Malta.

I am in Ghajnsielem, a village near the ferry terminal in Mgarr on the small island of Gozo, Malta. (Or maybe I'm in Shambala.) Here, if you have coffee – not espresso, or café americano: our request for the latter was met with a 'Huh?' -- in Piazza Indipendenza at one of the plastic tables outside, you can view three different cathedrals. Gozo, like the rest of Malta, is very Catholic.

Arriving in Malta (on the main island) was bleak. There was no relief from the landscape of condominium-type, puce-coloured square buildings, no trees, scarcely any greenery at all … I felt it must be something like Egypt. Actually, it was hard on the eyes. Terribly hard on them.
Our first destination was the sea-side town of St. Julian's. Well …

imagine a hot day, a beach loaded with people, and not one person in the water …
imagine a landscape of strip clubs, bars, souvenir shops and boarded up businesses
imagine broken glass like landmines on the limestone rocks along the water
imagine a community that seemed to exist almost expressly for young Europeans looking to party

Sean and I have been playing this game where we each come up with 5 adjectives for locations we visit, then we share them.

St. Julian's (Sean): betrayed, sold-out (or souled-out), impermanent, generic, sad.
St. Julian's (Shelley): lunar, plastic, detonated, spoiled, surgical.

Then we got to the apartment we'd booked on-line, in a dreadful residential area even the taxi driver had a hell of a time finding, and learned that we had to share it with the owner, two Italian women, and three Irish, one of whom was so exceedingly drunk and obnoxious she got the lot of them kicked out. Eight people, one bathroom: not a good scene.

It was too much for us. And the internet wasn't working well. Though we'd planned to stay for 3 nights in St. Julian's on Malta, we told the owner we were leaving the next day. We did, though we had to pay for one of the nights we wouldn't be there.

Travel lessons learned on this day: always pick up maps and other info at the airport … it may not be available elsewhere. (the tourism information booth was a demolition site)

:don't settle … if you're not happy at one place, find another

After we dropped our bags at the apartment (and before we decided to leave), we toured the old city, Valletta. It was charming, and saved our lives.

Valletta: (Sean): dove-throated, heavy-stoned, intimate, breathing, imperturbable.
Valletta: (Shelley): spirited, breathing (we actually selected the same adjective!), valid, preserved, lyrical

The next day we spent travelling to Mtarfa, where Sean was born and hasn't returned since he was 18 months old. There's an entire essay involved in that day – everyone was very kind and helpful, but each had a different idea about where the hospital was, and the school his mother taught in, etc. We more or less left shaking our heads in disbelief and amusement. One lovely man took us into his palatial home (which Sean may have lived in as a baby) and showed us around, and I loved that.

Mtarfa: (Sean) sky-handled, islanded, blue-eyed, facaded, watchful.
Mtarfa: (Shelley) disremembered, caught-between, pale, flaking, ambassadored.

Finally, the ferry to Gozo, a much smaller Maltese Island. (There are 3).

And here we are.

St. Joseph's Home Hostel is singularly the best hostel I've ever stayed in, and I've stayed in several. It beats the funky Valencia hostel, the Honolulu surfing hostel, the three very good San Francisco hostels I'm acquainted with, and Makuto Backpackers in Granada.

We wandered around the large place, with its caged birds, and lizard-like creatures that might be skinks scooting along the stone walls, the potted plants, and antiquarian items, the paintings, impressive coloured glass chandeliers and iron grates. There is a huge games room, with a pool table and a tennis table, fooz ball and pinball machines. A library, an internet station, an expansive rooftop terrace. Up the curving stair, a balustrade sets off the large U-shaped second floor. There is a loggia-like walk, and from it, not far away, we see the ocean break against the limestone shore. On the south side, the ruins of a fortress, and before this, fields slip down toward the water, and then, to the right, the lane that leads to the diving site where three ships have been sunk.

We are so close to the sea we're lulled to sleep by the night waves. As I write, I am looking through an ornate, screenless, metal-grated window. Sea air on my arms and face. The palm tree out my window is slightly swaying. I hear small birds, and the ocean. No traffic. No people. No industry.

And this is what I love about hostels: sometimes you meet great people, like John-Paulo, from Italy, who has been doing NGO work in Somalia, and Susan, a Scots woman of about 50 years. Her powerful legs attest to her love of walking, and indeed, she is walking all over the island to various beaches and villages. A French woman just checked in; I don't know her story yet, but I will, soon.

And imagine this … there are only two restaurants in town, and only one open last night. It is about 85 steps from our door, and within it I had the best meal I've had on this entire trip. Spaghetti. Yum.

Photos coming soon.