Beautiful Chaos in Corsica: The Prototype

(12 minute read)

Traveling with a good friend for the first time is always a bit of an experiment. You never really know how compatible you are as travel companions until you’re stuck in a car together, exhausted, hungry, and slightly lost. Luckily, when Paul and I embarked on our first trip to France together in September 2022, it turned out to be a grand adventure—full of unexpected twists, rugged turquoise coastlines, and just enough misadventure to be unforgettable. It also laid the foundation for our shared travel philosophy. The Tripologiste Philosophy.

Real Planners Don’t Really Plan

Our trip to Corsica wasn’t exactly outlined in advance. Paul and I had tossed around the idea, but true to our nature, we didn’t actually book much until we were already in France. We had been staying at Paul’s mother’s house in Burgundy, where a large family reunion was taking place. We were having a wonderful time, eating, laughing, and playing pétanque, but we wanted some adventure.

We rarely plan too far ahead—just the basics like lodging and transportation. The rest we leave open on purpose. That looseness leads us into moments we couldn’t have planned—fleeting, unrepeatable, and often a little absurd. This trip was our first real test of that idea. It became the prototype for many more trips to come—an early proof of concept for a travel style that we would come to refine, repeat, and eventually build the whole Tripologiste philosophy around.

We figured that renting a room in the mountains rather than in one of the larger coastal towns would save us money and offer a glimpse of the island’s unvarnished side. So we booked a room, got tickets for an overnight ferry from Nice to L'Île-Rousse, rented a car, and set off.

Fun Times on the Ferry

Driving down to Nice was smooth enough, but the 8-hour overnight ferry was another story. In hindsight, springing for a cabin with bunks would have been a wise investment. Instead, we had to make do with Pullman seats—essentially slightly reclinable airline seats in a large, dimly-lit room full of other weary travelers. Before heading to our seats, we grabbed a drink at the ferry’s bar, where we struck up a conversation with two French girls who were also heading to Corsica for vacation. We chatted about our travel plans, exchanged recommendations, and laughed about how none of us had been smart enough to book an actual bed for the night.

Feeling slightly more relaxed, we made our way to our seats—only to find a biker sprawled out on the floor of our row, fast asleep. He hadn’t even booked a seat and seemed to think he could squat there unnoticed, so we had to gently wake him up and ask him to move elsewhere. He grumbled but eventually gathered his things and found another spot, and we settled in for what we hoped would be a few hours of rest.

Sleep was more of a concept than a reality, with people shifting around, children crying, and one woman being loudly sick, causing me to nearly lose my own composure in solidarity. But we made it.

We arrived in L'Île-Rousse in the morning, bleary-eyed but excited. Before tackling the drive into the mountains, we walked along the beach with our feet in the water, taking in the early light as if it was meant just for us.

A Dance in the Mountains

Our accommodations were in the tiny village of Cristinacce, perched high in the mountains. We were greeted by our host, Aurelien, a gregarious and welcoming man in his forties who looked every bit like someone born to the small villages of Corsica. 

Sleep-deprived, we took a much-needed nap before heading to the neighboring village of Évisa for some pizza and coffee. While there, we noticed people setting up tables and a flyer advertising a local festival happening that night. Interesting.

We spent the day exploring, tasting chestnut omelets and myrtle berry wine (Corsican specialties), and returned to Évisa around 9:45 PM to find a full-blown party underway. A live band played everything from traditional Corsican songs to ABBA, and a group of sassy local teenagers manned the bar. We danced, we drank, and we were pretty certain we were the only tourists in attendance.

On our way back to the car, we had an unexpected encounter with a massive pig—seriously, the size of a small horse—that charged past us out of nowhere. Welcome to Corsica.

The Wild Roads of Corsica

Corsica’s mountains are a fascinating blend of charm and danger, where pigs, goats, dogs, and even cows roam the winding roads freely, indifferent to passing cars. Driving often felt like an obstacle course, swerving to dodge a stubborn cow or an oblivious goat planted squarely in the road. More than once, we had to stop completely as a family of goats casually strolled across, unbothered by the speeding car approaching them, their indifference adding both unpredictability and laughter to our journey. 

Hairpin turns curled along roads with steep cliffs and never a guardrail in sight, a thrill made eerier at night when headlights offered the only warning of a passing car before a blind corner. And local drivers seemed unfazed, whipping around sharp turns at high speeds and treating the center line as more suggestion than rule. We found ourselves gripping the wheel a little tighter, laughing nervously after each close call.

The Hike That Almost Killed Us

The next morning, we had ambitious plans: a hike to Capu Rossu, home to the 16th-century Genoese tower Torra di Turghju. Online reviews called it “easy”, and we should have known better than to believe them (we have since learned to do a little more research for such things). 

Despite staying up late at the festival, we still managed to make it downstairs for coffee and croissants, provided by Aurelien. Each morning, the pub downstairs turned into a casual gathering spot for the villagers, who sipped coffee, read the newspaper, and exchanged gossip with the kind of warmth and familiarity you only find in tiny mountain towns. When we mentioned our hiking plans, a local raised an eyebrow and warned us it was “too hot.” But we’re from Texas, so we figured we could handle it.

The trail started off easily enough—about two to three miles of gentle descent. The Mediterranean stretched endlessly below—sapphire blue, glittering in the sun—while jagged cliffs and pine-covered hills rolled out around us. It didn’t look real. We took a break and snapped some Polaroids in some stone ruins at the base before beginning the steep ascent. That’s when things got rough. The August heat was no joke, and about halfway up, Paul started showing signs of heat exhaustion.

He wisely decided to turn back, but I, being the less intelligent of the two, pressed on. The reward? A panoramic view from the top of the tower, which was breathtaking but maybe not quite worth what followed. By the time I made it back to Paul, I, too, was starting to feel the effects of the heat. And then we had to climb back up the initial “gentle” descent.

What had started as a scenic hike quickly devolved into what felt like an unrelenting pilgrimage through heat and dust, with no shade, no breeze, and no end in sight. Every step felt heavier than the last. Our bodies were soaked, our limbs trembling, and the sun seemed to mock us from above. We barely spoke, saving what little energy we had just to keep moving and at the worst possible moment, we ran out of water. 

Just when we were on the verge of collapse, salvation arrived in the form of a kind Italian family who saw the desperation in our eyes and shared their water with us. Slightly rehydrated but still shattered, we finally reached the car—our chariot out of hell—and made a beeline for the nearest beach, desperate to wash the agony off in the sea.

Girl Scouts, Cliff Divers and One Angry German

Plage de Ficaghjola is a hidden cove surrounded by cliffs, and it was exactly what we needed. The only problem? Parking was a nightmare. While trying to maneuver around oncoming traffic on the narrow cliffside road, we accidentally scraped a parked car. As if the moment weren’t stressful enough, a group of uniformed Catholic girl scouts stood nearby, watching the whole ordeal unfold. They pointed, whispered among themselves, and cast us the kind of judgmental stares usually reserved for criminals or sinners in a medieval painting. Paul, particularly unnerved by their silent condemnation, left a note in English (despite being fluent in French) in the hopes of playing up our “confused tourist” angle.

After that bit of stress, we settled in for several hours of pure bliss on the quiet pebble beach. We waded in the cool water, let the sun dry the salt on our skin, and stretched out on the warm stones like lizards. Every so often, someone would leap from the surrounding cliffs into the sea with a triumphant splash. This time, it was us who mocked the sun—we soaked it in, victorious, as if the suffering of the hike had earned us this reward. 

But the respite didn’t last. Just as we were packing up to leave, Paul’s phone rang. A woman’s voice—sharp, German, and furious—lashed through the speaker. It turned out that the car we had hit earlier belonged to her. She demanded we meet her at the police station, her tone loaded with the kind of authority that suggested she would rather see us punished than settle the issue amicably.

Nervous about facing the gendarmerie—a law enforcement branch of the French military—we hurriedly gathered our things and drove to meet the woman and her husband in the nearby village of Piana. As we approached, a quiet anxiety settled between us, growing worse when our calls to them went unanswered. But when we finally found them, the confrontation took an unexpected turn.

The threat of involving the police had been nothing more than a bluff, and we met them casually in the village square. To our surprise—and immense relief—the woman’s husband was from Garland, Texas, a suburb of Dallas, the city where Paul and I grew up. The recognition was instant, and so was the laughter. Amusingly, it was she—not her American husband—who had made the call, perhaps to underscore the contrast between our feigned American cluelessness and her sharp, no-nonsense European authority.

The tension dissolved over shared anecdotes and an easy rapport. In the end, no insurance claims were filed, just a handshake and a few laughs about how small the world can feel when you’re far from home.

Napoleon, Jellyfish and Our Final Days

The next day, we headed to Ajaccio, where we visited Napoleon’s childhood home, Maison Bonaparte, a modest yet stately house tucked into the old town. The rooms were filled with period furniture, portraits, and relics hinting at the turbulent times of his youth. 

After our visit, we spent the day at a nearby beach, watching the sun set over the sea and eventually finding ourselves at a beachside restaurant where we had to stand at the bar because all the tables were reserved for a private event. Eating tapas and watching a french singer perform songs by Rihanna and Whitney Houston to wealthy diners, often getting the lyrics wrong, made for a hilariously surreal end to the evening.

We had planned to visit Porto-Vecchio the next day, but the previous day’s beach had been so perfect that we decided to return. We packed sandwiches and beer and enjoyed a lazy, sun-soaked afternoon, surrounded by beachgoers who were blissfully unencumbered, embracing the elements with an admirable level of confidence and ease. The biggest excitement? A jellyfish that had found its way into a small cove, causing beachgoers to stand at the edge of the shore, debating what to do. 

We returned to the mountains for our final dinner in Cristinacce, and Corsica seemed determined to leave a lasting impression. As we reached the top of the mountain, a sunset unfurled before us that felt almost otherworldly. The light pierced through the valley with such clarity and color that it seemed unreal—fiery oranges, dusky purples, and glowing pinks cascading across the landscape like a celestial painting. We looked in awe, barely speaking, as the day folded itself into something quiet and wonderful. It felt like the island was saying goodbye.

(Not) The End of the Journey

On our final morning, we said farewell to Aurelien and Cristinacce before heading to Bastia to catch our return ferry. Our route took us through the heart of the island, winding through the breathtaking Forêt de Vizzavona—an ancient forest of towering pines and moss-covered rocks. Mist hung between the trunks like something out of a fairytale, and for a while, the outside world felt impossibly far away. From there, we descended out of the mountains, the terrain gradually shifting from wild woodland to rolling hills and finally into the warmer coastal plains speckled with vineyards and small villages clinging to hillsides. We spotted more of the island’s iconic Genoese towers perched high on distant hilltops—silent stone sentinels keeping watch over the coastlines, just as they had for centuries. 

By the time we arrived in Bastia, the sun was high overhead and the city greeted us with its lively coastal charm. We spent the day wandering its streets, sipping pastis on a sun-drenched terrasse, and—true to form—stumbling upon yet another local festival. At one point, Paul caught sight of a tap dance troupe, muttered “I can’t,” and turned on his heel without another word. That evening, we boarded our second overnight ferry, this time headed for Italy.

From Savona, we made our way back through the Alps, stopping for a meal in Chamonix with Mont Blanc towering in the background, and then for a brief detour to Geneva before finally arriving back in Burgundy.

Corsica had stolen our hearts. The blend of wild landscapes, warm locals, and a streak of glorious unpredictability made it one of our favorite places in the world. We left with sunburns, sore legs, and an undying love for the island—but also with something harder to name. That trip showed me how deeply I could trust Paul, not just as a travel companion, but as a friend who could weather the chaos with humor, patience, and heart. The unpredictability didn’t just shape the journey—it shaped us. This had been more than a vacation. This trip, with all its beautiful chaos, was the true birthplace of Tripologiste—a company built around the joy of exploration and immersive adventure.

The Tripologiste Philosophy

The Tripologiste philosophy isn’t about abandoning all plans—it’s about leaving room for the unknown. It’s about venturing off the well-trodden paths, leaning into spontaneity, and welcoming the strange, sometimes uncomfortable beauty that arises from imperfect situations. Instead of curating experiences, we craft the framework that allows you to stumble upon them. We set the stage, but the story writes itself—through wrong turns that become discoveries, setbacks that transform into stories, and moments of sheer exhaustion that solidify into your most vivid memories. It’s a belief that the best trips are the ones that surprise you, challenge you, and connect you with something real—whether it’s a remote village festival, a treacherous hike, or an impromptu conversation with a stranger. At Tripologiste, we don’t hand you a script; we hand you the opportunity to write your own.