Not Spectacular, but Pleasant
Malta’s self-own became our tourist's mantra
Cari amici,
I’m recently back after spending a week in Malta with my son. Meeting up in various parts of the world is a fun way to get in some together time—which, since we live on different continents, doesn’t happen often enough. This time he wanted to visit what would be European country number 39 for him: Malta. Fine with me, I said. I’d heard it was beautiful, with a rich history of conquest by many peoples, like Sicily’s, due to the islands’ strategic location in the Mediterranean.
But we were underwhelmed. Malta has spots of beauty, of course, and the ubiquitous painted doors and enclosed balconies that provide most of the cities’ color make for great photo opps. Yet there is a sameness to Malta, a uniformity of architecture and terrain, that sapped our enthusiasm over the course of five days. After our day in Gozo, when we read the sign pictured above, we’d arrive somewhere, look around, then exchange glances. “Not spectacular,” one of us would say, laughing, and the other would reply, “But pleasant.”
I don’t mean to sound like a malcontent or cynical traveler, though I suppose I do and maybe I am. Other tourists in Malta seemed enthralled by the views we found dreary and the architecture we deemed overly repetitious. The problem is—I’ve said this before—Italy has spoiled me. It’s a country of such vivid beauty, of such diversity in its cities and terrain, of such richness in its marbles and frescoes and artistic triumphs, that it takes a hell of a lot for other places to impress me. Art-wise, almost everything we liked in Malta had been painted or carved by an Italian. And I’ll admit to another bias—it turns out I’m less interested in the Grand Masters and the Knights of Malta than in the history of Rome and the Risorgimento.
Day 1: Valletta
Since we were staying in Valletta, we started and ended each day by exploring the town little by little. We saw St. John’s Co-Cathedral (splendid if uniform) and a few other churches (yawn-inducing), the twice-a-day cannon salute above the Grand Harbor (entertaining), and the Time-Gun Museum (mildly interesting). We walked nearly every street, and other than the aforementioned doors and balconies, decided that what we liked most was the people. We heard languages we couldn’t identify—one, we assume, was Maltese, a Semitic language (like Arabic, Hebrew, and Aramaic) that Wikipedia describes as “a Latinised variety of spoken historical Arabic,” much influenced by Italian and Sicilian.
Take a look at this nutshell history, adapted from our guidebook, DK Eyewitness’ Top 10 Malta and Gozo, and you’ll get a sense of the Maltese archipelago’s many cultural and linguistic influences:
5000–2500 BC: settled by Sicilians
2500 BC–4th century AD, Copper and Bronze Ages: Phoenicians, Carthaginians, and Romans
4th century AD–1090: Byzantines and Muslims
1090–1282: Norman, Swabian, and (briefly) French rule
1282–1530: Spanish rule (Aragonese and Castilians)
1530–1798: Knights of Malta
1798–1800: French rule under Napoleon, who ousted the Knights (then the British ousted him)
1814–1939: British rule
1939–1945: World War II, when Malta became the most bombed place on earth
1945–21st century: Malta became independent in 1964, declared itself neutral in 1980, and was where the Cold War ended in 1989.
These days Malta has been hit by overtourism, as has much of Europe. One of our Uber drivers was born in Valletta and grew up there, but he lives in Floriana now. He said most Valletta natives have moved out because the city has become a tourist town, and we can attest to that (and contributed to it too). The food was mediocre for the most part, as it was elsewhere in Malta, apart from the fresh fish (though we do enthusiastically recommend a Valletta restaurant called Manon). A few chain stores, lots of souvenir shops, and dozens of restaurants crowd the heart of the historic center along with hordes of tourists. Cruise ships the size of cities are fixtures in the Grand Harbor between Valletta and the Three Cities. I prefer the cute little awning-topped boats.
Day 2: Gozo
Our guidebook described Gozo as “greener than Malta,” with “views of the whole island” from the Cittadella (Citadel), a tiny walled city perched mid-island. Great! We were ready for green, because Valletta’s vegetation is limited to a few parklets. (The one bougainvillea I saw on the street turned out to be fake.) On the ferry we were disappointed that we weren’t allowed to sit up on deck, but as it happened, it didn’t matter—the coastline was flat and dreary.
Unfortunately, Gozo was no greener than Malta. From the Cittadella we looked out on a gray-and-brown wasteland (oops, landscape) with sparse vegetation (mostly prickly pears) interrupted by blocky buildings that looked as if they’d been designed by someone with hatred in his heart. And no, the barrenness isn’t due to lack of rainfall, said the Maltese driver who shuttled us from the harbor, it’s because of unregulated construction. (Later, from the plane, I could see that most of Malta is developed.) We did see one or two vineyards and some greenhouses. According to our driver, Malta grows only three crops, and almost all produce comes from Italy.
I mean, when you’re used to views like these:
it’s hard to get excited about this:
The monotone, parched-looking landscape had a parallel in what we thought of as a lack of aesthetic sensibility (or maybe it’s just apathy); for example, points of historic interest with messy worksites adjacent and cables snaking haphazardly, and halfhearted architectural sculptures that seemed to have been abandoned with a “good enough” shrug. In the Cittadella, bare-bones signs marked the courtroom, prison cells, and other parts of the city, but we saw none of that; the only open doors we found belonged to souvenir shops. Overall, Malta’s remarkable lack of signage and informative texts makes Italy seem like Chatty Cathy.
Case in point: during our lunch in Victoria (aka Rabat), a little white train stopped three times in the piazza nearby, and we joked about jumping on and guzzling beer in the back seat. Later we found out the train was the Calypso, which went to the salt pans, which we did want to see. However, the Calypso website no longer functions, their Facebook page gives no info about departure times, and no one answered the listed phone number. But the train seemed to run frequently, so back we went to the piazza (where no information is posted). Surely another would pass soon enough, right? After an hour, we gave up.
Lunch was interesting, though. We eavesdropped on a table of grizzled locals having a grand time downing beers along with something stronger. When a hornet the size of a hummingbird moth dive-bombed our table, the men laughed as I swatted at the air, terrified. It was bothering us, they called to me, because I was so sweet. My son remains convinced that I could have picked up a husband that day. (Come to think of it, one of them did have beautiful gray eyes.)
We did all this eating and hanging around while waiting five hours to see the Cathedral of the Annunciation in the Cittadella, which our guidebook called lavish and elegant. A photo we found online made our eyes pop, sealing the deal: we had to see it. I’d forgotten to check the hours, but it was a Sunday, so I didn’t worry too much about it. Silly me for thinking a church would be open on a Sunday—and it was, but only in the early part of the morning and after 5pm. (In Valletta, St. John’s Co-Cathedral isn’t open on Sundays at all. So weird!) So we waited, wandering a bit and seeing little of interest—closed businesses (including one touting the traditional Maltese lace I’d heard about but saw only in one touristy shop), lots of rundown buildings, and unremarkable architecture similar to Valletta’s.
We were in and out of the church in five minutes. It was pretty, sure, but if you ask me the tiny duomo in Ravello, pale pink and mosaic filled, has it beat, not to mention extravaganzas like St. Peter’s and Italy’s other giddily celebratory cathedrals.
Day 3: Marsaxlokk
We now no longer trusted our guidebook. Still, I was excited to see Marsaxlokk, 30 minutes away by car and an hour by overstuffed and steaming bus. In the “picturesque” harbor of this “enchanting” village, said our book, bob colorful luzzus, traditional Maltese fishing boats painted with eyes in the Phoenician tradition.
Okay, the boats were there, but they were mixed in with lots of modern boats, which diluted the effect. Most of the boats, traditional and not, were loaded with junk, some of it fishing equipment but much of it just, well, junk. Like the one with three creepy dolls strapped to posts, for example. Our guidebook mentioned “brilliantly colored fishing nets of cobalt blue and emerald green,” but we saw only ordinary nets. And that picturesque harbor? True, the Church of Our Lady of Pompeii, with its two bell towers, is lovely inside and out, but most of the buildings hugging the harbor are boxy and drab, some with tall, windowless walls. The sea-facing view takes in three desalination towers, cranes, and a beach that was half sand, half cigarette butts and trash, trash, trash.
Day 4: Mdina
En route to Mdina we drove through Floriana, just outside Valletta’s city gates, and literally gasped to see an abundance of trees and flowering plants. Two minutes later we were traversing the flat, colorless land that is the default for this nine-by-seventeen-mile island. Ugly buildings sprawl everywhere, some with the windowless walls we saw in Marsaxlokk, which our young Maltese driver said were constructed like that because another building would eventually go up next to them. According to him, Malta’s government and industries are hugely corrupt (the two political parties equally so), and unchecked immigration is driving up the cost of living for the Maltese. The government gives each immigrant family a one-bedroom apartment, €850 a month, and a cellphone, he says. (Note: not verified.)
Malta is safe, though, our driver said, so much so that a recent murder near St. Julian’s caused shockwaves. An Irish man, a resident of Malta, stabbed his girlfriend and threatened hotel employees with a gun (which turned out to be a replica; in fact, no guns are sold in Malta); he was eventually shot and killed by police, who normally carry only tasers. What was really outrageous, according to our driver, was that while Malta was reeling from news of the murder, its prime minister was on his yacht off the coast of Sicily, watching sports and drinking. (I was unable to confirm this, though there are plenty of news stories saying the PM, Robert Abela, tends to govern from Sicilian waters despite being required to relinquish his duties to the deputy PM while outside Malta’s territory.)
Enough of politics and civic discontent. We arrived in Mdina, called Malta’s “most hauntingly beautiful” city by our guidebook, a walled town of identical narrow medieval streets flanked by yellow stone buildings with little detail; only the buildings on the main piazza (the cathedral and its companion museum, and some government buildings) and the decorated city gates were noteworthy. Mdina is called the “Silent City,” and it was—devoid of vegetation, non-tourism-related businesses, and locals. Another one of our drivers said he likes to go there at night with his girlfriend, so maybe its quiet streets are best suited to romantic strolls. Forget the views, though—they’re of a landscape as barren as Gozo’s.
Day 5: Golden Bay
On our last full day we decided to hit the beach, and for once both the guidebook and word of mouth were correct. We spent a delightful afternoon at Golden Bay, on the west coast of Malta, where the buoyant water came in shades of turquoise and cobalt and green and the breeze was gentle and cooling.
Back in Valletta, we capped the day with a second dinner at Manon, where we ate pork gyoza, sea bass saltimbocca, and a scrumptious tagliata on greens with gorgonzola and walnuts. Wherever you are in Malta, if you drink beer, opt for a Blue Lagoon (the wheat ale, not the vile cocktail with the same name) instead of the omnipresent Cisk brand.
Day 6: departure
I spent the morning writing the first draft of this letter in pretty little Upper Barrakka Gardens while my son winged off to Vienna. I realized there was one moment on this trip when I felt like I was back in Italy, and that was when we got a free ferry ride across the Grand Harbor. After leaving Marsaxlokk we went to Birgu (aka Vittoriosa), the site of the first Knights of Malta settlement (and to our eyes more charming than Valletta) to see the Inquisitor’s Palace (ho-hum). Afterward we walked the length of Birgu’s yacht-filled harbor to Fort St. Angelo and back before catching the ferry. Arriving seven minutes before the scheduled departure time, we found the ferry casting off and ran to catch it, the crewmen urging us on. “Do you have tickets?” they asked as we jumped aboard. No, we said, explaining that a sign at the closed ticket booth said to buy them on board. The men waved us on, instructing us to pay when we debarked. But in Valletta the booth was unmanned, so off we strolled, unrepentant freeloaders. The early departure, the yelling men, the closed ticket booths—it all felt like home. Like Italy.
Which leads me, after almost six days in Malta, to one burning question: how can the islands be so close to Sicily yet no one seems able to make a decent pizza? We did find one very good place, in Valletta (Old Bakery’s Pizza e Pasta), but the rest (and my son sampled quite a few), eh. Meh. Or as the youngsters say now, mid. Vabbè.
Tante belle cose, alla prossima—
Cheryl
P.S. My book! Which you can buy here or on the usual sites, or, better yet, order it from your local bookstore. Another fab option is to ask your library to stock it. If you read it and like it, please tell your friends and/or leave a few lines of praise on any bookish site. You’d be surprised how much a rating or review helps authors. Baci!
You don't have to love everywhere you go. I don't.
Another great read, thank you e saluti da Roma.