By Corey Sandler
Napoleon was born here.
Nelson left behind a body part.
Everybody claims Columbus.
And we are here, in Porto-Vecchio, an Italian word meaning “Old Port” except that Corsica is officially part of France. They speak French, often with a Corsican grudge; in the dark interior, they speak Corsican with a bit of a French sneer.
Corsica, at least in the private wishes of its people, has always been a place unto its own.
It is an island of jagged granite mountains and dense, dark forests.
It even has its own odor, a scent of the maquis: fields of aromatic herbs and shrubs.
Deep in the woods, bandits once roamed. And generations of Corsicans maintained blood feuds: vendettas.
Today this not-quite-autonomous fortress island has opened the gates to invaders from around the world: tourists bearing Euros.
I took this photo today in near noontime, when the overhead sun highlighted the layers of the island of Corsica: sea, sand, rock, hill, the calanques, the maquis, the mountains, and the threatening sky:
Photo by Corey Sandler, All rights reserved.
And this photo was on a different visit to Corsica, to the town of Calvi:
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