LIfe, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

[written in Corsica last week]

When I last saw Josh tonight, a tall Corsican man dressed partially in camouflage asked “The American” how old he was and then invited him to sit at the table full of local men. After a seemingly satisfactory response, I saw a new glass being pulled from the bar for Josh who then shrugged and said, “I guess I have to sit.” I wished him “Bonne Chance” as I happily slipped out of the door into the quiet and star-filled mountain evening en route to bed.

Before we came here (to the tiny moutain Corsican village of Guitera, with a population of 65 people), I jokingly said, “Well, after a week, we’ll either be run out as invaders or Josh will be elected mayor.” He might not ended up as the mayor, but no one disagreed when he jokingly asked that all question to “Josh the American” be addressed to “Monsieur l'Ambassadeur”.

Here is what I know about our Christmas Corsican Adventure—it isn’t what most tourists expect, but it is exactly what we were looking for. We didn't come here for the famous beaches, we came to Corsica for the mountains, the unique culture and the famous pork products (lest you think we are too high-minded). And, after eating dinner with a collection of Corsican men and two European couples, Josh and I came to the conclusion that we’re experiencing less of a vacation and more of a cultural exchange. In a week, we've managed to get a real glimpse of Corsican mountain culture and I think we've met almost everyone who calls Guitera home.

We've been welcomed in a way that surprises even me. We are one of the only Americans to come to this small village in at least the past ten years, and we've felt a bit like local celebrities at times. A few nights ago we were invited to a neighbor's house for an aperitif and their homemade ham, while others from the town have taken time out of their day to drive us through some of the nearby villages. Josh has especially fascinated the locals and they seem to pepper him constantly with questions about American policy or American customs. [note: its not that they do or don't care what I think, but my French just isn't up to full-out ambassadorial duties.]

It seems that our status as Americans, rather than French or European, has smoothed the way for our temporary integration into the life of the village. Even if the battle for independence is far away in our national memory and our knowledge of it is mostly gathered through years of history classes, we can imagine how rotten it is to feel like a far-away nation occupies you, which is how the Corsicans seem to feel about the French. [Obvious Iraq questions arise here, but for now, we'll sidestep them]. Also, our foreign policy aside, American culture is still beloved by a lot of people. Tonight I was told that Scarface with Al Pacino is one of the local guy's favorite movies, while another woman said that she loves Hitchcock movies.

The strong sense of pride in Corsican culture is palpable here and is expressed most visibly in the various bilingual signs. The Corsican part of the sign is left untouched, the French part of the sign often has bullet holes and spray paint over it. There are also the occasional demonstrations of outright suspicion of the French government. On day three, a Gendarmarie (police) helicopter was flying overhead and all of the men gathered for lunch stepped outside (some with binoculars) to see what the it was about. Though it turned out to be a search for two lost hikers, the first instinct of everyone (including even me!) was "Why are they spying on us this time?" My own sense is that it isn't that they do or don't like the French; but they just don't think the Paris government has much to tell them. They also seem to have felt the same way about their other former colonial master, the Italians, so at least they are fair.

But let's pause here for a quick history lesson: Corscia is a small island that is between France and Italy, both of whom have ruled it at various times. Napoleon was born here and his family is buried here, but it's not clear if anyone who is Corsican actually cares. People here speak French officially, but there is also a local Corsican language, which sounds a bit like Italian. There are amazing beaches that are extremely popular as a European vacation destination and there are also mountains that are over 8,000 feet.

The island also has a slightly sinister side and organized crime has thrived here at times. Vendetta killings aren’t unknown here, though apparently they are extremely rare. McDonalds doesn’t exist here either, if that even seems possible. Apparently each time they tried to open one, as one local explained, “Boom”, which means, someone blew them up. Pork products of every variety, as well as cheese, is taken very seriously here. I Muvrini is a great Corsican singing group and a lot of Corsican music reminds me of the Portugese fado music, which was used as an artistic demonstration against years of dictatorship. There--Corsica 101.

Unexpectedly though, I feel oddly at home here, despite the somewhat language barrier. It's not that the Indiana town that I grew up in was that remote, and it did have a McDonalds, but there, as here, camouflage, shotguns and pork products are simply a part of everyday life. The mountains that surround us here in Corsica are a far cry from the flat Indiana fields, but the many dogs and pickup trucks feel familiar.

Dinner tonight was very nice. Fairly traditional—a damn good pork chop and gratin dauphinois (a potato, cheese, and cream casserole—it's where we get the term "potatoes au gratin"). After dinner, a bit of wine and a round of digestifs (after-dinner drinks), a man came over and explained how the notion of the pursuit of happiness is actually a Corsican term. It's true—30 years before our Declaration of Independence, a Corsican named Pasquale Paoli first put the concept into a written national charter. 240 years later, the Corsicans are still fighting for it and I'm glad that Thomas Jefferson had the good sense to include it.

For me, while I’m a temporary resident of Guitera, Corsica, the view of life isn't all the complicated and hardly includes revolutionary thoughts or high-level political discussions. For a week, my own pursuit of happiness is simple. The mountains in the distance are beautiful and I love to watch them change colors with the time of the day. The sheep outside our door are downright funny to a "sort of" city girl, and it's fun to play with the friendly dog that sleeps outside our door. The wonderful meals we've enjoyed with Paul-Antoine's family nearly feel like the icing on an already perfect cake.

The mountains of Corsica are a special place—but they are that way as much because of the people who still call it home as they are for the incredible views. And as much as I'll always remember the mountains (and the chance encounters with wandering livestock), I somehow suspect that I'll most remember Corsica for what it taught me about US history and some core American values. I guess all I can say is, "Thanks Pasquale—I think you were spot on about the Pursuit of Happiness."

sPg