I got chills, they’re Malta-plying

Nation one hundred arrived at Malta’s International Airport. It’s been a little over a decade since I set foot on Hawaii’s sun-drenched and rum-soaked shore, starting my voyage to all one hundred and ninety-six sovereign states. While the numerical century matters little, it offers a convenient moment to pause, reflect on my travels thus far, and plan for future journeys. In addition to ruminating, over the next few days, Lowri and I intend to see as much of the diminutive Mediterranean island chain as possible; yes, Malta consists of more than one landmass, as well as ringing in my thirty-fifth birthday, so here we go.

To keep costs down, we based ourselves in St. Julian’s, a decision that prompted a series of concerned expressions from locals. One was kind enough to describe it as “the slum of Malta,” before wishing us good luck. Slightly perturbed, we set out to explore our vibrant surroundings and, once we’d worked out which streets comprised the gaudy strip clubs and dishevelled bars, headed straight to them. That afternoon, to get our broader bearings, we embarked on a stroll from St. Julian’s to Valletta, Malta’s capital, along a promenade not too dissimilar to that of Swansea Bay, but with fewer needles. A short ferry ride later, we stepped straight into what must be one of Europe’s most handsome and historically dense capitals.

Founded in 1566 by the Knights of St. John, Valletta is a compact and heavily fortified capital that, if you squint your eyes, could be a Roman suburb. Its honey-coloured Baroque buildings, sheer defensive walls, and commanding views over the Grand Harbour reflect centuries spent preparing for invasion. The city’s strategic value ensured it was contested repeatedly, attracting the attentions of everyone from Napoleon to Hitler to Eurovision in 1971, though it was the British who ultimately held on to “The Rock” well into the twentieth century. Today, Valletta’s narrow streets are packed with churches, palazzi, and balconies stacked one above the other. The entire city can technically be walked around in just over an hour, though between the October heat and our alcoholism, frequent beer stops increased this to a little over five.

Following a meal overlooking the cinematic harbour, which has appeared in countless film classics including Gladiator, World War Z, and Jurassic World Dominion, we went in search of a traditional dgħajsa (water taxi) to carry us over the bay. Fortunately, it was about the most touristy thing one can do in Malta, and so it didn’t take us long to find one of the wooden vessels and barter our way on. Similar to a gondola, and about as stable, we felt that a wave of any kind of force could be our last, although the views looking back at the ancient city made the ordeal worthwhile, particularly under a setting Mediterranean sun.

On the other side of the bay lies what is known as the Three Cities. Incorporating Vittoriosa, Senglea, and Cospicua, this area was almost silent in comparison to the capital’s bustling streets and significantly cheaper to boot. A pint of lager, the most accurate of all price indicators, was about half that of our previous stop, and tasted significantly better for it. Cisk Lager, Malta’s national contribution to brewing, had already become a dependable companion with its gassy and flavourless quality matching that of my favourite pissy lagers of home. We settled at a bar overlooking a modest square and almost forgot we were in the middle of the Mediterranean at all, and not a small village in Tuscany, such were the similarities. The glacial pace of life matched our moods entirely, while the balmy temperature defied the Octobers we were used to.

As evening drew in, we decided that heading back into the mixer was our best option, and we began to search in earnest for a café/bar/restaurant not overflowing with tourists or demanding an astronomical amount for dinner and a Cisk. This proved harder than expected. After a fair amount of pessimistic menu inspections, we eventually gave in and ducked into a slightly dingy “English” bar on the outskirts of the walled city that satisfied our needs. Over pints and passable food, I made several attempts to extract information about the following day, on the reasonable grounds that it was my birthday. As secret keeping is Lowri’s kryptonite, I was confident I could wheedle out a few titbits of information, but despite visibly vibrating with withheld knowledge, she remained suspiciously silent beyond a single, ominous clue: the alarm call would be early…

J