Chronicles of a Mediterranean Gaijin

The day started with a few drops of rain but this being Malta, a few rays of sun always manage to shine through.

The familiar sights on board KM116 are all there. The anxious man hastily making the sign of the cross as the engines rev up, the safety announcements in Maltese and the phoney received pronunciation of the captain as he welcomes us onboard.

And off we go! From my seat I can catch a glimpse of the familiar sights around the isles. Ħaġar Qim with its newly installed roof that is not dissimilar to the smurf village, Gozo, the Grand Harbour and my personal favourite, Mdina. Keeping my composure has been made easier by the utter tear fest that was saying goodbye to my mother and brother. Now I’ve never been one known for being particularly sentimental about Malta. Au contraire. And yet, knowing that it will probably be a couple of years before I’m back, I spent this past week look at my home country through rose-tinted glasses.

As we reach our altitde of 36,000 feet and the passenger behind me is snoring heavily, here’s my last chance to indulge in one last local delight.

“Anything to drink, Sir?”
“Kinnie, jekk jogħġbok. Mingħajr silġ.”