One of my favourite things about travelling solo is the freedom that it brings; I only have to consider my own wants and needs, and if I decide I want to cosy up in my room and sleep then I can do so, judgement and guilt free.
And that’s exactly how I chose to spend the morning.
My hotel boasted the latest checkout time in Valletta, at 1pm, and so I decided I’d spend the morning in bed to try and repay some of my sleep debt. The street outside was still very noisy from early morning, though, and as I’m a light sleeper I woke repeatedly.
Eventually, I decided it was time to rise and I was just about to get in the shower when someone turned the door handle.
I froze.
My heart started hammering against my ribcage as whomever was on the other side of the door had started rattling the handle, and I could hear the keypad being pressed forcibly.
“Hello?” I said shakily. “Hello?”
Silence.
Standing with my head pressed against the door, I waited for some sort of response but none came. So I washed and dressed hastily and began packing up my belongings.
I decided to take the lift for the first time rather than carry my case down the stairs and the lift doors opened to reveal the seating area, where there was a couple sitting at one of the tables. Upon seeing me, the man, who was wearing a baseball cap and jogging bottoms, stood and introduced himself as the manager of the hotel. He asked me if I’d enjoyed my stay.
Since the first evening, when I discovered only one of the promised bottles of water and a broken coffee machine, I’d been messaging my host on AirBnB and they’d been ghosting me. I therefore decided this was the ideal opportunity to call this out.
The man told me someone else – who conveniently was abroad – was in charge of the AirBnB communications and pretended to scroll through his WhatsApp to show me ‘evidence’ that he hadn’t been told about my messages, other than I needed more coffee pods. He then told me an elaborate story about how he’d come to my room the previous morning with extra coffee pods but couldn’t get an answer.
I’d definitely been in my room at the time he’d claimed – and I’ve learnt enough about lying in recent years that I’ve gotten pretty good at identifying it. This man was lying.
When I reiterated that coffee pods were useless as the machine was broken, he insisted on the two of us returning to my room to show him.
So we left my case with the girl, who nodded and smiled shyly, and headed back upstairs.
In my room, I was able to demonstrate that the coffee machine was indeed broken and I got more elaborate stories in return. I just nodded and repeated my list of grievances, including the mystery person trying to access my room earlier.
He claimed he had no idea who that could have been, apologised for my experience and told me I could contact AirBnB to request a discount.
Once back downstairs he also began interrogating me about my travels and business and so it was a relief to receive a message from the host of my next accommodation telling me I could check in early.
After the obligatory social niceties, I headed outside to wait for my Bolt.
It arrived within minutes and I got another chatty driver.
As we pulled up outside my AirBnB, my new host was sitting on the steps waiting for me. He smiled and waved. I liked him immediately.
For the next part of my adventure, I’d chosen to stay in the historic Three Cities.
Sitting directly across the Grand Harbour from Valletta, these three ancient fortified cities have preserved history in their ancient streets.
My aim when travelling is always to get as local an experience as possible and so I’d chosen a very Maltese home in Bormla, also known as the city of Cospicua, and the first of the Three Cities. This is still an area that is primarily made up of local housing and not consumed by tourism. I stayed there for a week and didn’t see a single tourist in my immediate area.
The street my new home was on was on a hill, sloping down towards the docks. The houses were made of the sand-coloured stone that Malta is known for and many had the traditional, covered, Maltese balconies.
Entering through the vibrant turquoise door, I followed my host up a flight of stone steps to an airy living room filled with art. This was a traditional one bed apartment and my host gave me the grand tour.
He unlatched a door in the bedroom, revealing a spiral stone staircase that he informed me is known as a garigor – or hidden staircase. Originally these would have been used by servants or trades people.
I followed him up them, carefully placing my feet on the narrow steps.
At the top, he unlatched another door to reveal a roof terrace that had a panoramic view of the Three Cities.
We climbed up a further metal ladder to a mezzanine level and from there my host pointed out sites of interest, useful places like the nearest pharmacy and told me a little of the history of the area.
Bormla, he said, used to be a very run down area with many orphans. During the war it was also bombed. But it’s still a very historical area and slowly, over recent years, things have begun to change.
He asked if I’d like any recommendations and I explained to him my mission to experience as much local life as possible.
The Maltese, he told me, on weekdays will head out early to work – usually 8am to 2pm – and then come home, eat and watch tv. On weekends they’ll perhaps go to the beach or for a walk and eat out. Younger generations are more health conscious and like to jog but many Maltese also consume a lot of alcohol. He said that people are often also living outside of their means and eating out or having takeaways rather than making meals at home.
He also spoke of resentment towards immigrants, with the perception that they’re taking jobs and resources and any non-Maltese person who complains about anything is told to ‘go home’. But, he said, without the Africans there would be no one to collect bins; without Indians deliveries…and listed several other ethnicities and associated jobs.
I found my thoughts drifting as he continued to speak, pointing out restaurants along the harbour that aren’t Maltese but frequented by both locals and tourists.
Maltese life and culture sounded, in many ways, similar to British life and culture – which isn’t surprising. But the specific jobs for specific immigrants took me back to my time in Dubai and unease settled upon me at the thought.
After showing me a bottle of pink sparkling wine he’d left in the fridge for me, my host left and I decided to head out to explore.
I headed in the direction of the harbour, which had been pointed out to me from the rooftop, and found lots of ancient streets opening out onto a paved promenade area with art installations.
Across the road was a British style red phone box that had been converted into a library.
Intrigued, I crossed the road to have a look and spotted a cafe. I’d not yet eaten, so headed inside. The menu was quite limited so I had their €3.50 coffee and cake deal, which was – literally – nothing to write about, but served the intended purpose.
After paying, I headed back out to get intentionally lost once again in the streets of Bormla. I noticed ornate door knockers in the shapes of dolphins and grotesque faces, cobbled streets and a rainbow of colours in relief against the sand-coloured stone.
Stopping at a tiny corner shop, I decided to pick up some snacks for sunset. There were two old men sitting outside with a drink and smoking, and that tends to be a good sign for a local spot. An American couple had gone in ahead of me and with the Maltese lady ahead of them already inside there wasn’t enough room for all of us. I was just about to wait outside when the couple left; they didn’t like having to wait and the lady was dithering over her order.
Somehow, I got served immediately, whilst the lady was still thinking. I already knew what I wanted: Twistees. I’d been told they’re essentially the national snack.
Goods secured, I walked back to my AirBnb and enjoyed sunset over the Three Cities from my rooftop with red wine and cheese crisps.
Given I was on a budget, I made my own dinner from items I’d picked up in the store: pasta, tomatoes and tinned sausages! It took me back to my uni days but was surprisingly good.
As I settled in for the evening, I began to be conscious of the sound of church bells every 15 minutes; I was surprised they were still ringing well into the evening.
Surely they’ll stop by 10pm?
11pm?
Midnight?
By 2am I realised that they weren’t going to stop: I hadn’t really researched Malta before travelling and so I was unaware that this was even a thing.
So, another night of broken sleep was had and my attempt to catch sunrise from the rooftop was also a fail, given it was too cloudy to see anything at all.
My explorations the previous day had shown me the only shops in walking distance were small, local, ones – but prices were high in these. I therefore experimented with ordering some groceries from a supermarket via Wolt, which is the Bolt version of Uber Eats. This was also partly strategic, so that I didn’t have to carry packs of bottled water up and down hills.
The driver arrived with my delivery within minutes and whilst they didn’t have my whole order, overall I was impressed.
I had no set plan for the days, other than to explore as much of the Three Cities on foot as I possibly could and get a real feel for life there.
After a coffee, I set out.
My first pit stop was at a little hole-in-the-wall pastizzeria called Sphinx, which I’d read made some of the best pastizzi on the island. Pastizzi are one of Malta’s traditional foods. They’re a diamond-shaped flaky pastry filled with either ricotta cheese or curried peas.
Fortunately for me, there was a branch at the bottom of my street. I chose a cheesy pastizzi for my breakfast and ate it on a little stone bench overlooking the harbour waters.
There was a chill to the air but the sky was blue and the little puffed clouds were high in the sky. I watched them reflected in the still water as I chewed on the flaky goodness of my breakfast.
I crossed the little footbridge into Cospicua, looped the streets back to the ferry port and then walked up a slight hill, passing a red-domed church, until I reached a little town square. There was some construction underway but there I found a little cafe with outdoor seating advertising Imqaret, a traditional Maltese date-filled pastry and so found myself sitting in the afternoon sunshine with a latte that had a smiley face dusted on it, waiting for my Imqaret to arrive.
I’d decided to play a kind of local food bingo, collecting as many as I could.
The waiter brought out a plate of four little pastry triangles and some vanilla ice cream. The spiced dates were good but I wasn’t sure if the pastry was perhaps a little old; with hindsight a cafe probably wasn’t the best choice of location to try them.
Sitting outside cafes and restaurants seemed to be a national pastime and even at mid afternoon the cafe was busy with locals…most of whom were smoking – this, too, seemed to be a national pastime.
The smoke fumes drove me to eat quickly and, after a quick bathroom break in a toilet cubicle that will forever remain etched in my mind, as I could see the inside of the cafe through chips in the painted glass door from the toilet and, whilst the cafe was empty, I couldn’t help but wonder if any customers who happened to be seated opposite would have a prime view.
From the cafe, I emerged into narrow streets with paving stones the same colour as the walls, past a vibrant blue door with a blue bugle-blowing cherub knocker. Try saying that fast three times!
Every street had a new discovery: the arched door way to a tiny charity shop; streets where I could touch both sides if I held out my arms; a poster commemorating an ‘18th Century servant’s Ghost House’. The ghost servants’ landlord was put on trial in 1745 for murdering her after he’d discovered he’d made her pregnant.
Eventually, the streets opened up and I reached the city walls. Walking through a stone archway, I emerged into Vittoriosa.
Google had told me I’d find a bakery in nearby Kalkara and so I let Google maps take me on a side quest in pursuit of fresh bread.
My route took me past a large harbour again. The balconies and doors of the houses were painted in vibrant colours.
Arriving at the bakery, it looked closed even though the lights were on and the sign on the door said ‘Open’. Tentatively, I pushed on the door and when it didn’t budge a moment of social anxiety meant I just walked away.
I sat on a bench overlooking the harbour, watching the sun sink below the fortress, contemplating the quirkiness of my brain.
As the light began to fade, I begun retracing my steps and was passed by two teenagers on a bike. One said, “Oh my God you are so pretty. I will f**k you.’ Caught by surprise, I just kept my eyes down and quickened my pace.
Once back in Bormla, I stopped at a fish takeaway I’d read was THE place to get food for locals at weekends. Called Le Poisson, it offered a range of fresh fish dishes cooked to order. It was a tiny, family-owned spot and I got to choose my order from their chiller cabinet of fresh fish, then watch as they cooked it.
I asked for their recommendation and was told to opt for the lampuki fish, which I did. They were super careful about my allergies and served me a generous portion of grilled fish, a portion of chips and a mixed salad of tomatoes, greens and black olives.
By the time I got home I was starving, and I savoured every bite; I also cracked open the sparkling wine, as it was a Friday, after all.
Missed the start of my Malta solo travel adventures? Start here.
<< Read the previous instalment here