Favorites from the brocciu making
Philippe
Dominique
Azure
Cheeses
Magic in the Maquis
by Mike
Philippe’s grandfather was found dead in the Maquis with his back against a tree and his rifle across his lap. Philippe sat in the position to show us as he retold the story, holding his arms to his chest as if clutching a rifle. “The Gestappo – the Italian police, you know? – they were in the Maquis on a full moon night and saw the light shine on the barrel. When they found him he was dead. Heart attack at 46.”
Philippe shares his grandfather’s passion for guns and hunting, as many men do on this island. A common scene was the Hunter’s Bar in Ota: a bunch of men sat drinking Pastis and looking at guns on a computer or in magazines. They wore camouflage jackets and hats and there were boar’s heads and stuffed birds on the walls. They poured more Pastis and played cards and other hunters came and went, everyone greeting everyone else.
I asked Philippe if he hunts with dogs and he said he doesn’t, he prefers to hunt at night. “Wow, that’s intense,” I said.
In the book we’re reading about Corsica (Granite Island by Dorothy Carrington) there’s a chapter about other night hunters, the Mazzeri. The Mazzeri were improperly baptized individuals who lived in the villages but apart from the people. They had the gift, though, of foretelling death. At night they’d hunt in the fragrant Maquis and kill the first animal that came along – a dog or a boar or whatever. Then they’d roll it onto its back, look in the face and recognize somebody from the area. In the morning they announced the news that the person they saw would die within a year.
Carrington writes that the Mazzeri didn’t actually cause the deaths, rather they interpreted what was sent to them. They were compelled to go into the Maquis to hunt just as the animal was compelled to cross their path. It was Destiny, and their only part was to read it. But she writes that night hunting becomes addictive for some Mazzeri, despite their reluctance to read more deaths.
The closer you look at the tradition of the Mazzeri, the further back you look “into the night of time,” further back even than the megalith builders who inhabited the island thousands of years ago, whose works you can still see and touch, faces carved into upright, human-sized stones. The Mazzeri reflect a people grappling with the basic human activities of hunting and dying at the dawn of cognizance.
When I asked Father Joseph if the megaliths were interesting to visit, I was kinda annoyed by his answer, “Well, they’re ok if you’re interested in rocks and old stuff.” But now that I better understand the historical context I can see why he answered that way. The megaliths (“rocks and old stuff”) were symbols for the beliefs and traditions that Christianity struggled for a thousand years to dislodge. The megalith builders were active on the island since 3000 B.C., while the traditional customs & beliefs lasted from the dawn of cognizance deep into Christianity’s crusade – even up until the Second World War Corsica remained an island writhing in the coils of busy myths. By contrast, Christianity has only been here since about 500 A.D. That means that in the year 3509 A.D, it will still be another 2000 years before Christian beliefs will have been on this island as long as the megalith builder beliefs have been here to now.
A couple weeks ago I wrote to you about touching the stones that ancient people touched and trying to imagine what compelled them to build. I wrote that I hoped “my mind would be refilled with the mind that built those walls” and maybe I’d tap into something fundamental to the human experience that I’m missing now. Only I failed to connect. Obviously I don’t believe I can conjure the minds of the past, I don’t believe in that. But I’m starting to realize that a fundamental piece of human experience that I’m missing is the very instrument that allowed people to communicate with their ancestors – magic.
The disappearance of magic is a symptom of the changed pace of the world. I think that the key to understanding another person’s experience is living the rhythm of their life, and to understand the wall builders I’d have to quit using a car and stop working a job and extract the internet from my body and ignore the media. It would mean living with the seasons and working with my body and living a shorter life but maybe living in constant wonder.
Philippe, stroking the barrel of his gun, said, “This is my dream, realized. I wanted my life to be hunting, guns, motorcycles, cheese, goats.” He didn’t mention his wife and daughter in the next room. “And now I have it.”
We left his house late at night and as we rode home I thought about what it would be like going into the Maquis with a rifle and just sitting and waiting and listening. I thought about what I would feel if I sat still for a night, and what I’d hear if I didn’t talk, and what I’d see if there were no lights, and what I’d sense if time and rhythm slowed to heartbeat and breath. I wondered if Philippe was addicted to night hunting like the Mazzeri and if I could be too.
The scooter pulled through the night to the crest of the hill and from a height that felt like floating, we looked down the spine of Corsica. There were a few towns hidden in folds facing the sea. It felt mythical at that time, and the next night we went back to the same spot to take pictures. I thought about my own dream realized, honestly: traveling with Azure by motorcycle (the scooter has done fine) with a camera and my journal, trying to learn the rhythm of other people’s lives.
Posted on at 6:38 am.
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Brocciu
by Azure (The one who loves Brocciu)
Let’s start here…
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBiUt7dtfGw&hl=en&fs=1]
This story actually starts a long time ago on our fourth day on Corsica. We would go to the little market next to the Convent when we were staying in the convent. The woman there had a basket of treats, little doughnut holes filled with cheese. She would give one to me every time we went in. One day, there were pots of cheese sitting out on the table. The woman told us that the cheese was what was in the doughnuts. Underestimating my powers of cheese consumption, we asked the other client if she would split one with us. She said yes, we got a half pot of cheese and my world has never been the same since.
These are some early photos of Brocciu
After finishing the pot in less than a day, I set my sights on finding a supplier in the Seattle area. How little I knew back then. I called it cheese and wondered who imported it. I stuck my mom with the task, since she can find anything anywhere at anytime. But, to my horror, she emailed me only a link to what brocciu is. There was a link to buy it, but of course it came up empty.
No worries at this point as we saw brocciu product abound up and down the coast. There were the doughnuts at the street markets and in every specialty store. Brocciu pots were available at any supermarket or corner shop. No problems. Not until we got north to Ota that I started to sense a lacking. Sometimes the markets were sold out of pots and often times you didn’t see any doughnuts in baskets. I started thinking about a life without brocciu.
But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself here. What exactly is brocciu and why is it so amazing. Well, it is a light cream product, apparently you can’t call it cheese, it is not referred to as cheese. It is apparently lactose free and, in the state that I love, fresh. It cannot be imported, since it must be eaten in 3-4 days. It goes well with sweet things and is most often used in deserts. It tastes like…
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luvwTCo1iT8&hl=en&fs=1]
So when Mike and I arrived on Cap Corse (the very top of the island) for the last leg of our journey, I was starting to think only of how to learn how to make brocciu. The Cap ended up being a barren place. It was dramatic, which Mike loved, steep and wild and the winds were so strong that we were told you couldn’t grow crops because the wind takes all the moisture away. We would drive for miles and miles and see no sign of anything except the Maquis.
When we arrived at our hotel in the Community of Centuri, we headed to town to get some groceries. We had 4 days left on the island and as we sat in the harbor having a snack of brocciu, myrte jam and bread, I told Mike that I wanted to get going south again. He was saddened by this idea because he loved the Cap the most of all the places on Corsica. I told him, I have to go south, I must find out how to make brocciu.
At that very instant, he got up and walked in to the small market on the pier. I didn’t know what he was doing, but when we came out he said, we must ask in the town how to make brocciu. The journey had begun.
There was no one in town at that point, so we decided to go on a drive up the hill to the next town. Orche it was called, but it was so small that we didn’t even know where we were. On the one main street that stretched an entire half block, 5 old ladies stood outside the mayors office. We stopped the scooter and got off. One last reality check happened when Mike said to me, is this weird? I said I don’t know, is it? Probably, he said. But we both walked over to the women without saying another word.
“Hello, do you know anyone who has sheep?” he asked.
The women just looked at him for a moment.
“I’m sorry, I have a strange question. We are trying to learn how to make the cheese, brocciu and I was wondering if you knew anyone who knows how.”
At this the women started to laugh, but of course they know someone. “You go up the road to the next town. Ask for Madame Alberitini.”
“How many minutes is it? How will we find her?” Mike asked.
“Oh not far, just ask for her in the town.”
“Thank you”
We drove on, up the hill to Ersa. We drove through Ersa without seeing a sign of life anywhere. Outside the town somewhere we saw two men by the side of the road. “We are looking for Madame Albertini,” Mike said.
“Which one, there are many.” Of course in these towns the families stay close to home. We have learned this about Corsican villages. The town cemeteries are filled with three or four names only.
“Maybe she makes sheep’s cheese,” Mike replied.
“Ah yes, go back into town. When you see the big hotel on your right, her house is the next on your left.”
“Thank you.”
We drove back into town and parked in front of the home across the street from hotel. We walked up the narrow passage between the home and the wall and into a dark alleyway. In front of us was an open door and a man inside, probably 70 years old funneling wet cheese into containers. “Are you making brocciu?” we asked.
“No,” he said, “My wife makes the brocciu. It is very difficult. I don’t know how.”
“We are looking for Madame Albertini, is that your wife?”
“Yes, how did you know to ask here?”
“Some women near Centuri told us to come here. We want to learn how to make brocciu.”
“My wife does not make it everyday, but when she does, she starts at 5 in the morning.”
“Will she make it tomorrow?” we asked.
“I don’t think so, but ask my cousin. He lives one town over.”
“How will we find him?” we asked.
“You drive up the road, you will come to a fork, do not go toward town, take the other road. You will come to a fountain, across from the fountain, there will be a barn. He will be in the barn.”
“And what is his name?” we asked.
“Philippe Albertini.”
“And yours?”
“Roger.”
“Thank you, Roger”
It was getting late, maybe 5:30pm and the sun had set over the crest of the hill. I doubted that Philippe would be at the barn so late, but we had come so far, we had to keep looking.
At first we took the wrong fork, backtracked and found the fountain. Across from it was a barn and we parked the scooter and walked to the barn. Mike knocked on the glass and waved when he saw life inside. A man came to the door wearing among other things, a camo hat and combat boots. He had thick black eyebrows and was not a man that you would mess with.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezSZDEVtOag&hl=en&fs=1]
Inside the barn there were probably 50 goats. We asked about the brocciu and the brebis (sheep). He asked if I had sheep and I said no. I have 2 goats, but they are both men, so no goat milk either. He was confused. We were confused. We kept asking about sheep and he kept asking about things we didn’t understand. After 10 minutes of yelling above the noises of goats being milked, we were told to come back at 3pm the next day to watch him make the brocciu. More directions, this time ones we didn’t have confidence in, so he offered to take us there that night to show us how to get there at least…
Philippe speaks in sentence fragments. He talks loud and says things we don’t understand. When we were following his car, I asked Mike if we were doing something that night. Were we making cheese with him. Mike said, he would not be surprised if we made cheese, nor would he be surprised if we didn’t. No one could say what Philippe had been talking about. All we knew is that we were following him to a place we would return the next day to make cheese.
As it turned out, we did make cheese that night. It was pitch black by this point, but we were at ground zero for goat cheese production and we weren’t leaving until he kicked us out. Mike took photos, I giggled a lot. It was a good time. We rode back in darkness. It was calm at least and a peaceful ride over the pass.
The next afternoon we drove the 30 minute ride to Philippe’s house, which was also where he made the cheese and brocciu. When we got there, he and his wife had a pot already going. Monique was much easier to understand. She was patient with us and answered questions directly. She was really understanding and interesting. We liked he a lot and got a lot of what we know about cheese making and brocciu from her even though the cheese blood is in Philippe’s family. He has been doing this since he was 16 years old.
After two hours of stirring, measuring the temperature, waiting, and stirring some more, the brocciu “arrived.” They said it would smell like cake right before it was ready and it did. It was sweet and floated to the surface for the picking. Philippe skimmed the top and plucked the brocciu out of the “petite lait.” He put them in the little tubs and I got to eat one hot out of the pot. It was heaven.
When we had finished making the brocciu, he invited us into his house for coffee and more brocciu. Ok, you’ll have to imagine this, since I didn’t want to photograph inside his house much…you put brocciu in a bowl and pour hot coffee and sugar on it. OMG. Mike was poured a taste of some Myrte liquor from the maquis, which is now our new obsession and shown Philippe’s display of guns. He took us out to another shed and we got some other surprises.
When we got on the scooter to go home, it was 8:30 at night. It was black out and the wind was strong. When we drove over the pass, the wind would move the scooter around like it was paper. It took us 55 minutes to drive what took us 30 minutes during the day. Mike rode with his feet touching the pavement the whole time and I learned how much I truly trust him. It might have been my best day on the island because I can now go away knowing that I can find brocciu again even if I have to make it myself.
Posted on March 12, 2009 at 3:06 pm.
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Pino is a beautiful town on the sea
by Mike
In the town of Pino we came across an abandoned church monastery thing. Azure found a door whose lock was unlocked and she pulled hard and it opened and inside was an old iron cross.
Posted on at 11:28 am.
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Gun love, the story of a Corsican man
by Mike
Philippe said, “This is a dream, realized.” He was referring to his life. There were five things: “Hunting, guns, motorcycles, cheese, goats.” That was his dream, and he achieved it without the help of The Secret.
I asked if he used dogs for boar hunting and he said he doesn’t – he prefers to hunt quietly at night.
“That’s intense,” I said.
Posted on at 9:07 am.
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Old cars in Orche, Corsica
by Mike
In a random little town on Cap Corse there was a random little street whose trees had blue & white Christmas lights. Under the trees were a few old cars and every night we drove by we thought, “we’ve got to take pictures of this.” We finally did last night, here are the results:
That last one was a new technique – I took a long exposure and at the same time zoomed out. Voila.
Posted on at 8:53 am.
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A hike in the Maquis
by Mike
I saw on the map that there are some dolmens around here. Dolmens are ancient rocks carved or constructed or something. When I asked the guy at our hotel about them he said that the site was still being processed (the media is intense for a small island, so every subject is well-covered) so there’s no signs and no roads to get there.
At the place closest to where we thought the dolmens were Azure saw a dirt road that went under the highway, so we pulled off the road and parked by an empty beach and walked it. There’s this shrubbery all over the island called “Maquis.” It’s a combination of 7 or 8 different plants that kinda go wherever nothing else is. It’s fragrant, very distinct and subtle. It’s the scent Napoleon talked about on his death bed. We walked the road up a ridge through the Maquis, trying to get a bearing on where the dolmen might be. No luck up the first ridge.
There was another road that lead around another side of the mountain. We hiked high on this one, up until the road ended and the Maquis closed in and the only tracks on the ground were sheep tracks. And even those started disappearing until we weren’t on a trail anymore.
Even if we didn’t find a dolmen, we satisfied my curiosity about walking through the Maquis. From the top it looks like a very even green carpet on the mountains. One of the bushes is rosemary, which is in bloom right now. The flowers are violet, so in the pictures above you can see Azure walking through a whole acre of blooming rosemary.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOLAbaxItqY&hl=en&fs=1]
Posted on March 8, 2009 at 3:45 pm.
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Pictures of Azure
by Mike
We had a portrait day, so we’re going to each post some of our favorite pictures of the other person.
I think it’s easy to find pictures of Azure because she’s often doing something like this:
But it’s not always like that. Here are some of my favorites from the little sunset photoshoot today.
Posted on March 7, 2009 at 1:27 pm.
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Photos of Mike
by Azure
I know it seems like we didn’t do a lot today, but we did. We drove all the way from our gite in Ota up to the north coast. We stopped in Calvi for lunch and found a place in Ile Rousse that we really like. We walked through the city and climbed up to the old tower. But in between, we took hundreds of photos of each other. Mike had more opportunities because I fell asleep on his lap on the boardwalk (Susan and Arnie, I almost have enough material for the calendar next year)(everyone else, Mike’s parents made a calendar of family members sleeping–Arnie and I made up the majority of the calendar).
Mike is hard to capture on film. When I try to take pictures of him, he gets really tense and either looks extremely militant or makes a really fake smile (see below)
or will have his eyes closed or something else equally unflattering…
I have taken some good ones of him throughout the trip though. I have learned that he sometimes looks normal if he is doing something else, or I can catch him off guard, or if he does his fake smile and I tease him (tub shot).
The side view has typically been the best for him, since he doesn’t have to look at the camera, but today I figured out a new trick. Get him talking about the things he likes best — scooters, riding scooters, Katie (the beagle next door to us in Seattle).
And of course, his all time favorite topic of the trip. You can’t tame it, but you can capture him saying it.
the H-A-W-K!
Posted on at 11:41 am.
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Just a little taste
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrZ9m7LQzFc&hl=en&fs=1]
Posted on March 6, 2009 at 11:17 pm.
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She commands the sea
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTnwYI2ltxg&hl=en&fs=1]
Porto, Corsica
Posted on at 12:05 am.
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It's so Beautiful!
by Azure
We had intended to spend Wednesday night in a town called Cargese. Mike had picked it out on a map for it’s proximity to the sea and we headed there as soon as we could leave Ajaccio. We stopped in Cargese around 2pm when the lunch hours were finishing up, but the town was still shut down. We had only been riding an hour or so and though it was raining, we decided to keep moving north to make more ground on the island. We were unimpressed by the town. Quaint towns on ports or beaches are a dime a dozen on this island and there was nothing in particular about the place that made us want to put in the necessary effort of finding a room in one of hotels whose signs say OPEN ALL YEAR but whose closed shutters and absence of light say otherwise.
We ended up spending Wednesday night in a town called Porto near the sea. Mike remembers Porto from his first visit because people told him how beautiful it was. Corsica has taught us that the word “beautiful” means different things to different people. Everyone has a place on the island that is the “most beautiful” and no two people recommend the same place. Saying something is beautiful does not relate information. If someone had told us that on the drive from Cargese to Porto you will see men walking their black and tan cows with little calves trotting beside down the center of the road; or that you will drive for miles and miles into rolling mountains that you don’t believe have ever known the tread of a single human, only to be confronted with the meager stone remains of an ancient migrant way of life perched on ridges and in valleys; or that from these huge tree-covered peaks, you will descend, without warning towards the bright blue Mediterranean and be greeted by red rock cliffs that run right out of the sea– if someone had told us those things, I may have understood what “beauty” they were talking about.
As is, I guess I am glad people hadn’t gone into detail. The surprises we felt turning each corner and the joy we felt for each discovery made the rainy ride emotional and captivating. We have seen every kind of natural beauty on this island, but that drive once again surprised us. It brought us both to tears with its drama and its ability to put one in their place in how the natural world should value a single human existence. Those cliffs don’t feel us riding on their high ledges or through their amber tunnels. Their age is only magnified by the human reminders built into their walls. There are the red stone bridges and support systems, holding up the current day road, probably laid there by workers 60 years ago, there are the ruins of homes and stone fences which housed the families of the people who tended their herds 200 years ago, and there are the caves that provided shelter to the early Corsicans when they were being attacked time and time again from all sides as far back as 400AD. These cliffs are much much older.
Tuesday, Mike and I went on a tour of the area to the north, despite the dark clouds. At times it was calm, other times the wind almost blew our tiny scooter off the winding cliffs into the sea. It rained, it hailed, and finally, the clouds broke to allow the slim daggers of light to slice lines and cut holes in the sea and the hills alike. We wound along the side of the “maquised” hills all day, never losing sight of the sea for any length of time. We stopped often to take pictures, hoping to capture the true mood of the day, but in my opinion, always failed. My frustration lies in that no matter how hard we work, how much we write or how many photos we take, we can never take an accurate photo of our lives.
Posted on at 12:02 am.
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Hand made nets in Ajaccio
by Mike
This guy makes fishing nets by hand. He’s done it for 60 years right on that spot, he said. He sometimes does up to 150 per year, but sometimes as little as 50.
Posted on at 3:15 am.
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All caught up. All gassed up.
by Azure
We are finally caught up with the blog. When we were on the olive farm, we were without internet the whole time and it was an hour drive into the city to post. We worked until 5pm most days and it was too long and cold and dark to drive to Nice after work, so we just got bottled up there. We finally learned that we could post without being there by scheduling them, but that was also difficult, since we still had to drive down and post every few days. Long story short, we got a week behind, so all of the posts happened exactly one week before they were posted. And, now that we are LIVE, we are once again heading to a place we fear has no internet. Cargese and Serriera, where we are aiming to stay, are barely bold on the map. Where we are, a medium sized town has about 40 residents. A small town is marked on the map, but we have found that can just mean a collection of 3 or 4 families living near each other. Anyway, we are headed out this morning. We got an email that there was gas now and that we should take advantage, so Mike rushed to the pumps. We are full and ready to go back into the wild lands. Wish us luck.
Posted on March 4, 2009 at 3:13 am.
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A Hawk's Day
by Azure
Before we met with Claude for the first time in Nice, Mike turned to me and promised that he would be on his best behavior, but he couldn’t speak for the hawk. He was the only farmer in the valley with a mohawk and his favorite saying is “You can’t tame it, you can’t tame a hawk.” In French, his favorite topic is something to do with rabbit’s milk cheese. On the first day at lunch he mentioned it to Margarite and Claude. Do you milk the rabbits, he asked. I think they thought he was more city than they could handle until they realized he was joking. A week later, when Margarite looked puzzled with another of his comments, Claude said to her, don’t you know he could be joking at any time.
This blog is a funny thing. It captures bits and pieces of our day that make us think or change, but the majority of our time is spent on things far less serious. Today, we walked around and sat in a hotel. What do you write about on a day that you sit in a hotel? We usually don’t write anything about that.
At the farm, there were a lot of animals to play with. There was a goat that would butt your knee whenever you went in to the pen. I would find excuses to go in so he would play with my knee. Another kid would always jump up and try to eat my sweatshirt. It was cute. I spent a lot of time with goats on or at me.
There was one night when we were out taking night photography in Margaret’s garden. We saw that a rabbit had escaped, but was hanging around the pen because he wanted to be with his friends, but still wanted freedom to roam in the garden. When we told Margarite, she insisted that we spend about an hour chasing the rabbit around, trying to get him back in the pen. Four people trying to herd a rabbit is not enough BTW. We had to try again later and still failed. The rabbit finally chose to go back in on its own.
There is a guy, Marciel, who we were never able to fit into any of the stories about the farm. He was the guy who lived next door and worked for them. He wore a Chicago hat everyday and I think he must have had a stash of beer in the back of Margarite’s kitchen because he would walk in and grab one every evening. He would stand in the kitchen and talk so unfiltered with her. He would get really animated with her and Claude and use words like “Putain” in regular conversation, which translated means “whore.” I am still not sure what the conversations were about.
And then there is all the time we spend riding. Everyday we are not working, we go for a long ride. If our trip was a pie graph, 40% would probably be riding. There’s never much to say about it. It’s always beautiful and always fun, but it’s more of a picture than a post. Or in our case 4,560 pictures. It has gotten to the point where we’ll see a beautiful hill town or an ancient cemetery or some cows roaming free on the road and we won’t even stop. A dime a dozen!
We spend an unusually large amount of time talking about, or if we are stopped, talking to animals. There are so many here and they are still fun to see. There are so many dogs, just running along the road, miles from any town. So many sheep grazing sometimes in front of you and so many cows and horses that just look at you.
And of course we talk about the blog a lot. We read and edit each others posts and make comments. We write almost every night in some capacity. It got out of hand one night in Nice when I had to lie to one of the Austrian girls. I told her that we were going home to have sex, so I didn’t have to nerd out and tell her that we were actually going home early to edit a post.
Oh and then there are the internet cafes. We spend about an hour in a cafe each day uploading things and doing whatever. When we were staying in Sartene, going to the internet required driving to the next town where we would always go to the same bar. The guy who works there got so familiar with Mike that he gave him his email address and phone number without Mike even asking. He’d give us free drinks too, since we are in there everyday.
I don’t know what this post is about. But, I do know that sometimes this blog gets thick and when I read back through, it doesn’t capture the times when life is just going. I think this trip is one of the most interesting we’ve ever taken, but I just wanted to talk a little about the normal life between the posts.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8R9M4asxDlQ&hl=en&fs=1]
Posted on at 2:58 am.
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How to get over a really bad day.
Nique le Budget!
by Azure
We went to bed hoping to go north in the morning. When I woke up it was still raining, so I didn’t even bother waking Mike up. It is a long ride to the north and doing it in the rain is really out of the question. We thought, judging from our experiences on the west side of the island that there had to be a blue sky day soon to come. We walked into town and checked the weather at the information office. Rain rain rain! Three days of rain. But wait – there’s more!
Posted on March 3, 2009 at 1:12 pm.
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Filling my head with stones
by Mike
On the west coast of Corsica there’s a tower at each point and from the top of one tower you can see the next. The islanders built them in the 1500s as an early warning system against repeated Barbary pirate attacks, but the towers weren’t so successful – the Corsican way of life was completely disrupted and the residents fled the fertile lowlands for the rocky mountains.
We parked our scooter off a red dirt road running a ridge. From the ridge we saw the tower farther down the point, we could see the sea below and the mountains behind. Corsica is a wild island. Here, the trees were low, thick and untamed and it was very rocky. The island feels empty sometimes, primitive – all over the island there are grand views of mountains and valleys with no trace of people.
We walked toward the tower on a red path that cut through the trees and passed stone walls. Walls ran wherever they wanted, in the forest there would be a wall with some steps, then more walls, then there would be a cleared area where a structure had once stood. We could see the outline of a building in stone lines covered by moss. Then there were more trees and more walls.
There are so many walls on the island on the highest abandoned hill and right in the center of town. They must have taken so much work. Who built all these walls? People say the pyramids are a wonder of the world, but I wonder about the walls.
Off the path I saw one rock that sat like a little hut and it had a hole in the bottom big enough for an arm and it was hollow inside. I wondered what the rock had hidden.
After an hour we made it to the base of the tower and a relatively modern staircase took us up to the doorway. The stone tower was quiet, we were alone. This tower was only naked stones, nothing to indicate it has changed at all since it was in use. The main room was cool and a window facing north (toward Ajaccio and the mouth of the bay) let in natural light. There were two fireplaces – one very large and the other smaller – that were well-used. I imagine one was for heat and the other was for signals, but that’s total speculation. Only the small fireplace had a chimney, I don’t know what happened to the smoke from the large one.
The ceiling was a high dome and a staircase took us up through the wall and let us out on the spectacular roof. It had a 360 degree view enclosed by the turrets. The roof was dominated by the blue sky. On one side we could see the bay cutting into the mountains and on the other a steep forested hill rose from the Mediterranean. We could see other towers on other points in the distance.
We stayed in a Catholic convent all week (did I not mention that?) and when I asked Father Joseph if the ancient sites were good to visit he said, “Well, they’re ok if you’re interested rocks and old stuff.” (well, yeah, actually I am). Later, after a disappointing experience looking for a 4000-year-old castle without success, I wondered why I’m drawn to the old stones – why care?
By standing where they stood or touching the cold stone they had shaped I think I’m hoping to understand how they had thought. What drove them to build a wall climbing the side of a hill and is that a piece of being human that I could still understand? Maybe by touching that stone I’d tap into something fundamental to the human experience that I’m missing now.
Being a human today is not what it was like to be human then. When I’m touching a stone, as hard as I try it’s difficult to forget my place in time. Some day I’d like to meditate in a place like that and see where it takes me. Meditation is for clearing the mind but I want my mind to be refilled with the mind that built those walls. What was that place? Maybe I’d need drugs instead. It’s sad that those minds are extinct.
God, everything I write is depressing. Sorry.
Anyway, we’re stuck in Ajaccio because we’re low on gas and there’s a gas workers’ strike (so the stations are empty too) and the protestors have blocked the port. The talks aren’t going well, apparently, so we don’t know how long we’ll be here.
Posted on at 11:26 am.
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My yearly religious rant
by Mike
I woke up at 8:35 to go to mass this morning, I brought my camera thinking there might be some good pictures but of course I was over ambitious… I’m not going to take pictures during a church service. I did take a video, though. It was of the choir from Porto Vecchio singing during the mass – it was apparently a special occasion to have them there, so I’m glad we caught it. The service would have been pretty dry without, I’m sure.
I’ve been unimpressed with this church. I guess I shouldn’t have expected much since we are staying in a convent – it’s not going to be revolutionary – but there seems to be an enormous disconnect between the Fathers and real life.
Father Joseph was skeptical of me at first, probably because I rang during lunch, but then he warmed when Azure showed up. I told him we were here to learn. I think when I said that he understood me to mean that I wanted to learn about Christ and Christianity. Of course I’m way more curious about the life of a Catholic priest living in a convent, but it didn’t translate.
I asked whether he’d studied Judaism and Islam, two religions based on the same god and the same core texts. He said he had, but he was dismissive of them, saying essentially that the Jews had missed the boat and then he downplayed Mohammad’s importance. It sounded silly from where I was sitting. Here’s how he sounded from my perspective: A guy handed people a book from god and it was ok at the time. Then another guy came along and amended that book and added his own stuff and only fools didn’t follow. Then a third guy came along and amended that book and added his own stuff and only fools did follow. It sounded childish, narrow-minded.
I told him we were going to a prehistoric site that day and asked if it was good. “Well, it’s fine if you’re interested in rocks and old stuff.” (Which, actually, I am). I asked him what he was interested in. He pointed to the beautiful blue sky and the sun.
“The sun?”
“God.”
“Oh, right.”
His lectures to us were in line with what I understand of traditional Christianity: “People say that the earth was created long ago and life formed slowly, but what force drove it? There must have been some force.” “I live to serve others. You need to ask yourself, are you doing something for others or for yourself? If it’s for yourself, it’s egoism.” “Some people think that when you die that’s it, you disappear, but I believe part of us lives forever.” “My life is about knowing god. I aim to reject all material comforts.”
We got one glimpse into their part of the convent and it felt like sneaking into the teachers’ lounge. Everything was extremely clean, extremely organized. He showed us the sun room and it took our breaths away – the sun room had the best view we’d seen of the town and valley, and it must be the best you can find without renting a helicopter. The convent is perched on the side of a hill and the priests’ quarters stick out a little farther for unobstructed 180 degree views. The sun room was bright when the rest of the convent was dark, but what caught our attention was on the table and window sills – there were a dozen orchids staring at us appearing simultaneously fragile and stately and defiant and precious. It didn’t seem right for him to have orchids after what he repeated about materialism.
His office, actually, was the only place that wasn’t neat. Papers were spread on the desk as he prepared his Sunday sermon. I asked what the sermon would be about. “Well, it’s about the gospels.” Well, what’s the subject? “The teachings of Jesus… here,” he handed me a small book, almost a pamphlet. “Every church in the world follows this book so every Sunday you get the same message no matter which church you go to.” I opened the book which was organized by date. It was just excerpts from the bible, as far as I could tell.
This happened again and again when talking to him – I’d ask for perspective or an interpretation or insight and he’d defer to something like, “Well, I reject materials and try to live simply. I’ve made my choice to follow God. Other people make other choices, but you can’t go around changing your mind.” That last statement, ‘you can’t go around changing your mind,’ got under my skin. It’s either ignorance or stubbornness.
–
The first piece read at Mass today was about Adam and Eve getting expelled from the Garden of Eden for choosing to pursue knowledge. I looked at our, “we just want to learn” statement a little differently. I have two aims when I travel: To learn and to experience (which teaches). It makes my life look incredibly at odds with the aims of the Church. If the apple represented the forbidden fruits of knowledge, then humans were rejected from the Garden of Eden for satisfying their curiosity (learning) and lust (experiencing).
The Mass was bland, uninspiring, he didn’t say anything about real life and in general it looked like he was trying to project authority. Here are the quotes I wrote down: “Readjust your attitude during these 40 days.” (before Easter), “You are made in God’s image.” “Separate your heart from materials.” “Spread the Good News to your neighbors.”
The Mass was conducted in such simple words that I could understand almost everything. The message I received from our week at the church is one that I wasn’t expecting: “Don’t question things. Let God take care of it.” I’m open to talking about religious philosophies (it’s where the rubber meets the road, after all) but not if it’s without critique. Not if I’m simply told to “have faith.” I guess I don’t.
(By the way – If anyone [like Fred, especially] has some insight on the apple story I’d welcome critical comments).
Posted on March 2, 2009 at 1:44 pm.
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80%
by Mike
So, the convent isn’t perfect, but it’s cheap! which makes up for everything. Azure mentioned the creepy statues, but also the heat goes off at 10pm (for which they’ve given us extra blankets) and 10pm is also the curfew. There’s no bathroom in the room, but there is a sink, and that covers 80% of what you’d do in a bathroom anyway. And we sleep in two single beds, which we’ve pushed together. We’ve managed.
It’s tough to find cheap accomodation on Corsica, the whole thing is set up for rich German tourists. After striking out for a while in Sartene I walked into the old town and stopped under a pair of women talking on a balcony and told them we needed a room.
“Ah, my aunt has a room, do you want me to ask?”
“Great, yes”
“AY!” She yelled down the narrow street, and it echoed. “AY!” The aunt didn’t answer, so the lady went down the stairs to the street, around the corner and walked in a door. “This guy wants a room, is anyone staying with you?” Here on Corsica they speak a really choppy French, almost like Italian, and the French these women spoke sounded like it was coming through a megaphone through a lawnmower.
I was shown a room that was 60 Euros (too much) and not perfect. So after consulting with Azure I went back and told them it wouldn’t work.
“Sorry, we want access to a kitchen.”
“HE WANTS ACCESS TO A KITCHEN.”
“HE WANTS A KITCHEN? MAYBE MARIE HAS A ROOM!” I was standing on the street with the aunt and she was shouting at her neice who was around the corner of the building, up two flights of stairs and back on her balcony. It felt like the small old town was their house.
“CAN YOU CALL HER?”
“YEAH, I’LL CALL HER! HEY, COME UP HERE!” I went up to the lady’s balcony where she called her cousin who didn’t have a room.
“ASK HIM HOW MUCH HE WANTS TO SPEND.”
“How much do you want to spend?”
“As little as possible, we don’t-”
“AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE!”
“AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE?”
“YEAH!”
“WHAT ABOUT PIERRE?”
“Oh, maybe Pierre has a room, I’ll try him.”
“Ok.”
“OH, PIERRE DOESN’T HAVE A KITCHEN.”
“She doesn’t think Pierre has a kitchen.”
“Ok.”
“HAS HE TRIED THE CONVENT?” the aunt yelled up.
“Have you tried the convent?” I didn’t know the word for convent, ‘couvent’ – I thought maybe they were talking about a town.
“No, I don’t know anything about it.”
“HAS HE TRIED THE CONVENT?”
“Excuse me, how do you spell, ‘couve-’”
“NO, HE HASN’T TRIED IT! DO THEY HAVE A KITCHEN?”
“I THINK IT HAS A KITCHEN”
“WHAT?”
“I THINK IT HAS A KITCHEN!”
“She thinks it has a kitchen.”
“BUT YOU HAVE TO BE IN BY 10.”
“But you have to be in by 10. Is it a problem?”
“Oh, it’s not a problem, we don’t make parties or anything.”
“DOES HE KNOW HE HAS TO BE IN BY 10?”
“HE DOESN’T MAKE PARTIES”
“WHAT?”
“HE SAID HE DOESN’T MAKE PARTIES!”
I decided to get things moving along. “Great, thank you so much, That sounds perfect. So where is it?”
She grabbed my arm and led me down the stairs, past her aunt and to the bottom of the road, and she pointed up. “See the church?” Yep. “It’s just on the side. Tell them Mme. Bonne sent you.”
I went back to Azure. “I think I got a lead.”
