La dolce vita in Malta

I graduated in interpreting. It was something I was quite good at. In the booth I was confident, creative, focused. My lecturers encouraged me to pursue a career in interpreting, ideally in Belgium, where I grew up and where all the opportunities are. Fate decided otherwise. I fell in love. With an island dweller. Two weeks after graduating I packed my suitcase and moved to the rock. Never regretted that decision, ever.

I now live in the Mediterranean. The islander and I own a flat with a sea view (until they decide to demolish the houses opposite and I end up looking at my neighbours’ washing lines) and I indulge in the dolce vita of the South, where fireworks are a daily occurrence in summer, music and art are food for the soul, life is lived on narrow streets and colourful squares, religion is the backbone of society and work is nothing more than a countdown to late-night drinks at the pub.

It’s a misconception that Southerners don’t work. They do, and more intensely than up North, believe me. Forty-hour weeks are the norm and siestas are not standard practice. But we – I consider myself one of them, albeit with milky-white skin that turns lobster red from April onwards – live. We treat ourselves to good, but sometimes far too greasy food – think pastizzi, qassatat and rabbit stew (well, hubby-to-be, I don’t eat rabbit). And wine – yes, Maltese wine is actually good. My favourite: Delicata’s Grand Vin de Hauteville. Highly recommended. We travel – Air Malta won’t go bankrupt, we’re far too loyal to our national airline. We simply enjoy life.

Many wonder why I chose to move to a rock with a total surface area of 316 km², a spit in the sea. With a population density of more than 1,200 people per square kilometer. A place where trains and trams don’t exist. Where it never snows. Where the humidity levels are so high my hair looks like that of Madonna in the 1980s. Well, the answer is simple: I followed my heart. I realised that you only live once. That work is important, essential even, but that, at the end of the day, all that really matters is happiness. And although work does add to happiness, it’s not the main contributing factor. Love is. Not just love for that one special person, but love for life. I’m not simplifying. I’m not romanticising. This is how I see it.

Yes, if I had stayed in Belgium I would probably have become an interpreter instead of a translator. I would have earned more money.  But I would also have lived a very different lifestyle. No sunshine on my pillow. No walks on the seafront soaking up the Mediterranean sun. No shopping in the city of the Knights of Saint John on Saturdays. By ferry, because we travel in style! No cake at Fontanella on Sundays. No trips to the beach in October.

Who knew life could be so blissfully perfect? Sure, I have off-days too. But today is not one of them. Enjoy your weekend!