Journeys to Corsica

So here we are again, phone dead, new country, and hotel address written on my arm. Sitting on the ground outside the Bastia port, I await a taxi. It takes forever, but a car finally pulls up and I get in. 

The driver doesn't speak any English, so I show him my inner arm with the address and he laughs and setting his head back a bit to examine me, looks at me funny. We pull from the port and start climbing the unlit, winding roads up the mountain. Further and further we drive and I have one of those fears again that this guy may not be a taxi driver at all (suddenly realizing there is no meter) and he could just disappear with me into this darkness with my dead phone and my belongings. 

He notices me looking out the window down the edge of the cliff at the city lights below and pulls the car to a stop on the side of the road. Motioning to the view, he gets out, opens my door, and puts his hand out. (And now I know I am most likely not going to my hotel and this is most likely not a taxi driver.) I get out and look at the view with him, but all I can see are lights. Every thing else is blackness and I really can't appreciate it anyhow because my brain is now looking at fight or flight options. I back away from the ledge and get back in the car and he follows. We drive in silence the rest of the way. Up, up, up. Darker and darker. 

Just as the court room inside my head is ruling the verdict, I finally make out a wooden sign that reads "La Canoriche," and let out a huge breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I go to give him the 20 euros as I had been told, but he shakes his head and motions to 30. I try to haggle and explain, but now he's laughing at me because I'm speaking Spanish and we are on a French island. I hand him the 30 and get out. 

It's so dark, I can't see a thing but the lantern under the doorway. I get into my room, take the first bath I've had in months and sink into sleep in the most comfortable bed thus far.