Bikes and Birthdays

Today was our first bike ride. This was notlike  our bike ride in Italy where we went from hotel to hotel and they took our luggage from one place to another. Instead, what they are doing here is driving us to a starting spot and we ride from there. 

After a breakfast even less inspiring than our dinner last night — the only thing worse than a full English breakfast is a one served from a steam table — a van pulled up with our bikes. I did a quick check to see if John’s bike was the right size, and fortunately it was. I knew that we were not going to have a GPS this year like we did last year, but I was stunned when I asked the bike man about holder for our maps. He looked at me as if I were crazy. “It’s an island,” he said. “You can’t get lost.” I was annoyed.

We were driven to Dingli on the other side of the island from Saint Paul’s Bay. Our driver was not particularly chatty, and was quite happy to discharge us and our bikes right in front of the church. 

The directions were not particularly clear, but we finally figured out how to make it to the Dingli cliffs. Riding along this bluff is clearly the major attraction of this route, and it is marked as a cycle route by the Malta government. Apparently there are only a couple of these on the islands. There are still remnants in Malta as a British military outpost including this radar facility. I gather it is now under control of the Maltese military, not, I suspect, a particularly large force.

We stopped to get a water at the Bobbyland restaurant. This is another remnant of Malta’s British days, but it had quite a favorable review in Lonely Planet. They had not yet begun serving lunch, but were happy to let us have some fizzy water and use their wifi. 

As we went on, our frustration with the directions that had been provided to us grew. And, because I had no place on my bike to place this flip chart — this is quite standard for bike touring — we had to stop and pull it out of the backpack every time we can to a fork in the road. Had it not been for the Malta bicycle path signs in red behind me, we might still be lost in some barren field. 

There were some nice scenic views. 

in this Baja like landscape. 

At last we arrived in the city of Mgarr. The church dominates the skyline of the town as it does in most small Maltese cities. This one we learned in called the “egg church” because it was build in the 1930’s mostly from the money local people made from keeping chickens and selling eggs. 

We were intrigued by this fantasy palace on the outskirts of town. It is not quite as old as it looks, and it is used now for weddings and other special events. 

 

 

We stopped at a small restaurant opposite the “egg church.” We learned that there was a famous air raid shelter in the basement. But we decided against touring it because it just seemed hot. The food, by the way, was quite good and the portions surprisingly hearty. 

 

 

After Mgarr we had an occasionally frustrating time crossing to the east side of the island. But when we did so we began to immediately recognize some familiar landmarks. Before we knew it, we were back at the Dolmen hotel. But we had more drama in store here.

 

The previous evening when we called to complain that the air-conditioning was not working, the desk send a repair man. He agreed that it was not functioning correctly, and the hotel promised to move us while we were on our bike ride. We came back to get our new room only to be told by the head clerk, whose previous job apparently had been with the Hungarian secret police, that she had no knowledge of such a thing. “Who told you this?” she demanded. She went on to tell us that the hotel was full and that there were no rooms. John keeps his composure in these situations and told her that he was sure she could find something. After a bit, she announced she had a new room for us and sent us upstairs with a porter to change rooms. The new room was half the size of our old room and had virtually no view. Again, John did not become belligerent as I would have but simply announced that we would not accept this room. He made a point of saying that we could not possibly accept a room with just one bed, something he knew would be a big deal in this conservative Catholic country. Again, there was a bit of a delay but the senior desk clerk called again and said that we would be given another choice. This one was much better than our first room and was two floor higher up. This allowed us to see the pool and not hear the wretched pop music. 

 

 

We rested for a bit because not only were we tired from our ride but both of us had been out in the sun for too long. Our initial plan had been to take the bus or a taxi into Valleta for the evening to celebrate my fifty eighth birthday. But as night fell it did not seem like we had enough time. 

 

 

So we had another less-than-mediocre meal at the buffet and decided to call it a night.  

 

 

Tomorrow is not a bike day, and we think we will go into Valletta then. 

 

I’m starting to like Malta a little more. But just a little. 

Bad First Impressions

In America you often hear, “You have only one chance to make a good first impression.” Today was my first impression of Malta. It was not particularly good.

We had to get up early this morning. That is not all that hard for me, but getting John out of bed around five in the morning is a miracle on the order of the loaves and the fishes. He somehow did it, and we packed the little Audi for our last drive in Italy. I figured that leaving Taormina would probably be easier than driving into it, and I was right about that. Plus, as six in the morning, we pretty much had the winding roads to ourselves. In less than an hour, we were at the Catania airport. Turning in the rental car was harder. The Budget office did not open until eight, and although we had been assured that there would be somebody there to pick up the keys and the paperwork we were unable to locate anybody who worked for any of the rental car firms. We could not even make it to the proper place to park Budget cars. I talked to the man running the car park. In broken Italian I explained my problem. He smiled and told me not to worry and that they would find it. I handed him the keys. 

We were relieved to be in the Air Malta line at 7:30 for our 8:30 flight. But only for a moment. Some woman from the airline came out and began to scold us and several other people in line for being late. “You must be here an hour and a half early. It is not possible to take this flight. Come back later.” We were prepared to really have a fight with her, but we noticed that the other two airline representatives seemed to continue checking people in. So, we stayed in line and we given our boarding passes.The flight was short and I do not even think they bothered to push a cart with cokes up and down the aisle. I would really complain about Air Malta, but compared to the EasyJet or Ryan Air or any of the other low-cost European carriers, they at least gave us 30 kilograms of free luggage.

We were picked up in Malta airport by some English guy. He seemed like a retiree, although as we listened to him more we both decided that he was probably younger than either of us. Like so many expats, he seemed unhappy about both where he used to live and where he lives now. He was originally from Wolverhampton. I could not blame anybody for leaving the Midlands. He complained about Malta. He said that it was way too hot. When we told him we would be cycling he rolled his eyes and said that the island has the worst drivers in the world. 

When we arrived at our hotel, I felt that immediate sense of “I have screwed up here. Big time.” We are staying not at the Dolmen Hotel but at the Dolmen Hotel Resort and Spa. It is a huge place, about the size of one of the bigger Disneyland Hotels. As we checked in, I knew immediately that this was one of the places in Europe that caters to cheap package tours. In fact, the woman was confused that I did not have a voucher, though she seemed able to pull up our reservation on the computer. As it was not yet ten in the morning, I was not surprised that our room not ready. We were told that we could wait by the pool, and she suggested that we go to the basement to chang in the spa. Although unpacking your clothes in a public bathroom make you seem vaguely homeless, I found my sandals and swim trunks and went off to the pool. This is where I descended into vacation hell.

There are two very large pools at this resort, and the expanse of cement around them is covered with hundreds of chaises longues. Just about every one of them either had a fat red body on it, or a towel, a paperback, and an ashtray. We located about the last two unclaimed chairs, and we knew immediately why this spot was open. It was right next to the activity hut at the youth pool, and this seemed to cater to kids between ten and fourteen. The played the very worst American and European pop imaginable at a volume probably audible in Tunisia. I tried to connect John's iPad to the wireless here and managed to completely turn off the screen. I was unspeakably miserable. I decided that I absolutely hate Malta and that this is going to be the worst week of my life.

When I get into one of these moods, John tries to make best of it and do the whole “making lemonade” business. So he suggested that we leave the pool and go to beach. I was a little dubious, but nothing could be worse than Katy Perry at the swimming pool. We found our way to a little tunnel under the road that connects our resort to it’s beach.

As I suspected, it was not quite a beach. In fact, it was a slab of cement with more chaises longues by sea. Still, there was the blissful absence of Christina Aguilera and Justin Bieber, so it was infinitely so much better. Rather unaccountably for me I decided to even get in the water. It was not quite as warm as I expected, but still quite pleasant. 

We napped and swam for a bit. My mood started to improve, though I still hated Malta.

About two, we decided to have lunch at restaurant by pool. Trying to be multicultural, we both chose Maltese specialties off the menu. I had spaghetti with rabbit sauce. I had read that rabbit was an important part of the local cuisine. It was pretty bland. John had something that looks like enormous calzone stuffed with ricotta, onion, and kielbasa. It was not that good either. I guess there is a reason we have never seen a Maltese restaurant.

After lunch, we returned to the front desk and received the key cards for our room. We are on the third floor. The view is adequate, but not particularly compelling. One thing we have noticed, though, is that the room is pretty hot. We have the air-conditioning one, but it does not seem to make much difference. We finally opened the sliding doors to the balcony to see if we could get a little breeze. That cooled the room slightly, but we also hear the traffic from the street below and the Katy Perry party from the kiddie pool area. 

We figured we would go out for the evening. We thought we might like to stroll around Valletta, the capital, in the evening. Here we had another Here we had another rude surprise. We looked looked at Google Maps and discovered we were over an hour from Valletta by public transit, and over thirty minutes away by taxi. Our situation reminded me of meeting poor tourists who come to Los Angeles to see Hollywood and Santa Monica and somehow end up in a motel in Torrance.

We just decided to explore the area using the information we could glean about it from the Lonely Planet Malta guide. The area is called Saint Paul’s Bay in English though I guess Qawra is the name in Malti. It is indeed a fairly large inlet, and provides mooring for a lot of pleasure boats. There is not much of a beach anywhere, but there is a reasonably pleasant promenade around the shore. 

 

That is the Dolmen Hotel and Spa. As you can see, it is rather enormous. On the right side of the building is the casino.

We walked along the waterfront. We heard a number of different language spoken, but English seemed to predominate. Malta, or at least this part of Malta, seems like parts of Spain or Portugal where English tourists seem to have somehow recreated the beachside ambience of Blackpool or Yarmouth. 

But it isn’t Brighton or Scarborough. Only a block or two away from the tacky beach attractions and the shops serving fish and chips and advertising “English Breakfast Served All Day” are squat concrete blocks of flats with tiny windows. They look like pictures you see on CNN when somebody does a report from Tunis or Algiers. Fortunately, there were no burning cars anywhere in sight. 

We did come across some Maltese culture. There were some of the traditional fishing boats

with the picture to ward off the evil eye.

The area is called Saint Paul’s Bay because the Maltese believe that it was here that Saint Paul was shipwrecked and was kindly received by the local people. There are two small islands where the boat supposedly ran ashore, but these are apparently some kind of nature preserve now. But there is a monument there, and it must be important because it is under scaffolding.

The account of this incident in the Acts of the Apostles also tells how the Maltese built a bonfire so that Paul and his companions could warm up a bit. This church claims to mark that very spot. The signage on the church indicates that it was rebuilt after being destroyed by German bombs in World War II. 

It was close to eight thirty now, so we decided to return to the hotel. I snapped a picture of sunset. 

Our accommodations here in Malta are “half board” meaning that not only breakfast but dinner are included. So John and I asked at the front desk where dinner was and we were directed to a large restaurant off the lobby. It was set up as a buffet. We found a table, and took a look at what was offered. It was not particularly good. In fact, most of it was pretty awful. It seemed pretty much like the stuff they provide at casinos in Las Vegas. No, I have had better there. 

Let’s see how the bike ride goes tomorrow. Maybe I’ll like Malta a little better.

 

 

 

 

Taormina

I woke up early, as I often do, but today I was rewarded for it by seeing the sun rising over the Ionian Sea and the rugged mountains of Calabria. If only that crane weren’t in the picture!

Breakfast is included with our room, as it usually is in Europe. John loves this because he can meet people from other places and talk to them. All the usual stuff was available for breakfast here, although rather oddly they were placed on a giant Lazy Susan in the middle of a large table. Omelettes and other breakfast items were also available on request. Mina, the charming young woman from Mauritius who helps run the hotel with Michele, the owner, cooks breakfast. She has a whimsical way with eggs. 

The biggest attraction in Taormina is the Roman theater. This is used for an extensive arts festival during during the summer. The annual film festival had just concluded and as we walked around the theater they were breaking down the sound equipment. We were told breathlessly by everybody that Brad Pitt and Angelia Jolie had just been there. I wondered if Miss Jolie’s famous lips had influenced Mina’s omelette design….

A young Australian tourist offered to take our picture though she seemed to think using a real camera, even a digital one, peculiarly old-fashioned. 

We went looking for the aerial cable car from Taormina to the beach. We found this little church instead. It is dedicated to Saint Pancras, or, in Italian, San Pancrazio. For most people today, Saint Pancras is just a train station in London. But in Taormina he is an important person. Born in Antioch, Pancras was supposedly sent to Sicily by the Apostle Peter himself to spread the faith in on this island. Pancras met his death in Taormina when he was stoned by opponents of the new religion. He is naturally the patron saint of Taormina and later this month there will be days of special celebrations. During that time this statue will be carried in procession around the town. Alas, we will be gone tomorrow before any of this begins. 

We still had not found the “funivia” down to the beach so we stopped in the tourist information office to ask some questions. Usually these places are staffed by cheerful young people who love to share as much as they can about their hometown with tourists. We encountered instead a remarkably sullen older woman who spoke minimal English. John wondered if they mostly operated on commission. For me, the only highlight was a great collection of traditional Sicilian puppets. Although puppet shows no longer travel from village to village in Sicily, there are many who are working to keep the tradition alive. The shows always told the stories of the brave knights who defeated the Saracens. As in commedia dell’arte, there were stock characters and plots, but each puppeteer improvised the details and dialogue of the stories. 

The king, of course, was the good guy. 

We finally found the cable car to the beach, but we also discovered at this point that John had almost no cash and I had left my wallet back in the room for safekeeping. We had enough to buy some tickets, so once we were down at the base of the cliffs we looked for a restaurant where we could put a meal on AMEX. We found the Grand Hotel Mazzaro Sea Palace. Despite the extraordinary name, this is just a big pile of rebar and cement from the early 1970’s. Fortunately, from the restaurant you do not have to look at the hotel. Instead, you have a lovely view of a small bay

and swimmers frolicking in the water. 

The food was overpriced, of course, but with a view like this I could hardly complain. 

On our way back up, we ran into a charming Italian family. It was stuffy in the car and one of the ladies pulled out a fan — "aria conditionata manuale” as she called it — and John surreptitiously pulled out his phone. 

Right outside the cable car station we found the remains of what had once been a small hotel. John and I immediately figured that this would become a movie where some girl inherits the building, restores the hotel — though the locals all think this is nuts — meets a handsome young man, and all live happily ever after on plates of beautifully photographed Italian food. 

Alas, the reality of Italy is sometimes not quite as good as the cinematic fantasy. 

Back at our one-star hotel — which we like better than the five star Grand Hotel Mazzaro Sea Palace — I took a picture of John on our balcony

and he snapped a much artier one of his view from the balcony. 

Our destination for the evening was the little town of Castelmola. Taromina is perched high up on a cliff, but when you are there you can see another small town far higher up. This is Castelmola. Michele, our host, told us we could walk there. Looking at a 1000 foot climb straight up, we opted instead to take the city bus instead for a reasonable 1,90€. Castelmola is unbelievably cute. In fact, it’s town motto translates roughly to “This is the cutest darn town in Italy."

The cathedral there is new but we still found it interesting. It has not only deliberate Moorish elements to the architecture, but there are several six-pointed stars on it. As this was built during the Fascist period, I wondered if there was something of a political statement here. 

We took the bus back and walked through the town back to our hotel. 

This is our last day in fair Italy. We are off to Malta tomorrow. I am not sure why, but I feel remarkably at home in this country and I look forward to coming back here again. Arrivedirce, Italia! 

Gorge and Gorgeous

It was sad to say goodbye to Carmen and Angelo and our home in Trecastagni. But after a lovely breakfast by the pool it was time to pack up and head off towards Taormina. My first thought for the day had been to drive up to the Aeolian Islands and spend the afternoon there before heading towards Taormina. Once we were in Sicily, however, I discovered that I needed to at least double my estimates for travel time and that it really was not feasible to do the islands on the way to someplace else. 

John was somewhat intrigued by descriptions of the Gole Alcantara, a volcanic gorge on the north slope of Mount Etna. This seemed much more doable than my idea, so we wound our way to the motorway — always an adventure in Italy — and found the spot without much problem. 

Once we were there, however, we decided that the entire place had been oversold in the guidebooks. It is a pretty “aunt and uncle” attraction. There is a botanical garden at the top that lovingly showcases the sort of stuff that grows in abandoned lots in Southern California. 

The gorge itself is kind of interesting. It was probably formed by massive fractions in a lava flow about 8,000 years ago. The Alcantara River flows through it. I am sure that early in the season, as the snow melts off of Etna, there is quite a flow of water in the gorge and that it is as ice cold as the literature warns. But on the first day of July, it reminded me of being in a Sierra Nevada stream at the end of the summer. 

The rock formations are interesting. According to the information provided by the association that runs the park, there are different type of rock formations depending on how the lava cooled. These have fanciful names like “rosettes” and “woodpiles.” The “organ pipes” are the most prominent. 

Even I had to check out the rock formations. I promise that was all I was looking at. 

John loves to frolic in the water 

 and I like to take pictures of him doing it. 

We both admired the lovely flowing stream

and gawked at some of the tourists enjoying themselves. There was a busload of British there today when we arrived, and somehow these look like refugees from Old Blighty to me. 

It took us FOREVER to find our hotel in Taormina. We are staying at the Isoco Guest House here. It is often mentioned in guidebooks as one of the more interesting budget accommodations in this very expensive beach resort. The rooms are pretty small although each has a tiny balcony. Park of the shtick for this hotel is that all rooms are themed by artist. We were put in the Keith Haring room. 

Less appealing is the fact that the bathroom is across the hallway. It is not a shared facility. Instead, each room has its own shower and toilet. But the whole bathroom is barely larger than a phone booth — for those of you old enough to remember phone booths. 

In the evening we walked around and explored Taormina. This is Sicily’s premiere beach town. It was a favorite for many years of wealthy English and German artistic types. The town is located midway up a high cliff overlooking the straight between Sicily and the Italian mainland. There is a pleasant mix of medieval and nineteenth century architecture in the main part of town. 

John and I shared a pizza and a big salad at a restaurant. The food was not particularly memorable, but we had a panoramic view from our table of the water and the outline of Mount Etna. After dinner, we walked through town. 

John enjoyed looking in shop windows. They sell a lot of expensive pottery in the town. But the stores themselves are pretty posh, too. 

 

Tonight was a full moon and we went to sleep with it gently shining over the water.