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