Valletta & surroundings off the beaten track

Keen to see Valletta from an entirely different perspective? Hop on your bike! A year and a half ago hubby-to-be and I invested in two mountain bikes. Best buy ever! And today, after almost six years on the rock, we explored a few must-sees and discovered some hidden gems in what is arguably the most beautiful and romantic city in the world… our very own capital, Valletta.

9 a.m. Upper Barrakka Gardens. Unbeatable views.

9.20 a.m. Pit stop at Saint Barbara Bastion.

9.30 a.m. Espresso break at The Malta Experience with a view of the Three Cities and the Valletta breakwater.

 

10 a.m. Trying to find the new breakwater bridge (still under construction). Enjoying the view of the concrete jungle that is Tigne' Point.

10.45 a.m. Discovered a “secret” spot with amazing views: Sa Maison Garden.

11 a.m. Just a few minutes down the road: Msida parish church and marina.

I can't imagine a better way to kick off a sunny Sunday!

A day to relax? To celebrate? To think about anything but work?

No, today I encourage you to consider your professional achievements, your development, your goals and aspirations. To be grateful for the opportunities you’ve been given. But in these difficult economic times it’s also essential to find ways to advance your skills, because you never know what’s around the corner.

I started working as a translator about six years ago. Quite unexpectedly, actually, because at university I wasn’t too fond of translation lectures. I used to skive off all the time. I graduated in interpreting, but soon realised that in Malta my language combination wasn’t all that useful. Everyone speaks English here, most people also speak – or at least understand – Italian, and Dutch is totally useless on my tiny rock in the Mediterranean. Passive French can be an asset, but only in combination with active Maltese. And my Maltese is still quite basic. I knew I had to diversify to survive in this tough sector. So I let go of the whole idea of becoming an interpreter (more on that here) and tried to be the best translator I could possibly be.

I was lucky enough to be offered an opportunity to work with probably the best translation agency in the world, Blue Lines Translations. A young, dynamic team that allows me to make mistakes and learn from them, to explore different topics to find out what suits me and what doesn’t, to get a taste of project management and so much more. I’ve discovered that I’m not good at dry financial texts and that lifestyle, fashion and beauty are precisely my cup of tea. That managing translation projects is not challenging enough for me; I prefer working backstage, where the action is. And last but not least, that young people, right out of university, deserve a chance. I’m glad I was given that chance and I’m proud of myself for using it to the full. Of course, I still have tons to learn. I’m a perfectionist, yet sometimes I don’t deliver, particularly when I have to translate French health care texts into Dutch. I don’t mind sharing my weaknesses, because I think it’s important to identify them, to highlight them, otherwise you can’t move forward. No one is invincible. If you think you are, you’re not on the right track.

On this journey, I couldn’t have wished for better colleagues. So today, on Workers’ Day, my heartfelt thanks go out to them. Thank you for believing in me, thank you for your patience, your dedication, your friendship. Work is work, I’ve said that before. It’s not the main reason for being – let’s be honest, we all like weekends and holidays. But if you enjoy doing what you do, and if you’re surrounded by like-minded people, the in-betweens become more bearable, fun even. You maximise your potential and become a happier person. And if you’re lucky, you even make friends along the way!

Workers’ Day is not simply another day off. It’s a time to contemplate and be grateful. Keep that in mind today!

Peekaboo! Malta - part 2.

I promised I would post some more photos of my lovely little rock. So here you go!

Just your average Saturday in the Mediterranean...

Golden Bay, 10 a.m., 23 degrees Celsius. Pure bliss.

That calls for SPF 50+

Still a little too cold for a swim.

Heavenly lunch at Agliolio, Radisson Golden Sands.

Walk along the Sliema seafront.

Breathtaking views.
Note the painter with his sketch pad on the beach.

...

Sometimes I still pinch myself!

Peekaboo! Malta - part 1.

Since I love photography, I want to treat you to the occasional photo post, aptly called Peekaboo! I can’t afford a professional camera for the time being, so you’ll have to forgive me for the quality of my shots, courtesy of my very old Fujifilm Finepix camera.

There are things that words cannot describe. My love for the rock is one of those things. Its colours, its history, its oddities. A few random shots. Indulge in the beauty of this tiny little gem in the Mediterranean!

The Mediterranean. Crystal-clear, hypnotising waters. Never knew this shade of blue even existed. This photo was shot in Gozo, near the Azure Window.

The Imnarja folk festival in Buskett, celebrated every year on 29th June (which happens to be my birthday). Farmers displaying the best our arid rock has to offer. And believe me, there’s more to it than prickly pears and oranges!

Grand Harbour, as seen from Valletta. It doesn’t get any more grand than this.

View from the Dingli Cliffs. This always reminds me of a nativity scene. Even in summer. One word: mesmerising.

Don’t ask. Valletta has its charming little shops, old houses and remnants of an era gone by. If you know what this used to be, let me know in the comments please. Is it what I think it is?

On your way to the Blue Grotto in Zurrieq there’s always something to discover… How can this even be real? It looks like heaven on earth. It is heaven on earth.

Thirsty for more? Don't worry, there will be a new Peekaboo! very soon.

Trilingual?! – Because I get this question a lot.

So let’s clear this up once and for all. My mum’s Italian. My dad’s Belgian. I was born and raised in Belgium, but I travelled a lot, mainly to Italy and the UK. My dad’s Belgian, but London and all things English run through his veins (long story). And now I live in Malta, a.k.a. the rock.

At home I spoke Italian and English. At school I spoke Dutch. Does that make me trilingual? I suppose so. It’s a very unusual situation, I know. And people just don’t get it. Many are skeptical, and I don’t blame them. How can you speak three languages fluently? How can you feel comfortable switching between them? Which one’s your mother tongue? Does your voice change according to the language you speak?

First things first: I feel more Italian than Belgian. My readers know that I have a penchant for il bel paese. Unfortunately I was born in the wrong country. Not that I don’t like Belgium, ma non mi fa né caldo né freddo. I don’t miss it at all. And I certainly don’t miss speaking Dutch. It’s a language that makes me feel uncomfortable. Whenever I meet my colleagues in Belgium I feel awkward knowing I have to speak Dutch. But when they hear me talk – or when they read my translations – nothing gives away my lack of confidence. Or so they say.

I consider Italian to be my mother tongue. Apparently I dream in Italian. Once my dad woke me up, in English, and I mumbled something in Italian. Hubby-to-be and I speak mostly English – although when we first met, we’d switch between English and Italian; there was no logic, yet it worked. When we argue, I switch to Italian and he switches to Maltese. It sounds complicated, but it isn’t. It comes naturally. Our house is a happy mishmash of North and South.

Hubby-to-be says my voice sounds “better” and “sweeter” (whatever that may mean) when I speak Italian, con la cadenza veneta. It’s less harsh, probably because Italian calls for a softer, more rounded pronunciation. My English has probably been influenced by Minglish* over the past few years. My Dutch has a hint of Gents in it.

So why do I write in English? No idea. Just like shouting comes natural in Italian, writing comes natural in English. The brain works in mysterious ways. Maybe one day I’ll decide to write in Italian or in Dutch, but for now English it is.

I am so incredibly grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. My parents should be very proud of themselves. Not because I speak three languages, but because I’m so happy being who I am and doing what I do. Languages are my passion, and they instilled that in me. They taught me the importance of communication. They urged me to keep perfecting my skills. They made me the optimistic “trilingual” person I am today. Grazie mammina. Thank you daddy.

* the English spoken in Malta

Fear of flying

When I lived on the continent, I used to commute to university by train. I’d get up at the break of dawn, rush to the station and take an early train to be able to sit on an actual seat rather than on the floor right by the toilet. My 30-minute journey was the perfect opportunity to catch up on some reading. Sometimes I’d drive to uni, but finding a parking spot in the “capital of Europe” was such a hassle that I’d always end up regretting it.

Back in the days, shopping in London was just a two-hour train ride away. So were crêpes in Paris and tulips – yes, tulips – in Amsterdam (although I’ve never been, shame on me!). No need to book a plane ticket to enjoy a day at the beach in the north of France. Or to sip Glühwein at the Christmas market in Cologne.

Then I moved to the rock and the word “travel” took on an entirely new dimension. Gone were the days when I would hop in the car and drive all the way to Italy for a weekend break, singing Europop rubbish on empty motorways in the dead of night.

Now my choice in transport is limited to planes, ferries and catamarans.

On the rock there are over 400,000 cars – that’s more than one for each inhabitant. Traffic is a nightmare. Driving from one side of the island to the other – 23 km tops – takes forever during rush hour (good thing I don't commute). The air quality is, well… quite poor to say the least. When we want to catch a breath of fresh air, we head to Malta International Airport and board a plane – it’s like stepping onto a bus, nothing extraordinary. It’s just part of life.

Hubby-to-be and I had a long-distance relationship for about a year. That’s when I became a seasoned traveller. Planes were no longer a luxury, but a necessity. I must admit that even though I now fly several times a year, I still find it an unsettling experience. My hands sweat at takeoff and I say a quiet little prayer as we reach cruising altitude. I should thank National Geographic Channel and their “Seconds from disaster” series for convincing me bolts can melt mid-air, exposing parts of the plane’s engines and killing all the passengers in the process.

I have a few plane trips scheduled this year. Oh dear…

Aha, the roof!

Malta has two official languages: English and Maltese. And most people also speak, or at least understand, Italian. For those of you who don’t know where Malta is: it’s right below Sicily. It’s tiny, but it has the history of a giant – temples older than Stonehenge, a marvellous capital city that showcases centuries of art, and one church or chapel for every day of the year. And it also has its very own language!

Republic Street, Valletta

When I moved here, I thought communication wouldn’t be a big issue, since everyone is supposed to speak English. FAIL. Maltese is really and truly the first language. It’s a really strange, but fascinating language - a mix of English, Italian and Arabic. I figured I have to at least know what people around me are saying. So I threw a notepad and a pen in my handbag and headed to the University of Malta, where I completed two courses in Maltese for foreigners. An unforgettable experience.

After that, I puckered up the courage to occasionally communicate with the locals in their native language. I feel it’s more respectful for me to adapt to them, than the other way around. That proved to be quite a challenge. No course can prepare you for real-life conversations. And believe it or not, there are different accents in Maltese – when you go to Gozo, Malta’s sister island, the tone completely changes and some words become incomprehensible. 

And this is Gozo

When hubby-to-be, a.k.a. the Malteser, and I bought our flat, we had quite a few workers coming in and out of our very first home. One of the first things that needed to be installed was the telephone line, otherwise there was no way for me to work. And that’s when I realised that knowing at least some basic Maltese can be a godsend. The technician spoke no English at all. Nothing. So he mumbles something and all I understand is “bejt”. Aha, bejt – I know what that means: roof. So we go up to the roof – five floors, in complete silence. God, this lift is slow. Here we are, standing on the roof, staring at each other. Awkward smile. Jiena nofs Belgjana u nofs Taljana. Nistudja l-Malti l-università. Imma mhux faċli…* (“I’m half Belgian and half Italian. I’m studying Maltese at university. It’s not easy.”). End of conversation. Reschedule appointment. Preferably with an English-speaking installer.

Maltese. Be honest, it doesn't look easy, does it?

Today, I can safely say that my Maltese has improved dramatically. Not to the point where I can keep up with an entire discussion. But I understand a lot. I’m still a bit uncomfortable speaking this odd language, though. My intonation is that of a drunk Italian and I invent words, usually by adding a “u” to Italian words – for some reason my brain thinks that Maltese is an offshoot of Sardinian. Mhux hekk?

* If you’re Maltese, I apologise for butchering your language.

Inspiration & creativity

… they manifest themselves in the strangest ways, and at the worst possible times. I have days when I write up to ten blog posts, one after the other, and only stop when I realise I urgently need to pee. Or when the phone rings, snapping me from my trance. And then there are those rare days when I feel brain dead. Apathy creeps up on me. I stare at a blank wall and that’s precisely what I see – a blank wall.

This doesn’t apply to writing only. I paint and draw. You will never hear me say I’m an artist, but I like to think of myself as creative. My works are colourful and meaningful. They reflect my personality and my world view. I also like interior design, particularly small-space solutions. Not that I live in a small space (average I would say), but I have an unhealthy obsession with inspiring answers to seemingly insurmountable dilemmas in architecture and home décor. And plants, let’s not forget about my fascination with flowers and herb plants.

A while ago the priest came to bless our flat. We knew in advance he was coming, because the parish office had sent a note to all local residents. Somehow we had forgotten. A knock on the door, at 8 p.m. Strange. Maybe one of our neighbours needed sugar? Hmm, that doesn’t happen anymore in our day and age. Nope, it was the priest. And what was I doing? Painting. My entire table covered with newspapers and brushes. My hands stained with flashy blue, yellow and pink acrylic paint. The look on his face was priceless. I was inspired*, what can I say?

Hubby-to-be is now used to my brain being triggered by the weirdest things. But there are moments when he questions my sanity. Like the time he opened the door and he found me carrying a huge lemon tree. Or the day I decided I wanted to take up porcelain painting and rushed to Valletta to buy special pens at an art supplies shop. And last but not least, my three months of yoga practice on the bedroom floor, complete with absurd music, instruction videos and funny outfits.

I believe creativity is the key to a fulfilling life. I’m convinced it pays off to let your inspiration run wild. Let your brain guide you and don’t be afraid of being judged. I guarantee you’ll feel refreshed and satisfied.

* This is the result: Malta as seen through my eyes. Now proudly displayed in our living room.

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!