Calvi, day IV
Although coffee is not legion in Corsica, it is life-saving. We drink it. A lot.
To reach Mar a Beach, three solutions: the Zodiac from the old port, the all-terrain vehicle (4X4 or military transport, we do not know too much, the imponderable being its ability to face the bumpy road), or the small path from the citadel. We choose walking, just for fun. This path, visibly very little walked, meanders through the maquis along the sea. A series of deserted coves offer themselves to us: a moment of communion with nature, tinged with turquoise, silent, hallelujah. We join some friends for a moment of chill and soft music. Thibault and Bertrand (or Breakbot and So Me, as you like) are waiting for us with “Tomatoes”, these dubious cocktails made with anise and grenadine. We’re talking about a recent article in the Herald Tribune. So we extrapolate on Suzy Menkes, and we wonder if when she swims, people take her for a shark, or not. Those who don’t know her don’t understand, we congratulate Thibault for his set the day before.
Option Zodiac for the return, which leads us in speed on the beach In Casa. Busy P and Erol Alkan have been officiating there since 3:00. Like every time, it is the jubilation of an armistice, we cross bimbos, Rivieras, round glasses, moustaches, and the band of freaks of the ultra perched stylist Jackie Taylor. We inspect his plastic fruit headdress, and we think it looks like Andrea Crews, and House of Moda, less well.
Wedged between the stairs that connect the alleys of the old town, the small Place Marchal is a haven of peace. Until dinner time at least, because the one that the locals call the “lion square” is home to A Piazzetta, the most popular restaurant in the city. Le Tout-Calvi enjoys the creamy spaghetti casseroles that make the reputation of the place. All Paris, more like. At 11:00, you can’t find a place to eat. So we telescope ourselves at the adjoining restaurant. It is the first time that we taste a Bruschetta without bread, garlic, and tomato. In fact, we understand why everyone is in the other room.
Every evening, to get to the concerts, we pass in front of this gleaming yacht, a gigantic 40-foot seaship, moored so that any pedestrian can be electrocuted while admiring its chromes. On the first bridge, a family aperitif, which triggers at our table a versatile conversation around some great foundations of humanity. You think if you were them, you’d feel guilty. Amandine, who holds the handles of the Ed Banger label, is less sliced and retorts that after all, good fortune is made to those who deserve it. Ultimate pitcher of Corsican rosé in female company. These girls are not groupies: journalists, djettes, or women of, they are the shadow forces of our tattooed stage men. Iron hands, velvet gloves, Kenzo sweaters.
