Hop, Skip and a jump to Malta

Apartment locked … Check.  Key in drop box …. Check.  Down the wonky stairs for the last time and onto the street – hope the taxi is on time.  A young father two doors down scooped up his sons and plonked them into the child seats on his bicycle … one in front, one behind … and coasted off around the corner – presumably to daycare or to school.  Ten minutes late.  Windows around were opened … mats shaken … dogs were walked.  Fifteen minutes late.  At last a taxi negotiated it’s way down the cobbled lane avoiding the potted plants and protruding doorsteps.  We’re off.

It’s morning rush hour.  Buses, cars and scooters converge from every street paying not the slightest attention to stop signs,  traffic lights and pedestrians.  Lanes are optional, apparently.  At least 50% of the vehicles are scooters, which unnervingly ride the centre line in a continuous stream – skipping into oncoming traffic when an opportunity arises.  Our driver appeared increasingly distracted – using his personal cell phone at every stop light and throwing it onto the seat in disgust when his texts or calls went unanswered.  Girlfriend … work?  Straddling two lanes gave him the option of both – whichever looked the fastest … and that girl who just passed us … well that certainly won’t do.  A burst of speed to retake the lead and his masculinity!  We arrived at the airport more or less in one piece – a little shaken but not too stirred.

Ciampino is Rome’s original airport … smaller and perhaps showing it’s age around the edges, but it has a friendlier more welcoming feel. It’s now mostly the domain of Ryanair and a few smaller airlines … private jets too.  Our bags were checked in no time, so we found a sunny bench outside to people watch and eat our remaining clementines while we waited.  Here too security was in evidence, but low key.  A pair of regional police in camouflage fatigues, blue berets and machine guns stood amiably under their white canopy/tent.  A couple of city police strolled among the scattered passengers and asked politely to see ID.  Then a brace of Cabinieri zoomed up importantly … straightening their finely-tailored uniforms and adjusting those high-peaked caps to just the right angle, before marching briskly into their airport office.

A short one hour hop over to Malta and the Valetta city bus was there waiting, do we piled on.  There was not an inch to spare … people and bagged crammed in willy nilly, desperately clinging to overhead straps and posts as the bus careened around corners. Half an hour later it spat us out at the end of the line – Malta’s very attractive plaza and fountain.  It wasn’t long before we were trundling our cases over to Old Mint Street.  Through the pedestrian plaza where old and new sandstone buildings jostled and blended perfectly … here a British phone box … there an aromatic Falafel restaurant.  <Gasp> the view from the top of Old Mint Street is quite daunting.  Narrow, cobbled and incredibly STEEP … as it swooped straight as ruler down to the harbour.  Past walls of typical Maltese apartments, their wooden balconies ornate and enclosed, gaily painted in reds, blues and greens …   dozens of shallow sidewalk steps led down to the magnificent domed cathedral (St. Paul’s) at the bottom. Glancing down several of the cross streets, a glint of water beckoned enticing … but we’d have time to explore tomorrow.

Number 42 had a small, white wrought iron gate in front and an old, probably defunct, builders yard door to one side.  Sam, the owner’s son helped us up the stairs with our bags … he lives just below on the second floor.  The apartment looked spacious and comfortable, however the cleaners seem to have been rather heavy-handed with the room freshener.  We opened all the windows before heading out in search of dinner.  There were lots to choose from.  Multitudes of Pizza and Pasta places, but we’d just recently had those … bars … a food court with not much atmosphere … the obligatory McDonalds and Burger King (No!) … a Philippine restaurant which looked interesting … a Michelin star establishment with very tempting and unusual dishes (prices to match) … but then right across the street was Bombilla – a Gastro pub with Spanish-themed tapas and food. 

We started with Las Galinas … slices of toasted bread smothered in creamy potato and chopped octopus … followed by Cyprus Hummus, spears of deep fried eggplant, drizzled with honey … and a finale of perfectly cooked scallops (in shells) on a bed of mashed potato, sprinkled with paprika and rings of pickled shallots.  Every mouthful was a delight and impossible to pick one over another. It was sad to see the last of the hummus mopped up.  And for dessert, you wonder?  Dishes of Tiramisu … a perfection of whipped cream, coffee-soaked sponge and dusting of cocoa.  Oh my!  Our waiter was a delightful young man from Colombia who had come to Malta to better his English … and that he had certainly done.  A German couple at the next table were wondering whether to choose the scallops, and we assured them they wouldn’t be disappointed. 

Back at the apartment the open windows and breeze had done nothing to abate the almost tangible scent which had permeated not only our outer wear, but undergarments through to the skin. There was no way we could sleep here tonight.  Within minutes of Glen sending an email, Jelena’s son Sam was at the door with profuse apologies and an offer for a different place right across the street.  Such a difference – no fragrance.  It was huge, modern, fully renovated and with an elevator boot… and the dome of St. Paul’s – with dominates Valetta’s skyline – was almost within touching distance.