Bailey Alexander

Malta; the will of the people to want to be able to divorce.

While the Middle East, not so far away addresses its own issues, Malta grapples with its own. 

Hamburg teases with dreams of green; a view from their window.

One of the highlights of having a sailboat is meeting new friends along the dock.  Here in Malta, Manuel Marina to be exact, we met a cool couple from Hamburg, Knut and his lovely wife Birgit.  They park their baby across from Madi and come to Malta several times a year to sail the Med. 

Last weekend they came for a sail to Sicily, giving me advice, sympathizing while leaning back and laughing as I varnish in the high heat, then kindly offer a good beer or two aboard their boat before they see me melt my way home. 

Per their promise, they then went home to tease and please me, keeping me posted of news, weather and local environs up north.

Here's a view from their window; a gorgeous garden, a jungle of beauty they call their backyard in Hamburg.  I sigh with wonder at what their eyes see, green with envy...

'bis bald', 'a presto', 'a bientot', soon...

 

Monday to Sunday countdown to sailing away....

Anywhere, elsewhere, but here...

Everyday I enviously trip upon some weird and variable weather pattern, anywhere, but here.

For instance, in parts of Europe there's lengthy cool periods interrupted by short but sharply felt heatwaves...in Seattle there's major heat this week, in New York, it's drizzling throughout their mid summer season.

Oh, would I ever KILL for some weird and variable weather! For the past 3 + months it's been raging between 33-39 Celsius which feels like a 120 degrees, compounded with the kind of constant humidity that weighs on the mind and saps me of my ability to write, think, breathe, drink an iced glass of white wine with any pleasure.  It makes me pray for the day that I may leave this tiny, isolated town that is making me go gently mad.

This trend towards going bonkers is aided by the Maltese and their desire to blow off fireworks from 7am to midnite. Almost everyday, we hear pointless, loud, jarring explosions somewhere, for no reason at all, other than some imaginary saint, maybe.  Beer festas, camping trips and constant fireworks fill up much entertainment.

I need to be anywhere but here.

Yesterday, en route to the marina that parks MADI, I passed British shops and pubs, walking atop long stretches of dust ridden sidewalks sans a spec of shade.  These mean streets along the lovely Med have not been cleaned for months and the Sirocco winds keep coming.  Unlike Rome where a light layer of dust came along just every now and then.

So I decide to find myself a reprieve and dip inside to say hi to Mike, a nice Maltese guy that owns the local hardware store where I've made the odd nautical and home purchase.  I told him the floor fan I bought no longer boasts a middle speed.  I use it to spread the air conditioned space for maximum effect as I prefer minimum fake air.  He says, 'bring it on back, I'll fix it'.  But somehow, lugging the floor fan 5 long blocks in reverse, in this heat makes me queasy.  

We chatted. He relayed how hard it was to start his own business, garner trust and gain security in the hood.  He told me about his wife and two kids and how they have everything in common, including 80's music style parties and U2, whom they saw in concert recently, in Dublin.

So i unloaded back about how me and Malta couldn't agree on a single thing.  He concurred and was bemused and confused why any non-Maltese would like to reside in a place that takes care of their locals first.  Their locals are almost all connected by family as practically everyone's related to someone here on the island.

There's probably a reason less than 400 Americans live on this island. This is the kinda place that people come to 'check out', 'hang out' and 'tune into' their own kinda retirement.  Rome was remotely similar and provided some of the same kinda sensations but it also boasted the most affordable and consistently delicious pasta dishes on the planet.  Simple, fine wine was found everywhere and that world weary city was absolutely as grand as Paris, albeit in a completely different way.  But I was bored because I didn't want to teach English or be a guide and that was about 90% of the jobs available to expats, and mio marito was traveling up North for biz as that's where most work occurs in Italy.

So we're moving to Switzerland, where people are dead serious and there's the illusion that work awaits.  I'm delusional enough to dream of the illusion of work once again but as delusional as I am, some of my dreams do come true.  

Anywhere, elsewhere, but here...

And. My less than light mood has been amplified by the fact I've made more visits to the emergency room in the last two weeks than I have in my entire life.  Three to be exact, all due to a local eye allergy, or Blepharitus , as it's better known.  I suppose it's official; I'm allergic to Malta, which is somehow poetic if inconvenient as I must wear my eye glasses all day, which I hate but must wear as I'm legally blind in one eye and need assistance.  They don't stay on while I'm on the Pilates machine, so this simply lends to more frustration towards basic maintenance.

But existing within an acute bubble of boredom does have its benefits; like yesterday for example, I had an epiphany; MADI allows me to escape.  So I must love her more.

Here's a picture I took aboard MADI last winter while sailing to Sicily.  This may be my favorite angle, sailing and drifting away from Malta, which I'll do for the final time, in approximately two weeks. 

This pattern of escape either suggests a cowardly or curious personality, possibly both, preferably the latter.  Or maybe I'm simply reflecting my fellow residents talent for survival as the only way I can survive emotionally, psychologically and aesthetically is to escape Malta and MADI is key to this latest flight.

In 2002, we sailed away from the States aboard MADI. I was inspired to leave a place I loved and experience the European dream, so I did. And now, I can escape and flee Malta, which I hate because me and Malta were never meant to be.  As the warm and kind Maltese like to say, 'you either love it or hate it'.  Si,certo, c'est vrai.  I hate it.  I've time to leave and head up north, via Venice, aboard MADI.

Don't get me wrong, I completely understand why my guy likes this place.  He's the foreigner that loves Malta.  He has a motorcycle, a sailboat and young, fun Maltese guys to crew and enjoy a can of the local brew, Cisk with, I get that.

But, unfortunately, we need to work.   We've invested our precious monies into Malta, however, fate was fickle and less than kind.  The heat's unbearable and one can't wear Issey Miyake in this weather.  At 45, I've learned to acquire my own sense of style.  I've received the blessed nod from Italian and French women in the know, and Malta is not the place for me to wear my style with any comfort or innate sense of joy, which is what I feel when I wear my Issey Miyake.

The heat's not only impacting my ability to dress the way I like to express myself but it's hindering my newfound pledge to provide MADI the TLC she demands, desperately.  I would love nothing more than engaging in the gratifying experience of manual labor, of varnishing the exterior and applying oil and upkeep for the teak and holly interior.

Not in this heat, I'll dabble late evenings this week but with deep apprehension.

Alas, I did not need to persuade mio marito to flee with me, why just this morning he relayed details of his his lovely motorcycle ride from Cannes to Limone and within two days he's visited Zia Ada again in the hospital in Cuneo and immersed himself in the local gossip and political intrigue that abound among the family contacts. 

Soon we'll both be there or somewhere thereabouts...it's so time to sail away...

anywhere, elsewhere, but here....

Concentric circles as we prepare to sail away once again...

I'm pleased and proud to announce the furniture is selling nicely, sofa and chairs disappeared quickly, quite possibly due to less than stellar bartering skills.  Shelves, screens and drawers are still scattered about, waiting for a pair of eyes to fall upon and wish to acquire...

But wouldn't it pretty grand to have MADI sail into Venice with her Italian inspired spinnaker billowing in the wind, heading home for good. 

Well, that's then, but this is now, so prior to fantasizing about our imminent August itinerary, all attention must be spent addressing acquiring quotes as many of MADI's pieces need servicing prior to sail.

Mio marito and his motorcycle exited up north for one industrious week, skidding onto one very large ship, via Palermo and Livorno and he's now safely and happily ensconced in his favorite place in the universe; Limone, Piedmonte.  He'll hit the local and request my documents be sent from Malta to complete my application for Italian passport, then he'll drive down around and check out some of the marina I found while researching and calling ports stretching from Barcelona to Genoa.  I tried diligently but multiple languages were beyond my linguistic reach, proving far less than fluent.

Whichever way we view our current scenario, it would seem we're not far from where we began when making the transatlantic voyage some 8 yrs ago. We do know oh so much more, and this time we'll end up in a business oriented place like Geneva instead of the historically heavy and world weary Rome. 

We're certainly more connected, we've learned at least a thousand lessons, many of which are emblazoned upon the mind.....and now we'll be closer to family as most domicile in Geneva, Northern Italy and the South of France.

Who knows, I certainly don't, I've long since given up control of absolutely anything but I must say it'd be nice to have a job on this side of the pond, earning euro and exercising complete immersion. 

It could happen, but first this skipper has to email another contact with MADI's particulars prepared by the Captain...."aye aye...."

Faith game shows in Turkey, Embassy parties and wishing I could miss the sun.

Religious quiz shows in Turkey would feel funnier to me if the atheists converted the faith leaders, rather than other way around.

Hmmm, what other musings from Malta, attended a lovely soiree at the Embassy to celebrate the 4th. Dress code: Lounge.  I was jazzed and really anxious to hear the surround sound of American accents, but alas, it was mostly Maltese pressing the flesh.

Gorgeous gig along the Med was hosted by charge d'Affaires, Mr. Jason Davis and his partner, Matthew Smith. Wonderful we have a gay couple at the Embassy, but sort of suspicious the enormous size of the US Embassy being built...'for security' they say.

Malta may be neutral, neither of the east nor west, but strategic to be sure.

Newsy blessays along the blogosphere about Obama playing the long game. Fair enough, still think the American experiment could use a big jolt or two....an old friend sent weird article about Obamageddon, well, party til 2012 then.

Wouldn't mind the sun going away, if only so I could miss it.  Maybe I'm just a wimp but 3 months without a day of rain rather enhances the sensation of feeling landlocked. Good for writing, not great for socializing.  Was invited by a Maltese galpal to a Bar-b-Que to complete a social weekend, Libyans, Bulgarians et al but lethal combination of finger food, fests and sun proved too much, instead, yesterday was a day to do nothing but avoid the sun and Swine Flu that's finally arrived in Malta. 

Hung out with some Maltese characters at the local store, the boys regaled me w/stories about some of our compelling modern day rulers, ya know, the sort that have balls seen from google earth, like Cheney.

 

I've already posted that Berlusconi paid homage to ex PM Dom Mintoff, they guy that stood up to the CIA and kick started Silvio's career in the middle of the Med.  It's well documented the strong ties than bind Qaddafi with Mintoff, but I did not know that Kim Jong-il studied at the University of Malta.  Somehow I suspect he spent more time studying Mintoff's mindset than Maltese studies.

Well, Palin's taken over the press, Michael shall be put to rest soon and until then, I'll just carry on with my business and stay sane by swimming laps at the fresh water outdoor pool where I don my full diving kit, fins, goggles, snorkel and racing suit, if only to scare the wee ones out of my way.

I did finally deviate from my routine and venture into the warm Med, swimming with the fish, avoiding the jellies, enjoying the otherly divine culture of the underwater world....

Today wasn't such a ball; Power outage in Malta for entire day.

7 hrs without electricity, air-conditioning, laptop usage and the rest of it.  Maybe it's time for Malta for adapt to EU standards. In the States this happens, areas, sections of a city, maybe, generators are generally in place. In Europe, never.

Days like today I really miss my library.

Everyday is a ball in Malta.

This is the weekly weather report for Malta.  Everyday it displays a bright and perfectly formed yellow ball, just like Mr Happy Face.  Each ensuing week the numbers will increase until it feels like the Middle East, or at the very least, like when I used to walk outta the air-conditioned #8 tram at Largo Argentina in Rome mid August around 3pm.

29° C | 19° C	30° C | 18° C	30° C | 18° C	31° C | 18° C	29° C | 18° C
Clear	Clear	Clear	Clear	Clear

I'm from Seattle, so this is kinda discombobulating, even if it's simplifies life and narrows down the amount of distractions, of which there are now just two; walking around the Med to the outdoor pool in St. Julians to swim laps, and several wistful moments spent staring at the weekly weather forecast for Berlin.

22° C | 11° C	23° C | 12° C	21° C | 7° C	21° C | 14° C	18° C | 12° C
Chance of Rain 20% chance of precipitation	Rain 80% chance of precipitation	Partly Cloudy	Chance of Rain 30% chance of precipitation	Rain 80% chance of precipitation

 

There is always hope...

Went to a posh dinner party overlooking the ancient city of Valletta...

We knew most of the guests, an Englishman, me, mio marito and some well connected, prosperous locals.  After a few bottles of Veuve on the terrace, the wine and gossip spilled forth at dinner.  I found myself once again surprised at how easily and often they swear.  I love to swear, but it's the ease atop their accent that's jarring, the heavy Phoenician based version that really gives those expletives an extra kick.

Everyone knows everyone but the Maltese appear rather fine, even resigned to their isolated island culture.  Of course, it's their culture and the Med is always conveniently located for one's eyes to rest, but you can't just drive off to another country.  I miss that luxury, much.

The following morning I visited my friend 'Elvis', he's a cute Maltese guy that owns a store that used to specialize in Italian food and wine, however, that concept didn't quite fly, so he's made it into a convenient store.  I drop by every now and then as he loves to talk about the States and Elvis and American music.  A young Maltese gal came in so we chatted for a while. She was funny.  She'd just finished her exams and woke up wondering, 'what the hell am I supposed to do now?"  

I too wonder about girls like that, she's young, sweet, smart, dating the same kinda guy over and over again, or so she said.  She'll either embrace or alter her life, I suppose...maybe she'll jump off a cultural cliff, safely, piano, piano....

Ling, Lee and Knox; Girls with curious souls jumping off cultural cliffs...

....must now face the jury and pay for their nomadic ways.

And hey, after moving from a penthouse in Paris to a first floor flat in Sliema, I can attest that life lived abroad is a tricky proposition. I mean, this isn't at all what I meant when I said to mio marito some 8 yrs back, "Hey, what say, let's sail to Europe?! 

Turtles choking on plastic inspire dreams of escape to the bay of biscay

 

The heat has arrived in Malta. 

And so have the jellyfish.  

Allegedly, the turtles are choking on so many plastic bags and bottles floating along the surface of Med, the precious hardback once thought to balance out the boneless stingers are decreasing just as benign brands are increasingly being replaced with more dangerous kind like the Portuguese Man o War jellyfish.   Or some such, this is what one gathers along the early morning errands.

 

Kuwait women, Libyan men, visas and visits.

Four women won seats in Kuwait's parliament, first in Gulf history, not sure of their role;.ability to influence or just advisory board within a Monarchy. 

Still, makes one hopeful, as I am, looking here, there and everywhere, for progress in women's rights, in the Middle East, North Africa.  Last week I went to the Libyan Embassy, yesterday I enjoyed afternoon tea with a very nice Libyan man.  Trip to Libya is imminent, even as visas aren't so much, as Anton Walbrook would say.  Must say, the Libyan officials have been more helpful than US and Italian embassies to date.

I ask away, he tells me straight away, "you'll be alright, there are many Americans in Libya, more than in Malta."   I tell him I've read the Green Book.  He laughs in astonishment. I ask again, about many things, after having met with so many Maltese doing biz in Libya, Libyan friends suggesting our timing is right, so much information swimming in my tiny head.

Somehow I have hope, always, but a healthy dose of fear accompanies the initial feeling...good thing we're still looking at Germany and Geneva.  Stuff's still in storage, jury's out, we'll see...

Living among otherly cultures can provide enlightenment...

...or simply speak to the leak in the gene pool; in multiple languages.

At first listen, the ear may hear an exotic and lyrical accent, but once the language is learnt, the topics shift slightly; the level of intelligence, not so much. The more circles I move in the more concentric they become. The education is indispensable and noted, bene, graz mille.

I appreciate that many cosmopolitans travel best in the head, and ignorant souls flutter aimlessly from terminal to lounge, but to truly utilize the power of the passport the language is key to comprehending another country. 

Different brands of Catholicism and why travel liberates the soul.

Growing up in Seattle was ideal' mostly because it was well educated and non-denominational.  People read allot, invented things, which allowed the entrepreneurial spirit to thrive, hence we would produce and export, a lot. The crummy weather, combined with defense monies from the 'cold war' created R & D which naturally set the tone for a tech and bio tech environment.

There were a few catholic neighborhoods but the brand of Catholicism was so watered down it barely mattered.  My beloved married an Episcopalian but always wanted to go back to her Catholic roots, if only because the protocol and pageantry was so elegant and well done.  And when she spent a few months with me in Rome, the feelings intensified.  Standing next to the Pope just two feet away, didn't alleviate those urges.

I married into an Italian Catholic family and when you compare the Irish strain to the Catholic strain, it's almost shocking they herald from the same place.  The Irish have a guilty strain that's peculiar and almost base, whereas the Italian strain I experienced while living in Rome was more 'ne abbiamo vista di cotte e di crude', translating; we could care less, we love Papa, but really, we could care less.  

And now, living in Malta, I see a much more strident strain, which makes sense as the people were attacked so often, in such an isolated geographical place, therefore holding tightly, or rather being tightly held, depending upon your perception.

But what is most liberating about travel is the view; you can listen to the shallow

Lovely day avec Anna and Yanika

Finally a day with friends, my favorite kind, enjoying a decadent 3 hr luncheon at Cafe Luna amidst the grand Palazzo Parisio; petite Versailles meets Roma, perfetto.

Here's Yanika, Anna's daughter; 20 yrs young, beautiful, brilliant, made the Dean's list@ Malta University in Maths, loves the English classics like Clock Work Orange and Capote's In Cold Blood.  I know the books well, but not so much about her

luv of US tv shows like Gossip Girls, but fudge my way thru...she plays the flute, well, since 8, her best friend studies dentistry and her boyfriend will become a doctor.  Underneath that perpetual smile and dramatic smattering of dark brown freckles surrounding double layers of eye lashes I detected a deliciously sadistic streak. She will rule the world one day, but until then, we three simply enjoyed everything in these lovely private gardens made public by the Baroness and her daughter.

Muv said there would be days...

Attended a business breakfast in Malta. The presenter was a nice German guy named Sven who owned a consulting company in New York.  His topic was "How to take advantage of the Obama Zillion dollar Stimulus package..." or some such.

So I'm sitting there, a US citizen with a US corp, paying US tax, listening to a German living in NY tell a group of Maltese businessmen how to take advantage of my precious tax dollar.  Why not.  I'm there to network and find a way towards obtaining a visa to Libya. 

Work permits, domiciling and why the Italians are now escorting the Africans back across the Med....

I have a lot of time and sympathy for those in search of work permits, wishing to domicile elsewhere, for souls in search of another way of life.  Just yesterday i read an American expat's blog, a women living near me in Malta, about her frustration towards obtaining a work permit.

Far more dangerous domiciling struggles occur as local newspapers report just how much the African immigrants are loathed, even more today than yesterday, in both Italy and Malta.  As I write, new and improved ways are being created to keep them from entering their respective countries illegally, by boat.

And yet here I sit, an emigre of sorts, wondering, pondering, just how in hell a quirky kid from Magnolia, raised in Seattle, much of my childhood spent in the homes along the very charming lanes that JFK Jr. and his new bride Carolyn contemplated buying, prior to their untimely and violent deaths....why and just how did I end up domiciling in Malta.

Online Gaming; a fluid kinda maritime law.

The most fascinating meetings we've engaged in recently have focused on the Gaming Industry; a fluid sector that makes me ponder the following notion; alcohol addiction may damage your liver at a quicker pace, crank may erode youthful remains of the face, but this industry will see your monetary fortunes fall by the hour, and oh so quickly.

Dangling my feet along the cliffs of Dingli

Mio marito throws me over the fender as we motorcycle along the cliffs of Dingli. We take the needle off the record, tune into nature, overlooking cliffs, the kind where one wrong move could see you singing one vertically long goodbye to life.

Malta, The Mintoffs and how Silvio Berlusconi got his start in the middle of the Med...

I can barely keep up with the introductions, let alone the historical gifts our guests bring to our home in Malta, the place I now refer to as 'Roberto's Trattoria'.  Chez Bay's itinerary in Paris had its high moments of history but Malta is far more complicated than any long list of Louie's, indeed.

From Pig Roasts and Political events, to meeting Ukrainian attorneys and the wife of the Prime Minister of Malta.

In 3 days.

I''m exhausted. 

And I'm still livin' off the remains of Saturday.

Friday was cool as I'd scheduled a rendezvous with a female Ukrainian attorney to listen to her shed light upon the Gaming industry here in Malta; an ever expanding business, one in which I wish to partake, if possible. 

Domiciling in Malta..

So I find myself back with our friends and Le Med.

In between work and play, I dream. Oh, I so want to make a documentary about Malta.  If I were to think of countries as monkeys, Malta would be the Spider Primate, the one with the longest tail.

Metaphorically, Malta has a whale of tail with 7,000 years of history.  Strangely neutral, safely ensconced, finally, between East and West.  Saddled down by so many civilizations, geographically a gateway to the Middle East and yet tied emotionally, if neither spiritually nor religiously, to Europe.

Maybe that's why Gorbachev and Reagan met in Malta circa '89. 

Malta may be a nation moving west, but their liaison with Libya is deep and historic, somewhat strained perhaps, but still strong.

They are Semitic and 97% Catholic.  They are trilingual with a Phoenician based language, sounding Arabic, a kind of hybrid mixing in Italian and Sicilian dialects. Their linguistic sounds could emanate from an Israeli, maybe, but certainly a resident of Lebanon, in fact, a Maltese friend suggested their numbers identical to Lebanese.

Practically everyone's had a go at them, so naturally they've absorbed so very many otherly, cultural realities.

The Maltese are warm, friendly, modern, intellectually inclined and incentivized to attend University, which many do and many more stay quite independent, thanks to their living legend, Prime Minister Dom Mintoff; the man who finally gave them their independence. Qaddafi and Mintoff are quite close, still.

Politically intense, too much for my blood as just about every citizen casts a vote in elections, ministers representing the Labour or Nationalist party.

The earliest inhabitants of the Maltese archipelago left temples that exist today; the oldest standing buildings in the world and as most know, everyone's left their mark; the Carthaginians, the Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs along with the Normans.  And The knights of St. John, the French and those Brits, the sort that still live here and present their pink skin along the promenades upon which I walk daily.  I watch as they drink their lager and look so earnestly toward the sun to please, please make their skin less pasty and more almond and bronzed like the local brand.

Malta.  It's really lovely this time of year, before it gets hot.  Warm, sunny, lovely.

As we work, network and navigate, I dream.  As I prepare dinner this evening for our Maltese guests, I think about ideas for my documentary.  Even with such a long tail, modern trends and business opportunities bounce off the residents pens onto their two dailies, The Times and The Independent.  They discuss abortion, if only theoretically and EU particulars and politics are argued and debated extensively in the op ed section 

Their dear leaders travel east to discuss the Union of the Mediterranean, interessente, I say, interessente....

This is a deliciously strange place for someone that heralds from city that has about 60 years of background worth reading about; Seattle opened its first cultural center at the world's fair in 1962.  Funny enough, the only real reason we and our Emerald City residents were able to wear those golden handcuffs and sell off our stock options during the tech boom was probably due to precious monies funneled into Boeing back during the 'cold war'.  This allowed our city to get rich and grow from defense budgets, then research and development, then Microsoft followed, naturally, giving license to producing 30+% of America's exports.

To think that Gorby and Reagan met here in Malta after the Berlin Wall fell...strange and neutral places indeed.

Merry Christmas...

I'll use last year's Christmas card so we can pretend it's 2007 and I'm home in Paris.  Don't get me wrong, I'm no scrooge, I'm lovin Malta for the month of December, the people I'm working with, having dinner with...

Malta is malte bene as mio marito likes to say...

It just doesn't feel as christmassy as Paris does...during the day at least....

I mean, look, I'm writing holiday cards while sitting outdoors at 5pm, at a cafe overlooking the med...

 
Although, within the hour, after depositing the holiday cheer in the post, while walking towards the restaurant where mio marito and Carmine await, the sun then slips outta site, in a second, or so it seems, and the christmas lights pop, suddenly, outlining Mary amongst the palms.

 

Soon, we'll sail to Sicily and back, within a short week, safely, hopefully, in time to celebrate the last day of 2008 on land.

until then...

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Our Internet damage: Only when something is broken do you consider how miraculous the fact it existed in the first place...

 Malta, circa 6pm Thursday I send my last email.  Suddenly, no net.  Mio marito calls GO; somethings very amiss indeed.  We await, anxious; gotomeetings w/New Zealand are imminent later that evening.  Suffice it to say we had to rely upon skype although this makes group meetings less effective. 

The next day, in our Malta office, internet is slow, only and sporadic.  Apparently the cable had been damaged somewhere under the med, perhaps somewhere between France and Egypt, possibly within or around that section where our nexus of information sits atop the ancient libraries of Alexandria.

Recent drama easily overtake IT business topics, focusing on just what could have happened to those cables, inspiring me to sit at my desk and conjure up all sorts of varied geo-political realities.  EMEA, Europe, Middle East and Asia, places and spaces that make up my sales territory for www.servicesphere.com.  Exotic, to me at least, giving license to reviewing the ways in which countries choose to do business w/whom and why.  We then have dinner last night w/a cool Maltese couple, further topics of intrigue invade their way into what happened, what this means..

http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/4.12/ffglass_pr.html

Neil Stephenson, in a classic 2003 article printed often, beautifully explains away the overwhelming reality behind FLAG (fibre optic link around the globe) history, cables, Internet, cultures colliding, wires competing against systems competing against all that competes to contribute to our lives and what happens when all aforementioned falls completely apart.

Or some such nonsense....btw, it's Saturday morning and the problem not only persists, making it a practical problem for patience and posting online...may take time to fix, indeed.

 

Madi was as bone dry as a sailor on shore leave....

Sunday, appropriately enough, proved the day to pray at the altar that is MADI, our 43 Nauticat Ketch.

I have been remiss, therefore must repent; MADI's bright-work is my responsibility.

When we went to Manoel's marina earlier this week, it was enough to put me in a funk for a day as she was in need of much TLC, indeed.  Cue ma nual labor; a good exercise for both the elbows as well as the head.

 

I've decided to phase out the varnish in lieu of teak oil.  The Med's blistering summer heat, UV, combined with my living in Paris much of the time dictates lower maintenance, i.e. sanding.

I threw a little teak oil on the deck, just below the outside controls, prior to this pic, though we'll both coat the entire boat with teak oil on another day, soon.

I was made much headway w/rails and then some.   She was in need of sanding, though I've settled on keeping the outside seat varnished, maybe.  Complete withdrawal is difficult for this hedonistic aesthete.

Of course, this leaves more time for hedonistic tendencies, n'est pas?

We'd hoped for a December sail to Istanbul, but far too many biz particulars, for which we are grateful, need attention until next week.

Mio marito worked on the inside, I hung out on the deck...it was 60 and sunny, this is, as they say, as good as it gets...

C n G wished to assist, keeping me company as I head for the bright-work on the bow. 

Dock gossip dictates gail force winds by friday, somehow I fathom this is simply dock gossip...
She's a spectacular vessel, having successfully sailed the 4 of us across the Atlantic in 2002. 

With a bit more TLC, MADI will be yar once again, flying our spinnaker, so adroitly colored for a Christmas holiday to Sicily. 

Cycling around Malta on a Sunday...

A moment of calm, prior to mio marito throwing me over the fender.

Time for a leisurely lunch in Valletta, the loveliest capitol in the middle of the Med.

We whiz past Madi, she sits in the distance, furthest to the right.  Istanbul may slip off the December itinerary, so much biz at hand, but Sicily, certainly, and the Greek Isles still stay on the wish list for Christmas holiday.

To the left I can barely catch the the floating home of some Indian princess visiting Malta...

Austrian Economics

Maybe a bit of a stretch, but now I'm back at work in Malta, con mio marito, my mind needs to find ways to linger on my deep obsession avec M. Walbrook.  Austrian economics is as close as I'm going to get today.

While practically every country is bailing out somebody, or proposing to do so, Germany's Chancellor, Merkel 'la Magnificent' continues to isolate herself with Austrian economics.   

Yesterday, David Seaton, my fave political expat blogger quotes Peter Schiff from his wikipedia

The US consumer in the world, saying that the US consumer thinks he's doing the world a favor by consuming what the rest of the world produces. Schiff is quick to point out that this relationship will come to an end, in his view, much sooner than people imagine, and with negative consequences for the US. Schiff has been quoted as saying: "Consumption is its own reward for Production" -- meaning that without production, the US cannot indefinitely sustain its ongoing consumption. Schiff, and other adherents of Austrian economics, promote savings and production as "the engine of economic growth -- not consumption".

Merkel prefers a moderate and measured approach; 'save and produce', rather than 'spend and consume'.   It's a thought.

James Kunstler's been saying this forever in his book, The Long Emergency' and goes on a weekly rampage on his blog, Clusterfuck Nation.

Malta's archipelago, Persephone's myth & memories of Madi's post transatlantic voyage...

We gently exit from the marina, keeping quietly in awe, gliding past the outer walls of the ancient city of Valletta:

 

We pass in silence, then, upon entering the archipelago I vaguely try but can't quite convince my guy just why so much time has transpired since the transatlantic trip back in 2001.

It's unfathomable I've so nonchalantly ignored his most beloved MADI; she being the dual eyed temptress and mistress alike.  Why haven't I fallen for her?!

I reply to his grievance, reciting my own, but we're both grateful she brought us across, for the stories written within those weeks changed our lives, or was it those months that followed, when the real work began. 

Back then we found shore finally at Gibraltar, a strange land where everyone participates in the import/ export biz; I didn't dare inquire as to contents found within, for my time was better spent finding another form of transportation to get us moving further towards familiar land.  I found one very heavy set, white, well worn Mercedes we did quickly christen "Bertha'.  She lived up to her name, taking the four of us and our five pieces of luggage from Gibraltar to Madrid and Barcelona, to the parent's joint near NIce, down to Rome, back up to Riva, Limone, then back to Nice. 

Concentric circles no matter where you live, n'est pas?

We were tested then, certo, not only in rough waters, but on land, somewhere amidst another archipelago called the Azores.  Our master plan consisted of arriving safely on the other side, calling for our container in hopes it had followed suit; we could then walk into agreed upon permanent position located in London and live happily ever, unfortunately, option A just floated away.

Not quite sure, so much of that trip a blur, my notes living on other laptop in la ville lumiere, but methinks we were informed somewhere in the vicinity of that deceptively tranquil and lovely isle called Flores, via satellite phone. 

So many stories inspired by that bulky and black satellite phone in Madi's main cabin; biological daughters lost and illegally found by ex lovers from 20 years prior, conspiring to lure me back to the wrong side..well, everyone deserves their own delusions, this is what gives one hope rather than despair, but Persephone's not yet ready for her close up in this blessay.

We searched in vain for Option B, but she'd vanished, maybe disarmed by being no beauty, the uglier sister, rather.  Or maybe she was just a less than serious second guess, for all our extra band-with was properly devoted to getting across the pond.

Maybe I'm at fault, for this was all my idea, our financial scenario had been flush and fabulous, our friends secure but somewhat resentful when we finally set sail, such conspicuous consumption, such nerve, to defect when our great nation was in grave danger!!!

Well, Madi was making the moves on me, an offshore thoroughbred, she's the temptresses, not I.

Chugging along in our sturdy Bertha, away from the sturdier rock of Gib, we began to channel Audrey and Albert in "Two for the Road".  We hadn't been married long, certainly no match for the luminous duo, not even sure half of a calf could be greased into that Mary Quant ensemble, 'specially the leather number Mme Hepburn stalks off in for the twentieth time, but our marriage/union was always to be lived in dog years; patience and timing still key, luck counts, material mounts, the process is a gas, except when it isn't, like when it rains in Spain.  And it did, heavily, while staying overnight in Madrid.   We found out driving away from our hotel that  'Bertha' wasn't very water proof, so we prayed she stayed afloat as we donned goggles and snorkels for the muffins, arriving, finally, to enjoy our last gasp of luxury at the hotel in the Carcassonnes.

Bertha made it all the way, as did we, barely, so very ready to exult! and embrace! after so many weeks of driving aimlessly, to Nice, Riva, Limone, roaming for a new home, we decided upon Rome, wouldn't you? 

Bertha was driven back to Gibraltar and mio marito managed to offload her to another desperate soul overwhelmed with imminent needs, willing to overlook her cosmetic defects.  I dealt with customs in a land that deals in a different language, so to speak.  So unaccustomed to these new customs was I, that the kind customs official waited patiently until I became accustomed to their customs if you get my drift, and we'd drifted very far away, proving, truly, verily, we were definitely, positively, no longer in Kansas. 

My two little totos agreed and Godot had waited long enough, already. 

Our large container had safely navigated its way across the pond so it was it was high time to find a flat in order to retrieve our precious things that felt a million times more precious than before....suddenly, emotionally, a silly piece of furniture, a bed, made my new home feel just like that.

But my guy still doesn't buy my line about why I haven't continued loving Madi as he has...she's a heavy boat, deceptively heavy and hard to park with two people...I just wanted to get across...

Try as I might, but why, why compete against scorpion-like white heat as it liquefies and finally weakens into the carefully carved block of limestone that is Malta.  It's a lovely day to sail.  I decide the effort to persuade is practically pointless, though I do try a little more until the breeze relieves the mind of the necessity to do anything but save the vice of chat for someone else.

Mio marito's given MADI plenty of exercise, accommodating more than a few Maltese and English crew on their very own sailing excursions to Gozo, Camino, Sicily, Morocco, and Rome, certo, you can just imagine how warmly our our Italian themed spinnaker was welcomed at port Ostia, the closest place we could park MADI while living in the eternal city. 

I fondly recall revving up my little Honda 250cc Rebel out to Ostia, first I'd hum along the Tiber with those grand sycamore trees hanging over the river, suspended from the sky, providing shade as the Vatican appears to my left, then, eventually, the green signs for the autostrada show up just before I'm tempted to ride around Piazzo del Popolo just for fun, because one can, and I do, more than once or thrice.

The autrostrada to Ostia, so straight, (what else would a Roman road look like), the short trip lasts little over half an hour each way.  I prefer the excursion back so I can intentionally get lost without someone having to tell me how to, which natives almost do, amongst a ruin while en route back to our flat in Trastevere.

I suppose, in retrospect, I might find I've missed one or three aforementioned sailing adventures but quite frankly, I needed a lengthy reprieve, preferring land to liquid, post grand adventure aboard out little cork, our little 43 nauticat Madi. 

Once again, living within a time capsule, in Malta, not unlike Rome, ensconced in the past, however business interests provide the necessary illusion this home does dictate our future.

Putting all tedious particulars aside, one finds time to meditate on lifelines as primal as the myth surrounding Persephone, those ruins of the goddess that live not far from our home on the beach. A friend, dear Ian, suggests I search out the ruins of Persephone's temple near Mtarfa, which lives near Mdina, a 4,000 yr old city, just 20 minutes from us, ten minutes distance from our last address in Gharghur....you can imagine, even the air smells ancient wherever I breathe...

Unfortunately, my first attempt proves unsuccessful.  There are no signs, I walk here and there, the muffins wait patiently with mio marito in the car, nada, rien, at least not today.  Will try again tomorrow, change is imminent everywhere but here.

I blame Malta somehow, for it lives in the middle of the med, a gateway to the Middle East, stubbornly, illogically, 98% Catholic, or maybe it tis exactly because it lives in the middle of the med, a gateway to the Middle East. 

Who knows, for no one knows as much as those who have lived their entire lives landlocked within an island boasting 7,000 years of surviving so many having a go at their strategically based home.

I suppose logic may then come into play.  Maybe this is why the ruins were nearly impossible to find....they prefer their christian and jewish fairy tales to the far more ancient greek myths....they prefer their parables  of 'real people', to the fables of our dear greek persephone, the roman prosperina, the diva of the underworld, the oldest goddess of them all, she of the mother-daughter mystique, so classique, representative of life and death, birth and rebirth, the seasons, the cycles of life. 

Oh, I think I'll side with the dark divas, indeed, for they bear fruit and grain like no other....

Zoning out, zooming in, contemplating going (to) Gozo...

_;

A month of Sundays and Mondays in Malta....mio marito catches me in beach mode, apres soleil, no sunscreen, no worries, I've some savings in that account for every inch of skin has been denied a natural bronze outside a bottle of shiseido for the past two years.

The protective sensation of heavy heat feels foreign and suddenly so luxurious, I'm twelve again, content, creative, calm.

Surround sound is monotone, quiet white heat, blue skies, clear, clean med, everywhere...just when you think your eyes have lingered long enough, there's another million specs of the same, inspiring the unnecessary need to compare and contrast, as if the next glimpse might be less lovely....as if....

Mornings may necessitate a bit of work but by early afternoon I've already walked the short block to the beach, zoning away from tedious particulars, zooming towards my writing, with maybe a tentative discussion about which day we might want to set sail to Gozo. 

Why the voyage when you've already arrived, it's a practically redundant exercise. 

All the youthful and not so smooth bodies alike, but finally, I'm no longer the whitest slice of flesh, thank you, but it took a week's worth of work I tell you, a week of assimilating Dawn Powell's "The Locust Have No King"...but someone's gotta do due diligence and it might as well be me.

Everyone's wearing practically nothing, why warn the public with silly signs not to sunbathe in the nude when practically everyone does....When I order a glass of frascati at the outside bar, the only guy to hit on me along the boardwalk is this cute maltese guy named Louis who works at the Library of National Archive...at least I'm staying with the literary theme, all very right as rain though we won't see any precipitation for the month of Sundays and Mondays while I'm in Malta, to be sure.

Paris feels so far away, passay.  At least, until, our glass house lets me flip open the long lines of blinds, push those enormously heavy windows from side to side, and allow the air to enter again.....until then, I'm staying put, no worries, no complaints, none. at. all.  Of course, I've no reason to complain in the first place, I'm still as alive and hedonistic as I was last week.

Life is simplified to the bare essentials, almost all desire to bathe, pose or preen have been short circuited, toiletries paid scant attention, one brief shower to wash off the salt feels adequate, with just enough time leftover, barely, to wonder, project, speculate, calculate, postulate, pontificate, but just barely and only then, begrudgingly.

Malta, just the fact we have a place here...alternative lifestyle addresses, our yellow brick road less than paved, a few dodgy bits, note bene, but always interesting, the material for the novel just mounts, reinforces, validates, practically writes itself.

No more wall to wall familiar accent, all along the beach we hear everything but english for Malta is thee place to learn english in europe. 

It's  Ferragosto in Italy so the parents have taken off the month to accompany their kids; Italian is much of what the ear appears to hear, mixed with Swiss, plenty of German, a smattering of Spanish, the Russianesqueness of the Bulgarians, once again I'm observing, escaping into the isle mentality, or rather replacing city temperament, either way it agrees with the psyche, exchanging diplomatic idioms for something otherly and unfailingly kind, like the Maltese...

A day at The Races!

Maltese style.

Each Friday and Sunday you too can catch the humane sport we call horse racing in Malta, specifically, in the town of Marsa.

Tesse and Rose, a couple of very kind, not to mention funny Maltese women pick me up promptly at 3pm, with Rose's daughter Daniella in toe.

Off we go to the Races. I find it exotic, almost Arab like, though I mustn't mention this to the Maltese, a heavily catholic population, (98%), English speaking, but trilingual (Eng, Italian, Maltese) as their native lingo is semitic.

Such a delightfully complicated yet kind people, these Maltese.  Documentary perhaps?  I digress.

Horse racing in Malta is not a terrifically slick operation, which is part of it's allure, for me, there's some very minor corruption, maybe, someone finds a horse prior to the race and makes the tiniest cut, making the slightest limp occur, practically impossible to detect, but this is rare and the environs are casual and quite carefree.  No tension or family men betting away the family fortune here in Marsa, at least not today.

I find it humane, relatively speaking, because the track is so very soft, there's no weight on the horses, with their little carts, no whips, they have a gentle beginning, very gradually do they build up speed, not tasking their delicate joints too much.  They go around twice, quite dramatic, and voila, fini!

I bet on just about every race.  Won a few euro, lost a few more.  Loved the fact they name their horses in French, why, we know not, though my favorite name was "Islamabad Slevenka".  Placed a bet, lost, of course, but still recalling the name with melodic fondness, tis so catchy.

All around me, mostly Maltese men.  There were several 'stalls' available, where one can walk up to and read the names and numbers of the horses, compare the odds, place a casual bet, starting at one euro.  4 men per stall, one to take your money, one to write out your ticket, two just to hang out.  We are in the med, after all.

I didn't want to sit in the bleachers but hung out with the gals down at the 5 ft concrete wall surrounding the track.  Finally, I found a guy that obviously knew the trainers and who to waste my bet on while wasting away a perfectly nice day.

The Maltese are incredibly warm, embracing their Mediterranean culture.  Drank Cisk, the national beer, which, btw, just happened to win, once again, the world wide championship of finest mass produced beer. 

It's quite good, especially while hanging out at the track with the Maltese, on a Sunday.