maltese dreamin’

If heaven exists, then it must look like Malta.

Imagine this: sandstone buildings in hues of brown, grey, and beige alternately lit by hot Mediterranean sunlight and darkened by thick, tumultuous stormclouds; miles and miles of wildflowers pouring over perfectly silent countryside, all dotted with ancient stone temples and crumbling ruins; city streets quiet and empty of people in the middle of the day, the only signs of life that delicious, delicious scent drifting from the pastizzeria; buildings dilapidated and collapsing, but somehow charming in their raw, unabashed and unapologetic look; church facades all covered in coloured lights, ready and waiting to be lit at a moment’s notice; busses painted vibrant orange, red and yellow, made characters in their own right; ocean as pale as light tucked away in coves by the shore. A language that sounds like Arabic when spoken by men, Italian when spoken by women. An architectural style that is quintessential, recognisable from any angle, marked by stone and domes and a warm, hazy colour scheme. An archaeological record that is totally atypical.

In Malta, everything is unique. Everything is recognisable. Everything stands out. Despite being a popular holiday destination with Brits and mainlanders, it somehow manages to both retain a veil of mystery about it and humour the tourist hoards which descend upon it without totally losing its identity. Here, one has the feeling of being somewhere still unaffected by the world, a tiny jewel in the middle of the sea, where life is almost exactly the same as home but just seen at a slightly different angle. A kind of myth, easy to idealise, and yet where its flaws make up the charm just by virtue of reminding you that yes, it’s real. Something secret, hidden in the midst of activity.

Heaven.