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In my last blog, I made it sound like I just “hopped off” to France... And, “hopping off” to France sounded like a lovely idea when the decision was made, but unfortunately there was really no “hopping off” involved. No quick little bunny-like hops or anything like that. It was more like a tired donkey carrying an old lady 5 times its size with all of her belongings up a steep hill in a heatwave for 2 days. Or, that’s what the trip to Corsica from Florence felt like.
First off, on my second morning in Florence, I found out from a travel agent on the other side of town from my hostel that I had to leave Florence in 40 minutes on a train to Rome to get my kite gear in order to make it to Corsica that night. So, I ran... I ran all the way back, quickly packed up, ran back through town, past the travel office to the train station and was jumping on the train as it was moving away. As I plopped my large backpack down, with sweat rolling down my face, a man says to me, “Wow, that was close!”
The whole time on the train, I plotted how in Rome, I was going to make the 25 minute trek to fetch my kite gear and the 25 minutes back to the train station (dragging my kite gear) in 55 minutes to make my next train back up north. Hmmm, was this possible? Of course it was! I make things happen. ;)
Ugh, wrong. After doing my very best to run through the crowded train station and the hot streets of Rome while racing to the hostel, I gave up and decided to take the later train. But, that meant I needed to find a place to stay in the small coastal town of Livorno, Italy and take the morning boat the next day. Ah, I can rest for an hour while I pull out my computer and book these things (how did one travel before the internet?). Then, a 7 block jaunt, the metro train back to the Rome Termini station and a 4 hour train ride to Livorno had me checking into a teeny little motel smelling of an ashtray at 10 pm for entirely too much money. But, there was a shower & by this point, it was the best shower of my life.
I know it seems funny to just do a blog about the trip from one place to the next, but for those of you who think that traveling is all one big party with amazing scenery, beaches and umbrella drinks, I want you to get the gist of the work that’s involved at times too. And, this is a pretty good story I don’t want to forget.
So, where was I? Ah yes, sleeping in an ashtray in Livorno. Ok, I woke early to trek my way to the ferry docks at 7:30 am. Sounds easy enough. Well, Livorno is industrial and therefore, the ferry docks are also the barge and longshoreman docks too. In other words, they are huge, and I was on foot, dragging kite gear. The lady at the ticket counter (once I found the ticket counter) told me to go to my ferry in Italian and shooed me way. When I asked where the ferry was, she gave me a god-awful look and shooed me again... “that way, that way.” Ok, her finger was pointing this way. With no signs to Bastia, Corsica in sight, I drug my gear down to one terminal. Not here. I drug it another 300 meters to another terminal. Not this way. The docks were pretty empty of people, so when I finally found someone to ask, he pointed in the direction I just came from and spoke fast in Italian. “That way, that way...” And, in the far distance, I finally saw a sign to Bastia. Wow, another 500 meters or so. I start trekking and trekking and sweating and sweating... my arms will certainly fall off soon. I have 15 minutes until my ferry leaves. Will I make it? At this point, I was uncertain. I still couldn’t see the boat, just a few signs pointing to another sign and to another sign. But, then all of the sudden, God gave me an angel. Sometimes God does this, right, to make sure we don’t go insane. In this case, my angel was a large Italian man in a ferry terminal uniform, cigarette hanging from his mouth in a white truck (I’m pretty sure he was wearing white wings too). He rolled down his window and yelled, “Bastia.” “Yes!” I said and he pointed to a boat on a completely different dock at a completely different terminal, waaaaay in the distance. I dropped my bag instantly and put my hands over my face in despair. He quickly hopped out of his truck, grabbed my bag and with a strong Italian accent said, “Come on. I drive you.” “Thank you.. Grazie, Grazie, you are saving me!” and I hopped in.
On the way over, which would have been quite a long walk, we drove through the passenger car entrance and he yelled some Italian at the ferry workers. As he kept pointing to my very large bag, I assume he was telling them that he was just dropping me off. But, as we stopped, I noticed an old car next to us with its hood up, packed with two kids and windsurfing gear on top. My angel, a few ferry workers and a couple of other guys were yelling at each other in Italian (Yes, Italians always yell and are very expressive with everything they say). Then in an instant, they were hooking up jumper cables to the guy’s car and we were charging his battery. OK? I just kept smiling and chuckling to myself and the Italian men around me. I now know what its like to be a foreigner with no idea whats being said or whats going on around them... just nodding and smiling and completely clueless. :) My ferry leaves in 7 minutes. “No worry” “no worry” they all kept saying in between very fast loud Italian to each other as they offered me Marlboro Reds to calm my nerves. So, I tried not to worry.... The guy getting the jump recognized my English and came over to talk to me through the window about my trip to Corsica and kiting and windsurfing and on and on. As he could see my slightly concerned face at 4 minutes before departure, he then said, “I am only talking to you because the longer I talk to you, the more my battery gets charged and the farther I can go. (smile) The generator in my car doesn’t work enough to keep it charged. I am trying to make that ferry too.” All I could do was laugh at this point, nod my head in understanding and say, “Oh, I figured as much. No worries.” Poor guy. Once his car was on the ferry, I am pretty sure it was stuck there. I think the Italians were wondering about this very same thing. But we did both make it, just as they said we would. We boarded the boat and it left the dock a second later. I laughed to myself about this experience for the next 20 minutes.
A 2 hour ferry ride, 3 hours waiting in Bastia for the bus and a 4 hour bus ride to Ajaccio in the SW part of Corsica finally had me to Frank and his brother by 7:00 pm that night. Wow, two days of hot sweaty treacherous travel! I sent a text to Frank on the bus, “There better be good wind and a pot of gold at the end of this journey.” And good wind on a golden sandy beach there was.

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