Malta: Day Three - Part One

Valetta as seen from The Grand Harbour.  The hotel is the building with the loggias to the right of the red dome and steeple.

By today, I’ve mastered hello and thank you in Maltese.  Which is kind of cheating, because hello is pronounced “bon Jew” - in other words the French bonjour.  As for thank you, it’s the Italian grazie.  Add to that a cheerful ciao when you leave and you’re in business.
       This is my last day and choices have to be made.  There are plenty of other ruins I’d like to see, but Josephine and I haven’t made transportation arrangements, so I choose to stay closer to home.  The city across the bay has been enticing me out my window ever since I got here, so let’s take the ferry over to Vittoriosa (or Birgu, as it is called in Maltese).  After all, it leaves from just down the street.  And I do mean “down”.  As I reach it, they’ve pulled up the gangplank, but have mercy on me and let me board.  (The next ferry would have been in half an hour.)  I’m not even asked to pay!

View of Vittoriosa, with the huge black Maltese Falcon moored

The sky is blue, the Mediterranean too.  A striking setting for the pale-yellow limestone of the forts and other old buildings.  And the arm of the harbor we enter is just one big marina, with the star of the show a luxury yacht:  a clipper with a modern sail system of three self-standing and rotating masts.  I count how many sails that is:  15.  That’s my first destination, and I’m in luck because there’s a young man cleaning it.  He’s British and has been with the ship only two months, but tells me it’s a yacht for charters and events.  It’ll only set you back half a million dollars per week in the peak season.  And the name?  Why, Maltese Falcon, of course.

Carrack

       I slip into the Maritime Museum, which, like everything, used to be something else... in this case, the naval bakery.  Several rooms are being overhauled - again, Malta is a work in progress - but there’s a temporary exibit of scale models, all extremely detailed and ranging from the old Phoenician round ship to Greek and Roman triremes to World War II British naval vessels.  There’s a big carrack of the sort that the Knights Hospitaller would have arrived on, but the star of the show is a mid-18th century ship-of-the-line, a three-master that could be the ancestor of the Maltese Falcon down the dock.  My naval architect friend would love this place.

Fort St. Angelo

       My ticket to the museum also gives me the right to visit Fort St. Angelo.  Or so I thought.  As I puff up the steep incline to the gate of what the British called H.M.S. Saint Angelo during their reign, the guard yells “We’re closed!”  I plod on, asking what time they open.  “No, we’re closed to the public.”  I explain that I have a ticket; he counter-explains that’s not possible.  And he’s right.  The other entry is to the Inquisitor’s Palace.  As I apologize, he asks me where I’m from. Turns out Albert - that’s his name - was once a merchant sailor on the freighters that sail up the Saint Lawrence Seaway and through the Great Lakes.  He tells me I can look around a bit, but his boss is watching so I have to stay where he can see me.  I go to the water’s edge, to take a photo of Valetta across the harbor.  When I turn around, there he is, behind me.  He points up to where a man - his boss - is watching us both.  We walk back together to the gate, me taking photos as we go, and he gives me a kiss on both cheeks.  Ever the sailor, a girl in every port.  And unmarried to boot.
       (P.S.  I asked Albert why the top two floors hadn’t been all spit-and-polished like the rest of the fort.  He told me that they still belong to The Order of Malta, but that there are negotiations on-going.  The refurbished section should be open in about a month, even though work is running late.)
       My next stop is just a quick look into St. Lawrenz Church outside the walls of the Fort.  It’s typically baroque with nothing much different that the others.  So it’s on to the Inquisitor’s Palace.

       Of all the places I’ve seen so far, this one gives the best idea of what a palace would have been.  Of course, it hasn’t been turned into something else, so it does look like a residence.  The prison cells are spartan and the idea of peeing and all through a grill in the floor, and then having it fall into a kind of “fountain” in the courtyard below... well that must have been whiffy.  I know the Roman Inquisition wasn’t as cruel as the Spanish Inquisition, but still it makes me laugh when I see a big sign in the courtyard that says “The Roman Inquisition in Malta” and it’s right behind a nice wrought-iron table and chairs; if that’s how they questioned people... over drinks and a pastry...  Actually there are none of the torture equipment I’d expected to see, which is fine with me.

It’s about time for lunch, and I haven’t seen anything that strikes my fancy here, so I decide to head back to the ferry and Valetta to try out another of Mario’s Restaurant Picks.  So far he’s two-for-two.

Vittoriosa (Birgu) and its harbor

Malta: Day Two - Part Three

Blue Grotto

At 2:00, Josephine arrives to drive me to Mdina, the Silent City.  She tells me I must also visit the Blue Grotto, which lies at the southern end of the Dingli Cliffs that I saw from the airplane on arrival.  The water isn’t as strikingly blue as she announces because there’s quite a lot of wind and it’s whipped up the Mediterranean   Still resolutely blue but not transparent, the water laps at the base of the natural sculpture it’s carved out of the limestone to form the grotto, just like the ancient Maltese used this same limestone to carve their temples.
       There also appear to be oil rigs off the coast here, but they’re so small that they may just have been test wells... or something altogether different.
       We drive across arid but not barren countryside broken up into fields and towns, each with its towering church.  Josephine drops me off at the city gates and points out the bus stop, even though she says she’ll come back for me if I want.  It’ll probably be easier to figure out which bus to get on than it would be to find a telephone booth.  Everyone here seems to have a cellphone riveted to their ear.

Mdina

The name Mdina is one of those Arab words that come with the island’s history.  It feels like the medina of Marrakech or Casablanca in Morocco.  A medina, according to the dictionary, “is typically walled, with many narrow and maze-like streets”, which is a good description of The Silent City of Mdina.  In modern Arabic it merely means a city or town.
       There are horsecarts waiting outside the city walls, the horses tripped out with red tassels to keep the evil spirits away.  One even has a pheasant feather atop his head.  But I decide to go on foot; it’s not that big a place, even if it was the island’s capital until the Grand Masters moved it to Valetta for a more easy-to-defend position against the Ottomans. Still, these protective walls aren’t shoddy and I suspect the walkway across the dry moat wasn’t always made of stone but rather of something more drawbridge-able.
       As I walk around, I’m so glad I’ve come in winter; I can’t imagine the crush of people there must be later on in the season!  These streets are narrow canyons between high walls and might look more like a medieval amusement park otherwise.  As it is, I sometimes have a tiny square all to myself.
       Where Valetta is somewhat of a work in progress, with electric cables hanging from windows and garbage bags waiting to be picked up sometimes, Mdina is more spit-and-polish.  And more tourist-y, a fact that becomes very clear by the décor of the restaurants and the density of souvenir shops.  As I walk, I notice more greenery than in Valetta, where it’s mostly limited to the three parks or to courtyards not visible from the street.  Mdina has several wells in small squares, plus a wide choice of ornate door knockers and many arabesqued wrought-ironwork protecting the ground floor windows or highlighting balconies, often hung with flower pots.  Some houses look almost Venetian in their baroqueness - especially the windows - and there are escutcheons over many doorways.  The cathedral is less ornate than Valetta’s, but inside are the same marble slabs depicting skeletons or just skulls, and the dome has a show-stopping frieze with a trompe-l’oeil blue sky and clouds at the very top.
       In short, this is a rich town, which explains all of the above.  And the few cars that are actually parked inside the walls - residents only - tend to bear witness to the thickness of the Mdina wallet.

I decide to take my chances with the bus.  I see the bus stop, but several buses stop here. A lady and her two children help me by shouting out “Valetta, Valetta” even though the bus says Dingli... and I know that’s not in the same direction.  I decide to trust them and end up sitting next to a British man who is staying at... the Grand Harbour Hotel.  Small world!  We discuss what we’ve seen and what we have left to see, all the while looking at the towns go by along the road (including Dingli).  Then suddenly, after only about 15 or 20 minutes, there’s the big plaza just outside the City Gate.  I feel proud of myself for having done it. And it was fun seeing people get on and off in the various towns along the way.

Mosta

There’s still time before dinner, so I decide to try to see St. Paul’s hand again.  But when I get there and open the church door, I find myself nose-to-nose with a huge cross and chanting people behind it!  It’s the Stations of the Cross, in Maltese.  I edge past the people, my heretical camera around my neck, and make my way to the far chapel where the hand awaits me.  But there are two elderly gentlemen sitting right beside it and chanting the Stations along with the others.  I step up and look at the hand - part of a wristbone somewhat visible in an opening in a silver jewel-encrusted hand spread upward to the heavens.  But the two gentlemen are staring at me and I can’t bring myself to take my picture.  I decide to sit them out, and listen once again to ecumenical Maltese.  The Stations are almost finished.  But no!  It is not meant to be.  The priest arrives, and then choir members start showing up for Vespers, one by one.  I give up and leave St Paul to his hand.

     Carnival now over, the streets are much different tonight.  After changing out of my ratting-around-prehistoric-ruins-and-medieval-medina clothes, I head off to another of Mario’s Restaurant Picks.  I’m just not sure which one.  We’ll see which is open already on this holiday.  The first, Michael’s (definitely upscale), is dark.  The door of the second, Palazzo Preca (also ritzy), is ajar and a young couple are saying sweet nothings to each other and playing kissy-face.  She leaves and he goes through the door.  I ask when they open and he says “in about half an hour”... too long for my stomach, which is now remembering it’s only seen four date mqareks all day.  On to the next restaurant pick, right up on the corner.

       The side streets of Valetta are on the hillside, as I said elsewhere, and so anything that extends into more than one building - as this restaurant does - is by definition split-leveled.  To enter the restaurant you go down a few steps, as was also the case with Nenu Bakery last night.  Which means the waiter has to shuttle back and forth between the kitchen and the two different levels of tables.

       Unlike the two other restaurants, Guzé Bistro is open for business, and they’re playing jazz music in the background.  There’s already a Japanese couple waiting for their food, both glued to their smart phone screens.  I order another Maltese specialty, the fish soup with mussels, prawns and grouper.  But before that can arrive, I’m given some of that good Malta bread with a spread, and then a miniature bowl of artichoke soup, both of which are delicious.  By the time I’ve finished the fish soup appetizer and the risotto with porcini mushrooms comes, my appetite is half asleep.  I manage to finish only half of the excellent risotto, with its huge chunks of porcinis.  That chagrins the waiter no end, and my praise of the cuisine and both the red and white Maltese wines softens the blow only so much.  Once again, there will be no dessert.

On the way back to the hotel, I hear the cruise ship horn calling its passengers home.  It will be gone tomorrow morning when I wake up.  Mario is behind the hotel desk so we spend a good half hour talking.  I answer his questions about what I saw today and he tells me about his 40 years in the business.

       Up in my room, I try to watch an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.  I would have liked to listen to it in Maltese a bit, but it’s in Italian, so I opt for the English-language version.  After all I’ve seen and done today, the plot isn’t enough to keep me awake and I drift off into a land of wristbones and forts and harbors and medieval streets and prehistoric ruins.

Malta - Day Two - Part Two

Kristu Re Church - Paola

True to her word, Josephine appears on time and drives me the few miles south to the Hypogeum in the suburb of Paola.   (Remember yesterday’s ticket bought at the Fine Arts Museum?)  That strange name means “underground chamber” and that’s just what it is, although in fact there are three levels of chambers.
       Here is something that was dug out of the earth over 5,000 years ago, making it older than the Pyramids, older than Stonehenge.  It was discovered by accident in 1902 during excavation work for housing.  Unfortunately for archaeology, it wasn’t reported immediately, for obvious reasons, and some damage was done to the upper level, but the middle and lower levels are intact.  No one knows exactly what its purpose is, but from the clues left behind it was used both for burials and rituals.
       Visitors are limited to 80 a day because the space is tight.  Walkways have been installed to protect the ruins and lighting provided.  And as groups are international, the human guide has been replaced by an excellent audioguide, although you’re accompanied by a security person (with an extra flashlight, just in case).  The middle level is perhaps the most amazing, and seen as a temple to Mother Earth, as witnessed by the Sleeping Lady statue and others found here.  Stonehenge-like stone columns and lintels stand between the different chambers, and concentric circles of lintels decrease in diameter to form a kind of dome over the main chamber.  From the very beginning of Man’s presence on this island, it was necessary to learn how to quarry stone, work it and know how to prevent things from caving in.  That last point is especially important, as Malta has experienced multiple earthquakes over the millennia.  And yet here is the Hypogeum, still standing.  This domed Holy of Holies was the site of animal sacrifices, judging by the relics found.  It also has a niche where a deep man’s voice reverberates around the room, filling every nook and cranny with a spooky, other-worldly sound.  The builders of this temple were also experts in acoustics.
       One amazing detail revealed is on the Lower Level.  There are seven steps carved into the rock, leading down to a central chamber that might have been a granary, or perhaps a common grave into which bodies were tossed.  Without today’s powerful lighting, and in spite of the one ventilation shaft, the stench of 7,000 rotting bodies in this huge tomb - if that’s what it was - must have been overpowering!  But another theory is that this chamber in the far reaches of the earth may have contained something valuable.  And that would explain one quirky detail:  after the seven steps leading down, there’s a sharp turn to the right... and a sheer drop of several meters.  It was probably intended to send robbers plummeting to their doom in the darkness below, because there’s no way short of a ladder for climbing out.  And I’m sure the ladder was removed.
       In some places, there are still traces of pigments*, and some decoration is still visible.  But
just breathing in and out can damage it irreparably, and some day this, too - like Lascaux - may be closed to the public.  I’m so glad I got to see it in person.

Tarxien Temple

Nearby there’s another prehistoric site:  the Tarxien Temples.  The Hypogeum has a tiny map that they give out, so I take one - as does another couple - and off I go.  It’s less than ten minutes away and it gives me a chance to see Paola.  Well, kind of, because it’s a holiday and all the shops are closed, making the town a bit dead.  Still, as all towns on the island apparently, this one has its own magnificent domed church, which looks much more recent than the ones I saw in Valetta.  And Paola also has young and crazy drivers who like to make a lot of noise gunning their engines.  Some things don’t change, wherever you go.

       Discovered in 1914 by a farmer simply plowing his field, it’s really four different temples on what must have been seen as a very holy site.  And from objects uncovered, it was evidently dedicated to Mother Earth.  Part of a huge statue of a full-bodied female was found in one of the apses of the central temple; there’s a copy here but the original is in the Archeology Museum of Valetta.  The top half is missing, but it would have stood a respectable 2½ m (8.2 ft), making it the tallest free-standing human figure discovered to this day.
       The central temple is the most recent and the best preserved of the four.  I find it amazing to think how such huge slabs of stone were moved.  It’s a question asked about the moai of Easter Island as well, and of Stonehenge.  One theory is that boulders were rounded and used as ball bearings to slide the slabs along the ground.  And there are a few such stones near the south temple.  They’re too round to be just acts of nature.
       But to me, the most amazing feature here is all the carvings.  Spirals are a common theme found on several altars and screens.  There are also carvings of domestic animals - a bull and a suckling sow, as well as goats and a ram.   The men who erected these megalithic temples were skillful not only in architecture - with tall columns and lintels forming majestic passages from one apse to another - but also masterful artists capable of carving rich and intricate stonework.
       One silly detail.  This is thought to have been a burial site, evidently, or rather a cremation cemetery.  And right behind it, visible beyond the walls, is... a cemetery.  A modern-day graveyard, with marble tombs and flowers.  It just seems logical somehow.
       More than most other places, Tarxien lifts the corner on the mystery of life in such ancient cultures.  For instance, on two upright megaliths there are weather-worn traces of superimposed lines that seem to depict Bronze Age boats, and as such “are some of the earliest representations of sea-faring boats in the Mediterranean”.  Even more so than the Hypogeum, this temple complex - there’s no other way to describe it - is proof that Malta had a thriving culture here at the dawn of the Bronze Age, and even before.

* The decoration was in ocher, which is interesting because there's none on the island.  The closest place with ocher is Sicily which is over 100 miles away across the open waters of the Mediterranean.  A long way to paddle.  But there were perhaps ships back then, which would be unheard of.  And yet at Tarxien, there are those scratchy representations of ships. That would explain how the ocher was transported from Sicily to Malta, and make the Bronze Age Maltese perhaps the earliest mariners ever.



(to be continued)

Malta - Day Two - Part One

St. Paul's Shipwreck Church (far left)

I get up early, hungry for the rest of those date pastries from last night.  The tea is delicious and strong.  You can tell the Brits were here.  Electric tea kettles and good tea.

       It’s off to see St. Paul’s hand at St. Paul’s Shipwreck Church.  The story, told by St. Luke, is that St. Paul was being taken in chains to Rome to be tried when his ship went up on the reefs off Malta.  He spent three months there that somehow marked the people so much that now what is purported to be his wristbone is enshrined in this church (thus the name).  My curiosity is aroused . But Mass is already being said when I arrive.  Although I’m not Roman Catholic, I remember hearing Mass said in Latin when I was young, before the Second Vatican Council decreed in 1964 it should be celebrated in the language of the country.  Which here means Maltese, that strange hodge-podge of Phoenician, Arab, Italian, English and who knows what else.  So I sit a bit, off to the side, and listen to the strangeness of it.

Queen Victoria, in front of National Library

After that, it’s an easy swing past the statue of Queen Victoria and on to the 16th century Palace of the Grand Masters, to see if it’s open on a holiday (which today is)... and so early.  I’m the first visitor, but no prize for that. Visitors start by touring some of the Royal Apartments, but not all because these are also the offices of the President of the Republic of Malta.  

       Sumptuous doesn’t even begin to do it justice.  It’s on a par with the Co-Cathedral, which is logical.  After all, the Grand Masters commissioned the construction and decoration of both. And both are stoic from the outside, but opulent inside.  Gilt, brocade, crystal chandeliers, marble floors with mosaic escutcheons, armor-lined hallways, timbered coffer ceilings, massive painted beams, tapestries from the Gobelin factory in Paris, a plethora of friezes of the Knights’ famous battles... a real history lesson, if you know what you’re looking at.  The State Dining Hall is open to the public, along with the Grand Council Chamber, Supreme Council Chamber and finally the State Room, where envoys sent to Malta used to present their credentials to the Grand Masters... as ambassadors still do today, only now to the President of the Republic.

       Then on to the Armory, Malta’s first public museum, which is natural for their warrior tradition, I guess.  It’s now located in what was once the Palace stables because the actual Armory has become the House of Representatives.  Governing wins out over fighting?  The museum has thousands of weapons and armor dating from the 15th century until the Order left Malta in the late 18th century:  swords, firearms, crossbows, pole axes... I’m quite a pacifist at heart so only the armor interests me, from a craftsman standpoint.  But one detail amazes me: two weights with a rope through them so you can lift them.  One weighs 2½ kg (5½ lb), the weight of a warrior’s helmet.  It’s hard to lift. Then I try the other:  10 kg (22 lb) and I can’t even lift it with one hand.  That was the weight of an iron hat, smaller than the helmet but four times the weight.  I can’t even imagine having to put that on your head, much less fight while wearing it!  No wonder the men were so short!!

Enough of war.  Across from the Palace is what used to be a parking lot but has been transformed into the large St. George’s Square with benches to sit in the sun, a luxury in February.  Back in Paris, I’d be in a winter coat but here all you need is a light jacket, at least during the day.  As I sit and enjoy the warmth, the guards snap into action in front of the Palace.  They  run through their paces, marching back and forth between the two guardposts, then back into faction, their bayonetted guns snapped sharply from shoulder to side as they take up their silent, frozen stance at their posts.

President's Palace

As I start to walk away from the President’s Palace, I notice a plaque on the wall.  It’s a quote from President Franklin Roosevelt, praising Malta for its strength and resistance during World War II, citing the island’s “valorous service far above and beyond the call of duty”.  One line sums up the plight of this tiny place as the Reich spread over the rest of Europe and into North Africa: “Under repeated fire from the skies, Malta stood alone but unafraid in the center of the sea, one tiny bright flame in the darkness - a beacon of hope for the clearer days which have come.”  The quote is dated Dec. 5th, 1943.  I find Roosevelt very optimistic about clearer days having come by then, but although it wasn’t true yet for the rest of Europe, the dangers for Malta were already over by then, with the capitulation of the Afrika Korps and the retaking of Sicily.  Safe now on either side.  But rebuilding from the almost total destruction would have to wait.
       What can’t wait though is Josephine.  She’ll be picking me up at the hotel at 11:30 to take me out to discover something besides Valetta.

(to be continued)

Malta - Day One - Part Two

After that I just have time to walk through the golden glory of Saint John’s Co-Cathedral (16th c).  This is prime Knights terrain.  Designed by a military architect chosen by the Grand Master of the Order, it’s plain on the outside, like a fortress.

     But inside, it is awe-inspiringly dripping in golden details   The vaulted ceilings are covered in paintings, the floors are completely tiled with marble funeral slabs of often macabre scenes, and rich carvings decorate everything in between the two.  Gilded flowers, scrolls, shells, escutcheons, winged angels... it’s all there, not to mention all the Maltese crosses everywhere. Each of the eight orders had its own chapel on either side of the nave, and they seem to have rivaled with each other in ornateness.  The Grand Masters of the various orders also have their tombs in these chapels and it’s hard to say which one is the most grand.
I ask a question about any link between the Maltese Cross and the Croix de Languedoc, also known as the Cathar Cross.  Given that adjective “Cathar”, there probably isn’t, but they both have arms of equal length.  The information desk send me to ask the curator, and he’s stumped too. But I guess the length of the arms is all they have in common.  Still, that question won me some extra added information on the church from the curator, who was only too happy to see someone seeking him out.  He’s as welcoming and talkative as all his fellow countrymen will prove to be throughout my stay.

As I exit the church, there are still throngs of children in costumes.  Batman, Spiderman and Walt Disney seem to be the favorites among the boys; the girls are all little princesses.  And the adults are in on the fun as well, many of them having a day off, I presume.  They’re just waiting for the big party outside the City Gates tonight.
  Not quite time for dinner - in spite of the missed lunch - so I decide to walk the streets a bit and get a feel for the city.  Stores in the side-streets are closed, but the signs tell many stories.  One is called the Useful Bazaar but the two items it touts over the door are Toys and Games.  Now there’s a definition of “useful” that I can really get behind!  Carmelo Delia & Sons (1890) is selling everything at ½ price... although it looks like they went out of business long ago, judging by the derelict paint on the shop and the sign.  Another even more faded sign announces “Office of the Consul for Goldsmiths and Silversmiths”, which I find intriguing; I didn’t know they had consuls for that.
  The only food shop I see open is a butcher whose lack of wrapping and refrigeration would make a true American shudder.  There’s also a cookie stall on one of the two main north-south streets and his wares look very tasty, but I leave it for tomorrow... only to find he’s not there any more.   Perhaps it’s because of Lent.  No more cookies for forty days?
  Wrought iron decors of Maltese crosses are everywhere, and many upper stories of the old buildings have overhanging wooden terrace-windows of different sizes and configurations.  They seem to be the architectural detail of the island.  On many street corners there are stucco or stone statues of the Madonna or else some saint or the other doing saintly things.  The one I like best is Saint Somebody, sword held heavenward, ready to slay a muscular devil he’s holding on a chain leash; the devil is cowering at the holy feet, the chain securely around his scaly neck.  The message couldn’t be clearer:  Repent!
  I walk all the way to the north end of the peninsula, at least as far as you can go without entering Fort St. Elmo.  And as only part of the fort can be visited - and that part the War Museum to boot - I decide to just walk back toward the hotel along the top of the Curtain - the fortifications - on the east side of Valetta. There’s a touch of greenery, a fountain and a Greek-style temple halfway back, at the Lower Barrakka Gardens.  Here all is quiet and the view of the entrance to the Grand Harbour is unimpeded.  The sun is sinking lower and it glitters off the water as boats and ships zip in all directions.


Back at the hotel, I change out of my travel and ratting-around clothes, a concession of sorts to “dressing for dinner”.  It’s been a long day and although it’s only 6, I’ve had Mario make a reservation for me at one of his five suggested restaurants:  Nenu Bakery.  Well, it used to be a bakery, and the waiter shows me into the kitchen and waves his arms proudly at the old oven.  The only other people there when I arrive are two women and a child, all speaking Maltese, which is a strange soup of a language.

  I’ve come for the fenek, the rabbit.  But first I’m served some of the great Maltese bread, which Nenu no longer bakes, with a tomato spread and another with chick peas and herbs.  I try both, but sparingly, which is a good thing because after that comes a Maltese specialty:  minestra, a chunky vegetable soup similar to Italian minestrone, as its name suggests, but minus any pasta.  And when the fenek comes, another island specialty, it’s half a rabbit!  And accompanied by roasted herbed potatoes plus a mix of roasted carrots, zucchini and eggplant with some fennel seed in there somewhere.  I order a dry red wine and the waiter asks if I want to try something local.  It’s full-bodied merlot from Malta, and is perfect for my meal.  Although he’s showed me the desserts tray, I have no more room - even had to leave that fourth piece of fenek.  But he makes me a Bowser Bag of the traditional date pastries flavored with aniseed - mqaret - and even throws in two more for good measure, probably because I’ve shown such interest in the history, oven and refurbishing of the restaurant.
  On my way back to the hotel, I hear the music booming from blocks away, on the square below the City Gates.  Asking myself if I’m too old to go take a look, I decide I’m too young to go straight to bed.  So I walk uphill to the overlook - working off some of the fenek in doing so - and give it a chance.  But it’s a bit farther than I want to walk, the lights are too flash-y, and the music isn’t really my style.  Besides, who would hold my mqaret for me while I dance?  So after feasting my eyes on the beauty of the buildings-by-night, I give my ears a rest and head down the many-stepped street to the aptly-named Grand Harbour Hotel.
  When I finally reach my room, I give in to the warmth and aroma of the dates and try one.  Delicious, even if they are deep-fried and not the baked variety.  The four others will be breakfast tomorrow.
  One more look out my window, at the illuminated buildings of the Three Cities across the harbor, and I congratulate my instinct for having made this my choice of abode.  It’s all so strikingly, goldenly beautiful against the dark sky and water.  A wonderful sight to dream of through the night.

Malta - Day One - Part One

Dingli Cliffs, west coast of Malta

As we start our final descent into Luca Airport, we fly along the west coast of Malta.  Out the window I see what could easily pass for the White Cliffs of Dover.  I later learn those are the Dingli Cliffs (yes, that’s the actual name).  At 253 meters (830 ft), the highest point on the island.  Then we bank left over the unpronounceable Marsaxlokk Bay at the south end of the island, fly low over scrubland that looks surprisingly like the garrigue of Languedoc or the maquis of Corsica, and land in a small airport like the ones of my childhood.  (By the way, it's pronounced MAR-zeks-lock.)
       We’re allowed to walk across the tarmac and into the terminal.  I get no stamp in my passport - in fact no one even wants to see it.  The flight was from within the Schengen Area, so we’re all considered to be good to go, even though I was told to have my passport and my French resident’s card.  And there was I, expecting to have an exotic stamp to add to Machu Picchu and Easter Island, or the mammoth Russian visa.
       As I come out of the customs area, there’s a woman holding a card with my name.  My ride to town:  Josephine.  She drives me to the Grand Harbour Hotel, where a room with a sea view - well, a harbor view - awaits me.  I’m greeted by Mario, who will prove as helpful as he is cheerful throughout my stay.  This hotel is a friendly place, perhaps not chic in the Beverly Hills sense of the word but comfy and clean.  It’s a family enterprise, a dying breed in the hotel business.

View out over Fort San Angelo

Time to get out and see Valetta, given my limited time here.  Living in Montmartre proves good training, as each and every street goes either up or down, and sometimes both.  After all, the Knights chose the heights as protection from both invaders and pirates.  They even tried to level the top of this hill off, but soon struck hard rock - sunny-colored limestone - and gave up, making do with what little level space they had.
       So I head uphill and stumble upon a children’s show.  Today is the last day before Lent.  It’s Mardi Gras and all the children - and some adults - are already togged out in disguises. This show is in an area near the City Gate with what looks like a permanent stage of considerable size, not to mention some serious sound equipment.  (It turns out to be Royal Theater Square, an open-air theater on the site of the Royal Opera House, bombed by the Luftwaffe in World War II.  Those columns are all that’s left.)  Aside from me, the spectators seem all to be proud parents and other relatives who applaud and smile as the children run through dance numbers in their Disney costumes.  The number I see seems to be Beauty and the Beast, with Mickey and Minnie thrown in for good measure, and the two choreographers do the dance steps from below the stage, just in case someone forgets the routine.  What fun!

But this isn’t where I was headed.  As Josephine has highly suggested going to see the Hypogeum, my first order ot business is to buy a ticket. That can be done “across town” at the Museum of Fine Arts.  (I would have bet on the Archaeology Museum, but what do I know?)  As Valetta is a rocky promontory, that means going uphill.  And as everything in town was once something else, the Museum of Fine Arts was built as a private home, then used under the British as their Admiralty House and its inhabitants once included Lord Mountbatten when he was Admiral of the Fleet here.  Which all explains the majestic staircase.
       For 2€ more, above and beyond the Hypogeum entrance fee, I can visit the fine arts collection, and I’m already here - probably for the only time in my life - so why not?  It’s not a large collection, and the man behind the counter called it “Caravaggio-esque”, but there are also a few works by Ribera and one by Turner.  Two works caught my eye.  One is an Impressionist oil painting of an iceberg (can that be called a landscape?) by Albert Bierstadt, whom I’d never heard of.  When I looked him up, I found he was American and most of his works were grandiose depictions of the Far West, and all very unlike this sparse canvas. The other work is a contemporary piece simply called Landscape, by Mick Piro aka Mary de Piro, a Valetta-born artist.  And after only a few hours on the island, I can recognize it as being the sunny-colored limestone of Valetta itself.  Its sparse lines nonetheless depict the city as it rises into a blue sky.  These are both paintings that I could live with and enjoy at leisure, again and again.

The Museum of Archaeology is only three streets over and one street down, so that’s my next stop.  It, too, was something else before.  It was one of the eight original auberges of the Knights:  the Auberge de Provence.  Each auberge (a French word that means a house where you can sleep and eat) was named after one of the languages spoken, and this one evidently spoke provençal, the dialect from southern France.  By turning it into a museum, little is left of the original configuration, but the façade is grandiose, a 16th-century work of architectural art.

     Inside it’s a work in progress.  Probably this is the temporary exhibits area. But the permanent collection is an archaeologist’s dream!  There are relics going back to prehistoric times and a display that puts it all into chronological perspective.  For instance, Stonehenge was built in 2000 B.C., the Great Pyramid in 2530 B.C. but Malta’s Ggantua Temples a full thousand years earlier still, in 3600 B.C.!  There’s a sarcophagus with carved spirals in it of great beauty, and a stone with carved sheep, cattle and a boar as magnificent as anything I’ve seen anywhere.  There are small animal figurines and a statue of a full-bodied woman called the Venus of Malta.

      Other such statues have a hole where the head should be, indicating that perhaps there were different heads for different occasions; they also all have the same pose which no one can explain - the left arm folded across her stomach and the right arm against her side. There’s also a Sleeping Lady found in the Hypogeum, a very early artwork indeed.  A bowl lid alternates lions with grazing deer, all in graceful poses.  There were obviously artists of enormous talent and skill way back thousands of years ago on this small island.

(to be continued)