Thanks to the North Western winds continuing to sweep over the island, the temperature has dropped to about 12 degrees. The boulevard where our hotel is situated is almost empty: this morning we went for a stroll there but we were hit full on by the storm; this is where it reaches the island first, not yet weakened by the many streets packed with houses and buildings that lie immediately behind the hotel complex. Malta is crowded. We saw from the air and later, during the taxi drive, how Valetta, the capital, together with neighbouring cities, spreads out over a large part of the island; all houses, no green; and shortly after you leave the city, the next one begins — Qawra, where we’re staying.
Qawra and its neighbour-cities cover an entire landslide (and some more) overlooking St. Paul’s Bay. Our hotel is on the North West side (the windy side right now); but if you cross over to the other side of town you’re at the other side of the land as well, where there’s another bay and considerably less wind. That’s where I am now: catching some sun, pretending the wind’s not there. I’m sitting on a bench; there’s a small patch of coastline that seems to have been overlooked by the hotels and clubs that cover the rest of the rocky beach: Bar Fuego (“Free Salsa lessons every Thursday and Friday night”), Diving School/Tauchschüle Octopus Garden (“The best place to be / Is under the sea”), Vintage Wine Bar (“Wine me, dine me the Vintage way”). All old and worn out and desolate this time of year. It seems I always end up in places like this, its glory day long gone, nothing new built since decades: every stone, every billboard, the stuff they sell in the shops: all reminders of better times than these.
View of Qawra from the boulevard
There’s a storm coming from the Northwest, bringing dark clouds on the horizon over the sea; causing the waves to come crushing down on what rocks they have left here on Malta; spraying the salty water in my face and mixing it with the tears that the same wind is blowing out of my eyes. I’m looking for a dry rock to sit down and write some quiet lines about our arrival, yesterday night; flight 117 from Amsterdam, stopover in Milan. What a contrast between the snow storm we drove through on our way to Schiphol airport, hoping the snow wouldn’t delay our flight; and the humid, lukewarm sea breeze that stroked us in the evening when we got off our plane (the best way you can leave a plane: on a staircase, down to the concrete of the runway). Today I have been stroked by spring as well: as I found out after the short walk along the coast line, looking out over the rocks and the pounding waves, amidst already flowering daisies and borago and euphorbia: leaving yellow stains of pollen on my pants. Spring has come, and gone again, for the clouds are getting near, covering the sun, chilling the air and driving me inside.
Beginning bloggers can often be recognized by their fixation on web server statistics. I don’t mind admitting that I’m no exception. It’s just as satisfying to see that people read my ramblings, as it is to see people use a computer program that I wrote. Besides, the stats can show you some very interesting information, like which posts are popular, and what other sites refer people to this blog. But what’s most intriguing, is the search words some people used that lead them here. With some search words I really wonder how they could have led here, and if the posts here ever gave people the answers they were looking for. (Then again, I guess that’s the beauty of the web: you usually find what you’re looking for, but more often you find ten other things you weren’t after but are still interesting enough to look into.)
For example, how about the person that asked his search engine of choice, literally, “did sauerkraut come from switzerland?” Why did they want to know? Was the answer ever found? Does it really matter where it comes from? Personally, I would say straight away: sauerkraut comes from the Alsace region in France. The best sauerkraut I’ve ever tasted, anyway. But sauerkraut is eaten in many places, and many varieties. In Holland it’s usually mashed with potatoes, baked lardons mixed in, and served with smoked sausage. We had braised cabbage in Slovenia, which looked a lot like sauerkraut but wasn’t sour at all. According to Wikipedia, sauerkraut originated in China. Strange, it’s never on the menu at the Chinese takeaway’s…
Sauerkraut-like cabbage on the Ljubljana market
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We always seem to have exceptional weather when we’re on vacation. “There’s never so much rain in August here,” local people tell us. Or, “Normally in this time of the year, we have 1 meter of snow, easily,” when we’ve come for winter sports. And now, when the average temperature in the South-West of France has been about 10 degrees Celsius in the last few weeks, M. and I arrived in a landscape full of fog and ice; and just this week that we’re here, all records have been broken. So glad we could help!
The silence that is here all the time is now over-silenced by a thick blanket of fog and a white layer of ice crystals over the fields. It doesn’t matter, because inside, there’s a fire in the fireplace, cheese is on the table and the wine is uncorked. Let the feast begin!
