In which I wear my shirt... as a hat. Among other things.
Bonifacio was, by far, my favourite part of Corsica. Frankly, most port towns totally suck. Bonifacio did not. In fact, within the first twenty minutes of being there, the main boardwalk had already far exceeded my wildest impressions of Nice (a grand achievement - you know how much I love Nice). And when the water surrounding super-yacht and tired ferry moorings alike are this blue, you know that a day trip out beyond the protective cliffs will most likely be heavenly. Heaven, even.
At this particular bikini-clad point in time, Alex and I had just hopped off our boat back from a very real day trip to Heaven (otherwise known as Îles de Lavezzi - more on the most outstanding island experience of my life later), the sun was yet to start that plummeting descent it seems to enjoy around European Summer, and the commercial strip by the water was strangely quiet, but for local potbellies sharing a smoke and the odd pair of bronzed Corsican teens, somehow observing the 'aliens' with a blasé curiosity that only they can achieve.
Certainly, it was still too stifling hot for vacationers to tackle even the easy breezy beach dress boutiques, let alone the steep climb up to haute ville.
Having essentially climbed out of the ocean and onto the boat back from the islands, I was too terrified of the effects of sea salt on silk to put my shirt on, so fashioned it the only way I knew how for an all-essential hands-free ride home (that is, for Instagram... and being Usain Bolt). I ended up using the same knotted technique a whole lot to cover my hair in Morocco, so, though not quite as sophisticated as my poolside Phuket affair, there is some method to this madness.
I'll be sure to post some of my Bonifacienne suggestions tomorrow. One thing I would suggest before then, though, is to get yourself there ASAP - the world is catching on, and tourism as we know it is one of those wonderful, wonderful curses.