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.