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ODYSSEUS AND GRILLED LOBSTER: BONIFACIO, CORSICA Odysseus was having a hard time of it. He already dealt with the Lotus-eaters and the Cyclops, but his men had just opened the bag of winds given to him by Aiolos, blowing him back out to sea from within sight of his homeland. He now found himself approaching a ... ... glorious harbor which a sky-towering cliff enclosed on either side with no break anywhere, and two projecting promontories facing each other running out toward the mouth ... In the opinion of many scholars, this refers to Bonifacio, at the southern tip of Corsica. I agree, because Homer describes Odysseus as being someone of very good taste, in which case he could hardly have spent all those years gallivanting about the Mediterranean without having visited Bonifacio. It is summer (or at least it is as I write this), which means that it is time for a column about Corsica, since this is where I go in the summer and since it is also the most beautiful place on the planet. This year, I'll write about Bonifacio (Bonifaziu in Corsican), which is one of those places you must see at least once. It is a small, imposing fortress of a city, built on a rocky peninsula with a stunning blue sea on one side and a deep, almost fjordlike cove on the other, serving as its harbor, as described by Homer. Back then, it was apparently inhabited by the Laistrygones, whose women were the size of cattle and who ate men for fun. Admittedly, modern Corsicans too are more renowned for their pride than for their hospitality, but cannibalism is no longer the norm and Bonifacio is worth the risk. The city was probably founded in the ninth century. It was then elaborated by the Genoese in the 12th. They had defense on their mind. There is only one gate, at the neck of the promontory (in fact, another road has been cut into the bluffs on the inland side, allowing automobile traffic, but this is a modern convenience). To walk up to the gate is a lesson in humility. You must imagine what an assailant would have felt, contemplating three successive gates, the last of which is approachable only by a narrow walkway, vulnerable to fire from the massive wall above, on one's right (the side upon which a medieval soldier bore no shield), as well as from the front, where the imposing gate itself stood, and from behind, where yet another wall boasted two firing portals bearing archers, or later, cannon; all of that leading only to a drawbridge over a narrow, deep ravine. Even if that could be forced, the gatehouse within held yet more horrors and yet another thick door. There is one other way up to the city, the famous "staircase of the King of Aragon," a narrow line cut into the cliffs on the seaward side at roughly a 45-degree angle, with big, nasty, slippery steps that until a few years ago offered no protection of any kind: no guardrail, nothing. You just did your best to climb up with a 100-foot drop ready to greet any slip on your part. In all fairness, there were signs on either end saying that it was dangerous. Sensitive to the public-relations problems inherent in having tourists plunge to their deaths on the rocks below, the city of Bonifacio eventually built a retaining wall on the cliffward side, so that today you need only worry about slipping down the 187 steps. Alfonso V, the king of Aragon, had the staircase built in 1420, after he had been besieging the city for five months (no way he was going to try the craziness of the main gate). Not a patient man, according to legend he ordered the staircase hacked into the cliff in one night, which is generally held to be the most strenuous night's work in history. Reality is more mundane, as the Bonifacians probably built the staircase themselves in order better to accede to the small boats that came to provide much-needed supplies during the long siege. In either case, Alfonso eventually gave up and settled for conquering the rest of the western Mediterranean. This was probably for the best; most foreign powers who have tried to rule Corsica have eventually regretted it.
Today, Bonifacio draws invaders of another kind, as tourists come from all over the world to gawk at it and park their yachts in the harbor. Some of the most impressive yachts in the world go there, their passengers sitting in harborside cafés eating ice-cream concoctions and comparing tans, or just lounging on the decks of their boats and reveling in the jealousy they produce in passersby. Up in the old city, overlooking the harbor, tiny streets wind into each other, forming a twisting labyrinth. They are lined by ancient buildings with impossibly steep staircases. Stone arches traverse the streets high above, connecting the buildings on each side for no apparent reason in a style that is typically Bonifacian. The city ends somewhat before the end of the promontory itself, and the cemetery takes over. Given the rocky ground, it is Corsican custom not to bury the dead, but rather to inter them in mausoleums. Corsican cemeteries, therefore, look like little cities, and indeed it is said that when the Italians raided Bonifacio in 1940, they mistakenly bombed the cemetery instead of the city proper. If you visit Bonifacio, you might consider having dinner at one of my very favorite restaurants in the world afterwards. You must leave Bonifacio and drive toward Ajaccio (one day I'll write about Ajaccio). After a few miles you'll see a sign saying "A Tonna," which is Corsican for tuna, and refers to a minuscule hamlet that is a further couple of miles down a winding road with more character than pavement. At the end are three or four buildings, one of which is a restaurant named Marco, because it is owned by Marco. A Tonna has a tiny little harbor, where a few rowboats are tied to a desultory pier. Years ago, men used to go out and fish for tuna in boats like these, which is why such a small place got a name at all. Today, it really only exists for the restaurant. But the harbor sits near the mouth of a large bay that faces almost due west. All of the bay and miles and miles of the opposite coast are visible. On this coast, you can see exactly zero buildings: it is all pristine, except for the restaurant itself, which is built jutting out onto the rocks, and where you should, of course, ask for a table on the terrace outside. At the end of the day, the sun is bound to set, and when it does, you will see the sky explode in color while the waves break against the rocks beneath you and all that stark coastline turns different shades of gold until, finally, the sun disappears behind a distant horizon, causing you to go, "Ooh." Marco has a pretty limited menu. You start with fish soup, and then either lobster or whatever fish they're serving that day, or bouillabaisse, which is really both. But it is very, very good soup and lobster and fish. You then get Corsican sheep cheese, served, as is local custom, with fig preserves, followed by beignets de pomme. Exactly the same limited menu has been served there for 35 years and it's not about to change, which is a very good thing. All the fish is caught locally and served the same day. The lobsters also come from the sea nearby, after which they live in a long stone tank that runs down the center of the restaurant until they are lifted from the water to give their lives for you. Keep in mind that the restaurant is only open from April through October. I asked the head chef what he does the rest of the year. "Not much," he said. "I have a house in Morocco where I spend the winter. It's nice there." When I asked the others in the kitchen what they do they smiled. "Sometimes we go to visit him." The best way to experience Corsica is to marry someone of Corsican parentage: if possible, parentage that has bequeathed a house in Corsica overlooking an ancient Genoese guard tower and a secluded beach. And I suggest the person in question also be a beautiful and very understanding ballerina, since that's kind of nice. To make it absolutely perfect, try to find a beautiful understanding Corsican ballerina who doesn't drink, since this will allow you to accompany your dinner at A Tonna with plenty of heady Corsican wine (try a Fiumicicola) without having to worry about piloting a motor vehicle along the tortuous mountain roads afterwards. Your ballerina can drive while you just sit there patting your distended belly in a satisfying way. You can even suggest to her that she head off to a spot you both know, from which you can walk down to a different secluded beach for a midnight swim. Midnight swims are nice anywhere, but nowhere more so than in Corsica. There are no big beaches on the island, only a succession of little coves, more or less difficult to access, most of which you really have to know about in order to reach. I know of several, and of course there's no way I'm going to tell you how to get to them. Anyway, if you do get to one (some of which are visible from the road) then you can stumble along the path with your ballerina, get to the empty beach, take off all your clothes, and dive into a universe of stars. The Mediterranean is full of little phosphorescent beings that you can't see during the daytime, but at night, if you swim in its warm waters, you will be surrounded by millions of tiny green lights that dance around with every movement you make. You can come up for air and look at the real stars in a cloudless sky, with the moon hanging over distant mountains. Then, of course, you can swim on over to your ballerina with a leer, because there is absolutely no experience on earth that is so romantic, not to say downright erotic. I never did understand why Ulysses was in such a hurry to get back to Ithaca.
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