Maltese magic

S and I are visiting Malta for a few days, a trip that has been a complete surprise for me. He is really interested in ancient architecture so the sites here were on his must-see list, and I agreed since it was an island in the Mediterranean. It'd be something new at least. 

We arrived yesterday via Frankfurt after having woke up at 3am to catch the train, and after a quick and slightly dazzling taxi ride, we arrived at our accommodation for the week. After spending a few days booking and then cancelling various hotels around the small island country, I chanced my first experience with airbnb. The host had no reviews but the photos looked promising, and he was friendly and responsive by email, so I hoped all would be well when we arrived. He wasn't around, so his very short father was there to meet us outside, while his mom waited upstairs. Both were charming, tiny, and with an enchanting Maltese lilt to their carefully enunciated english. 

My fears were immediately calmed when we walked in the apartment door and saw the terrace. It's the size of two hotel rooms itself, with open views to the sea northeast of the island. Looking down we can see one of the many fortifications on the island, and the complex's private saltwater swimming pool. Just at the next block, the peninsula where we are ends with a mall that contains a fantastic grocery store and several cafés. Just opposite we have ferry and bus service that connects us to the rest of the  island.

And what an island it is! I haven't managed to grasp the full history of the country's many exchanges of power, but the cuisine and language clearly shows influences from both Africa and Europe. French, Italian, Tunisian, and English flavors and products are available in the grocery store nearby, and the local cuisine is classic Mediterranean. We went to dinner last night and ate fennel-laden sausages, enormous chili-spiced white beans, fish cakes, bean-and-garlic spread, and sundried tomatoes so full of flavor it felt like I had never had a proper one before that moment. We also sampled the local wine, a white that contained flavors of the dusty limestone soil and blazing sun.

Today we spent the first half of the day in a Neolithic temple, and then I wandered the streets of Valletta, admiring the crammed combination of architecture on the steeply pitched peninsula. Heavily fortified on all sides, the center contains an overly touristic shopping street that's edged by fascinating narrow residentiall streets. I caught some entrancing glimpses of a few homes inside, since a few had their outer doors opened to catch the snappy sea breeze. They have a curious sort of baby-gate design here, where the typical Southern European heavy double door often has an ornate iron mini gate in front. Many houses have a tiny friezes of the Virgin Mary at the door as well. 

After thoroughly exploring the peninsula with a stop for an Aperol spritz in the baraka gardens, I took the ferry back to our spot and spent the remaining afternoon hours on the amazing deck, followed by a dip in the glorious saltwater pool. We had dinner at home with ingredients from our local store-Gorgonzola pasta with toasted sage, and a green salad. Simple and delicious, as the snappy breeze off the sea filled the house and made the long curtains billow. 

One year in

It's been technically more than a year at this point, but the feeling of new was still so heavy at this time last year that it feels like I'm one year in now. I'd expected the integration here to be relatively easy after Iceland. It's a country I'd visited often, with a landscape that's viscerally familiar, working a job I knew already. How hard could it really be? In retrospect I realize how difficult it was though. Establishing an entirely new social network takes time and effort and costs emotional highs and lows, and mixing that with the inevital bureaucracy of immigration doesn't make it easier. 

Yesterday was a watershed day in both senses though. Having not changed my American driving license over in Iceland, I decided now was the time to do it, and I wanted to do it properly. Norwegian licenses are different if you don't take the test in a manual car, and in typical American fashion, I'd never learned to do that properly. Several months of lessons later, my instructor booked my exam at the earliest possible date, which fell in the middle of S's company mandated fellesferie. In many Norwegian companies, the entire month of July is total shutdown, so employees have to take their holiday then. With the driving exam looming, I couldn't go anywhere, so he took off on a solo adventure while I stayed back to finish the last piece of bureaucracy I had to complete. 

Figuring that I'd either be happy to pass and want to celebrate or sad and needing distraction, I planned a ladies potluck party the evening after the test. I invited everyone I knew in the area and hoped enough of us weren't on the same summer holiday schedule as the rest of Norway. Mid day Friday, my tiny, calm Filipina driving instructor picked me up for one last practice round, then we went to the traffic station together for my exam. The examiner turned out to be a sixty-something motherly type who was in a hurry to leave for her weekend, so we took a pleasant drive along the local fjord while chatting about the area before she signed off on my exam form with the all important stamp and shook my hand. Time to start the party!

Back home I baked my two favorite summer recipes, a German onion tart and a goat cheese apricot mint bread before a local friend arrived to help set up. The weather has been amazing the past week, so we assembled all the chairs and tables in the house out on the large, shady deck, covered with my favorite grandmother-inherited tablecloths. As people and food began to arrive, introductions passed around- this woman I know from Icelandic class in 2005 who lives upriver, that woman who is a fellow alumna of my college, these women I know through a local social group, this one the visiting mother of another guest.

When the group was finally assembled, we set all the food on the tables family-style, and squashed around on the assembled collection of seats. Some had dining chairs, some were on a teak bathroom bench, we had people on hundred year old carved wooden "thrones" and others on plastic lawn chairs. The plates of food were passed hither and thither as we all loaded up the mismatched plates- we'd cleared the cupboards of all the available plates, glasses, and cutlery. 

It was hard to take a moment to reflect in the midst of the conversation, laughter, and good eating that ensued, but I did look up at one time and realize how tremendously lucky I am here. The sun was setting in a pink-striped sky over the lush green hills that surround our place, and this amazing collection of people from Norway, Canada, Germany, America, Ireland were all gathered around sharing recipes and struggles, joys and woes. We are all tied together by this beautiful place we live, and celebrating it outside  in a way all friendships should be celebrated, over delicious food made with love. 

In the midst of all this, S showed up unexpectedly a day early after having been on the return route for two whole days of plane travel. Despite what must have been some fierce jet lag, he joined the remaining guests graciously, delighted to come home to so much delicious food. And then, as the Scandinavian night deepend to navy blue, one woman's boyfriend showed up, and we ended the party as a fivesome in that deliciously night-scented air. 

When the last guest finally left, I faced the stacks of plates and abandoned glasses with a smile. It's been a rough road to this point but the roots are growing. I've conquered so many personal struggles in the last year, and while it's never going to be 100% easy, I don't regret the decision to move here at all.