.

Adieu my Corsica—you will always live in my heart
Blessed are the wounds that are inflicted by acts of love
—Gypsy

A few offerings from my inseparable journal…

vendredi 19 septembre

Early one morning I arose and left the house
and walked to the next village
I saw a little stream descending down the valley
with bracken fern, brambles, and rockrose growing along its banks
On the other side of the bridge
the little stream seemed to gesture to me to follow it upward
so I made my way uphill
through the brambles
over the damp rocks of granite polished by the flowing stream
and growing moss and lichen
these living beings of stone and the breath of the past.

The air was fragrant with the fig trees growing alongside
The pathless route that I chose to walk.

There, near one of the rocks of Corsica,
I saw a salamander curled in the corner
I stopped and stood silently above this harmless creature
in reverence
breathing a silent prayer for its safety.

I could feel its fear as it lay still
trying to blend its moist brown and yellow skin
into the surrounding flesh of the earth.

There are moments in life that come back to one later
like now on this train that I am on
leaving Corte
or maybe it will come back when I am home again
pulling the night around myself
like a blanket before I drift off to sleep

I will remember the smell of the fig trees
The feel of the sun on the back of my dark hair
The scratches on my arms from the brambles
and the little salamander as I stood with my shadow
caressing its moist body
and I said and I will always say
Thank you Corsica...

They Hold the Key…

There are a row of doors scattered in Corsica
A row of them but not in a straight line
Each door is different
Each door is the same
I have stood before some of them
I have taken a photograph of some of them
Either with a camera or my memory
These doors could remain closed for me
Or perhaps
One day one will open
A tiny bit
And I will be standing there
At the right moment
And I will see a sliver of silver light
Shining through
They are all the possibilities
They hold hope in the grain of their wood

Septembre 20

Everywhere I go in Corsica
a little piece of me breaks off and is left behind.
Everywhere I go in Corsica
a little piece of the island breaks off and goes with me.

On This Journey That Has Been So Magical

I found a rock in your village
In your olive grove
A small piece of quartz
Shaped like the mountains behind Corte
I put it in my pocket
As I descended the path to your mother's house
Where she waited for me on the road
Calling "Venez, Gypsy, Venez,"

I found a rock on that path
My first day in your village
While you were talking to your architect
And I was talking to your olive trees

I found a little piece of quartz
That felt precious in my hand

You were standing near your kitchen window
The sunlight caressing your face
And I asked you
Do you think Corsica will mind
If I take a little piece of her
Home with me?

In My Little Pink Room

In the little pink room where
I am staying at Annette's home
There is a window in the corner of the bathroom
Where I can see Mars
And each night that I have been here
I turn off all the lights and I sit before that window
And stare at the starry sky.

I have been to many a church and cathedral
While I have been in Corsica
For my first time
And I have prayed at many altars
Lit many candles
Cried many tears
I have sat near gravestones
In old cemeteries that I have come across
On my daily walks
There too I have prayed and shed tears

But the most sacred experience,
The time when I feel my prayers
Are heard
Is when I sit by that window
In the dark
While the house is sleeping
And I see Mars.

The Gardener

In California I work in other people's gardens for money
In Corsica, I worked in Madame Bernardini's garden for love
And now, when I return home,
I will take the soil of Corsica
With me under my fingernails.

Ça suffit, mon ami

While I am on this earth
For this short time
I will walk softly
I hope I leave few things behind
That say "I was here."
One or two footprints
Maybe some roses growing in my garden
And perhaps these thoughts
That I write for you
When I go
I hope my ashes will be scattered
In the wind to fly to where my heart is
Corsica
And people will say
Elle est morte
Mais
Elle est très contente.

Relevant web sites

Web site of the late Daniel Aubin
http://perso.wanadoo.fr/d.aubin/index.htm#SOMMAIR

Corsican groups
http://www.absolucorse.com/Chjami Aghjalesi
http://chjamiaghjalesi.free.fr/Corsica Mania
www.corsicamania.com/index.htm

Corsican Dance and Fiddle MusicTutti in Piazza
http://www.chez.com/tutti/

Corsican Photographs and Slides--just click on the region on the map
http://evm.vr-consortium.com/titres/corse/zzf/commun/slideshow.htm/

Digamusic (Great source for buying Corsican and Breton music on the web)
http://www.digamusic.com/

Il Boccaccio
Carla Venezia/Vice President of Corsican/American Assoc. in Los Angeles
Italian Restaurant in L.A./Many links to Corsica
http://www.ilboccaccio.com/index.html

I Muvrini
http://www.muvrini.com/

I Muvrini site in Belgium
http://home.tiscali.be/imuvrini/anglais/indexAN.htm

Les Chants Polyphonies
(To hear some Corsican music)
http://www.epita.fr:8000/~chaude_l/corse/polyphonie.html

Radio Calvi
http://www.radiocalvi.com/

Zamballarana
http://www.zamballarana.com
info@zamballarana.com

To read my music reviews go to
http://www.popmatters.com
and type in a search for "Gypsy Flores"

My radio shows are alternate Sundays from 5:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m. PST and every Sunday afternoon from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. on KUSP-FM and can be heard via the internet at:
http://www.kusp.org

Carla Venezia, Joe Venezia, Jean-François Bernardini, and Myself
Back stage at the California plaza in Los Angeles (photo by Cecily Gardner).

Thank you Carla, Annette and family, Jean-François , Annie, Alain, and Madame Bernardini, Martin Vadella, Axelle, Radio Calvi, and to my many wonderful friends in the United States, France, and Corsica who helped me on my journey. It was my hope in writing this account that you were able to accompany me on this journey.

This Account is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Daniel Aubin and to the memory of Ghjuliu Bernardini, whom I felt I had come to know through the stories of his wife, Madame Bernardini and the singing of his sons.

A special thank you to Greg Thrush and Heidrun Melzer for help with this web page.