Bonifacio

Descending the King of Aragon's Staircase in Bonifacio Old Town is the travel equivalent of ordering the mystery appetizer: you're excited, vaguely nervous, and entirely unsure of what you've gotten yourself into. Legend whispers it was carved into the cliff overnight in 1420 by troops of the King of Aragon-though honestly, I've had IKEA furniture that took longer to assemble, so skepticism is permitted. The 187 steep, uneven steps plunge dramatically down a sheer limestone cliff, providing vertigo sufferers ample opportunity to practice deep breathing exercises while gazing nervously at the dazzling turquoise sea below. Go early in the morning when the golden Mediterranean sun gently lights your path, or late afternoon when the sea breeze offers respite from the unforgiving Corsican heat. Wear sturdy shoes (flip-flops are an invitation for comedic disaster) and tuck a bottle of water-and perhaps an emergency, morale-boosting pastry-from any nearby boulangerie into your backpack. Plan ahead just enough to brace yourself for the thigh-burning climb back up and budget a modest 5 euros, which is a small price to pay for views you'd otherwise need wings or a personal drone to experience. Ultimately, scaling this staircase is worth every sweaty stumble and tastefully muttered curse, if only so you can casually drop over dinner parties that you adventured down a medieval cliffside stairway allegedly built overnight-because life is short, bragging rights matter, and sometimes history deserves a little irreverence.

You'd think island-hopping around the Mediterranean would be all glam sandals and Instagram poses-until you find yourself on a tiny boat careening toward a cluster of granite islands straight out of a pirate's daydream. Welcome to the Lavezzi Islands, Corsica's charmingly rugged answer to paradise: a place where crystal-clear waters flirt scandalously with impossibly picturesque beaches, and snorkeling feels suspiciously like swimming straight into an aquarium. These rocky gems, only a 30-minute boat ride from Bonifacio, manage to hide their scandalous history well: shipwrecks dating back to the 1800s pepper the seabed, a somber backdrop to your leisurely paddle-history buffs, bring your waterproof camera or risk missing haunting glimpses of naval misadventures beneath your fins. Go early morning to dodge the midday heat and selfie-stick battalions, and don't just roll up without bottled water, sunscreen, decent snacks, and a towel; nothing kills paradise faster than sunstroke and hanger. Budget about 35 euros for roundtrip ferry fare and a whole afternoon to nap on secluded sands and become best friends with brightly patterned fish. Sure, you're likely to get sunburned, sea-salty, and mildly delirious-but the bragging rights alone justify the escapade, leaving you with a tale of Mediterranean glory worth sharing over a shady bottle of Corsican rose.

Golf, for all its reputation as a sport of hushed whispers and pastel-colored polo shirts, takes on a rockstar swagger at Sperone Golf Course. Situated on the breezy cliffs of southern Corsica, this isn't just 18 holes-it's a clash of gravity-defying greens, pristine Mediterranean panoramas, and a pinch-yourself proximity to paradise. Tee off early in the morning-ideally around seven-to enjoy the serenity before the yacht crowds wake with their rose hangovers and shuffle in, designer sunglasses at half-mast. Reserve your tee-time at least a few weeks ahead (or months, if you're particular about golf carts and caddies with attitudes charming enough to forgive their continual smirks). Budget big; around €150-200 per round-because jaw-dropping, postcard-perfect coastal views don't come cheap. Bring sunscreen, extra balls (prepare to gift several to Neptune), and maybe a flask of something ambitious to share at the ninth hole-after all, you're playing a masterpiece designed by Robert Trent Jones Sr., the Michelangelo of golf architecture. Even if your swing resembles a deranged lumberjack doing interpretive dance, playing a round at Sperone is worth it, if only for the bragging rights that you've duffed one gloriously into the Corsican breeze at golf's most absurdly beautiful seaside cathedral.