The hotel they’d arranged for me was the Meridien. It dominates the skyline in St Julians and looked impressive because of it’s magnitude and its oddly welcoming lines. Checking in was fret free (will the operators of Travel Lodge and Travel Inn please note that it shouldn’t need 15 minutes of heart breaking confusion to check into somewhere already booked and paid for —- GET IT RIGHT) and in a few un-hurried minutes and I was on the streets and searching for beer and dindins.
Now being a just a few short seamiles from Italy where despite the fact that the population are essentially tax dodging, rule bending anarchists they are in-disputedly the world’s most stylish people (in dress, food and social interaction; any Francophiles protest at that assertion will be disdainly ignored) I would have expected your average Malteser type person to be similarly orientated. In their love of family and social discourse they most certainly are but as to sartorial style and physical deportment ………………….. sadly NONONO. They’re just as ugly and tasteless as the Brits, only with healthier complexions.
So it was with only partial gusto that I devoured a plate of grilled Doado and …(groan) chips,washed down with a local (grapes grown in Italy???) red at a harbourside cafe. In Italy that meal, no matter how humble, would have been made all the more wonderful by the endlessly entertaining and beautiful people-atching that would have accompanied it. Sadly, Malta, like Dover in a rain storm, provided no such diversions. After a day that had involved travellingout of Gatwick (seethe seethe), flying with Air Malta (some genuine advice here, DON’T) and the, erm, exhilarating drive from the airport , it was time for beddy bobos.
Tomorrow the Moon. But that really was, tomorrow.