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Archive for the ‘Living Joyously No Matter What!’ Category

What a difference this Christmas is compared to last Christmas.  Last year at this time we spent a very lonely, but cozy Christmas in front of the computer with hot chocolate watching ‘A Christmas Story’, one of our favorite Christmas films, with no tree, no Christmas decorations, and no presents.  The only people we really knew were the bartenders at the Hard Rock and the sweet ladies who ran the little ‘Step-In’ store right by our flat.  We have come so far.

We’ve been at our same flat for a year and have managed to endear ourselves to our landlords and their adorable little girl who loves the American candy I have ready for her when we pay the rent.  We really don’t know any of our neighbors, but there has been quite a bit of moving in and moving out, so it is very difficult to try to get to know anyone.  We’ve had Maltese, Italian, French, English and Swedish neighbors, but we really never had the chance to get to know any of them.

We joined an Expat group in March and have made so many friends.  The group grows and thins and grows again.  Many will be friends for life,  and the boat trips to Comino and the Blue Lagoon was a great way to get to know everyone better.  The expats also meet on Friday nights at different pubs and venues and we love listening to everyone’s story about how they ended up on Malta.  Every story is unique and its amazing how your path ends up crossing with certain people.  We’ve experienced many different restaurants, learning many different  Maltese traditions and I love trying the local cuisine, even though I still haven’t had rabbit stew!  Homie knows exactly how many McDonald’s there are on the island, and we have finally figured out how to explain where we are located when we order food to be delivered. That act alone has probably saved our marriage. 

We’ve gotten to know the buses, and don’t mind taking them at all, except when the students are here in August and September, then forget trying to get on a bus between 7 and 10 p.m.  We love the Maltese busses and the way they are decked out with the Virgin Mary, reminders to pray and promises of forgiveness.  Sometimes you will see the older Maltese women genuflect before they get on and we can never tell if that is a good sign or a bad sign.  We know where to catch the bus if we want to go to Mdina, Birkirkara or Mosta.  One thing that has struck me is that most of the Maltese people who I have gotten to know really dislike taking the bus, they’ll drive even if it’s a 10-minute walk.  The island is approximately the size of Staten Island, but because there are so many cars and the roads are so congested, it can take over 45 minutes to an hour to drive to a location that would take you twenty minutes to walk to.  I walk to and from work everyday and I’m home sooner than most people can get through the next stoplight. 

We have found great spots to swim, we have figured out the neighborhood shortcuts and when we go for walks we almost always run into somebody we know.  We’ve been invited to many of our friend’s homes and have gotten to see many different types of abodes with traditional stone architecture as well as very modern and updated apartments.

I have a wonderful stylist that already knows exactly how to cut my hair, I’m joining a gym soon and Homie has a key to a local tennis club where he joined a league a few months ago.  We are getting to the point where it’s a necessity for each of us to have a mobile, and we will soon.  A great friend loaned us an older model and we bought a €10 sims card and a €5 pay as you go card,  and it lasted us nearly three weeks.  It’s not the greatest device to sms on, but it does the job.  I’ve now gone without a mobile for a little over a year and I am starting to miss having it.  Kind of bittersweet, a friend who is moving home to Canada (hate to see her go…!) is planning on selling me her little beauty when she leaves next month.

Homie has gotten his visa issues squared away finally and it has been a rough road, especially for him as he didn’t know whether he was going to be able to stay or have to go home for a couple of months.  I really thought I did my homework before we left the States, but on an island this small, they can make  their own rules. But it is sorted and we don’t have to worry about it any longer.

I guess you could say we’re established.  We left the States with very little money, big dreams and a will to make it happen.   We had a vision, and we made it a reality. (That vision included a tumble dryer, so I have a little work to do, although I have temporarily solved that issue…)  In a year’s time we are sitting pretty good and with nothing but great things on the horizon.  What’s exciting to me is that one day, Homie and I said, “Screw it.  Le’t just do it.”  And we did.  And here we are.  Happy as bloody hell!  Can’t wait to see what 2011 brings.  Here’s to having a dream and then living it.

Merry Christmas to you all and may 2011 be every thing you dream it will be. ♥

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It seems hard to believe that we have been living on Malta for an entire year.  We have come so far since we first arrived and even though we are still waiting to hear if my husband is going to be deported (well, deported isn’t really the right word, but I love teasing him), we have done quite well and we are pretty proud of ourselves.  I’m working full-time, Homie has finally had a chance to take some time off of work to decide what his next goal in life may be and we have met so many cool people, friends for life from all over the world that we never would have met if we wouldn’t have taken the chance of following a dream.

There are many things we miss from the States, but when you come right down to it, other than family and friends, it’s all material.  There are so many contrasts from our former life, but in other ways, our daily life is not that much different.  I’m working everyday, in an office where I’m the minority.  It is a really different feeling and I’m not sure I like it all that much, but it offers a sense of perspective I never would have gotten in the States.  My colleagues automatically speak Maltese not to shut me out of the conversation, but because it’s their language and I have to remind myself daily not to take it personally.  Homie and I are taking a conversational Maltese language course in January, so I hope to at least understand some of the language before we go home for a long visit next summer. 

We are feeling pretty comfortable in our surroundings and now dress like the locals and not the tourists in November!  We know where to shop, what trucks to buy our produce from, where to get the freshest seafood and what Maltese wine tastes the best.  We know how to take the bus wherever we need to go and when we go for walks we almost always run into someone we know.   

I should have my Maltese ID card soon and with that I can finally open a bank account here, but it amazes me how easy its been to be able to live completely on cash, without checks or a debit card or any credit cards.  It has also been rather easy living without a mobile phone, (I vowed to go a year without one, just to prove that I could) although there have been some days when it would have come in handy.  It’s been easy living without a car, almost a blessing really with the parking issues here and auto congestion.  If we need a ride anywhere our friends pick us up or the Wembley cab will take you mostly anywhere for €10-12. 

We are used to watching the Weakest Link instead of Wheel of Fortune, having ham for breakfast instead of bacon and watching Eurosport instead of ESPN.  We went to Africa and will be spending Christmas in Sicily and find ourselves blessed to be able to travel all over Europe for so little.  We are now used to thinking in terms of Euros, kilos, kilometers and metres.  Lots of Brits migrate to the island and I find myself saying things like brilliant, straight-away and bloody hell! I go out for a fag and say Cheers! before even thinking of drinking before anyone else at the table or bar.

Skype and Facebook keeps us connected with friends and family and sometimes it doesn’t seem like we are over 4,000 miles away from home.  But now that we are at the one year mark and have taken a moment to reflect on all that we have been through with the visas, finding work and fitting in to a land where we had never even visited prior to moving to, I can honestly say that moving to Malta has turned into an adventure of a lifetime and we’ve never been happier!

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Adventures can come in many different forms, like leaving America to live on a small Mediterranean island, or starting a new job in an office in a foreign country and then, there is my new friend Inga.  Born in Iceland and raised in Norway, this girl has become one of my favorite peeps to hang out with on this little rock in the sea.

The first time we met it was at an expat event at the Black Pearl, a bar and restaurant in an actual ship that had been resurrected from the sea, then used in the film Popeye.   She smoked all my fags, (I am still SO not used to calling them fags!) but in return bought me wine all night.  Me, Inga and Valerie (from France) had a great time inciting riots on the dance floor and by the end of the night we had promised to get together for dinner the next week.

The next week it was my birthday and the three of us met for dinner at a cute little restaurant right on the sea and we shared three bottles of wine, and the last one I brought home with me.  Inga took a class to learn about wine and she is passing on the knowledge to me, free of charge.  This adventure was of a different flavor, there was a dead fish floating right below us and none of us could identify it and after the second bottle of wine and two Irish coffees, we seriously contemplated climbing over the railing and finding a way to get down to the rocks to check it out, but finally settled with talking the waiters into sitting down with us and having a glass of wine, even though they were waiting patiently for us to finish our long dinner so they could go home for the evening.

The next adventure was a BBQ at her house where I had so much fun playing hide and seek with her seven-year old in the mansion they are calling home for the next three years.  After the kids went to bed, we stayed up, discussed world peace, politics in Iran and damn if she didn’t teach me a thing or two about this crazy, radical world we live in. 

The next adventure was a short trip to Gozo, Malta’s sister island and a visit to the dentist office.  It seems this wild child has a phobia with the dentist and she needed some moral support.  I wasn’t working yet, and it was a beautiful day and who am I to say no to an all expense paid trip to the quaint little island? As we sat and talked it occurred to me that I had found a great friend; and in such a short time!  It seemed we were passionate about the same things and as we sat on the ferry and drank our Cisks, we both wondered how lucky we were that we were living on Malta and what luck it was that our paths had crossed so momentarily. 

On to Mdina!  Originally she offered to drive Homie and I to Valletta, since the work permit had not yet materialized, we needed to apply for an extension on our travel visa, and she knew right where to go.  But since we live in Malta, (and remember, we are glad we live here) they closed at half past 11 (that’s in the a.m. folks) and here we are at 12:10 with a whole afternoon free on our hands, so why not visit the oldest city in Malta, the silent city, Mdina.  As we park and get out of the vehicle the clouds start to get dark and here is Inga ready to give her umbrella to the parking attendant, and lucky for her I was there to talk some sense into her as it wasn’t a half hour later and we were caught in a torrential downpour.  We finally found a little restaurant appropriately named Bacchus, and we had the best lunch of calamari, wine and caesar salad (Inga doesn’t eat mammals…) and the three of us had a great day.

The other day we were supposed to meet for dinner and while I still don’t have a mobile (my year of giving up my dependence on the mobile phone is nearly up, and it was Inga who in her distress at not being able to get ahold of me claimed I was so “1995”) she was actually able to phone me.  How you ask?  As I’m biting into my delicious garlic chicken, the owner of the restaurant hands me a phone and says in his Maltese accent, “It’s for you.”  I answer and who else?  Inga.  At the hospital with poor little Freyja, who needed a few stitches above her eye.  We met later the next week for dinner and Inga picks me up looking like a battered housewife.  She has decided to take parasailing lessons and as she was getting to know the gear, the wind took hold of her and dragged her across the rocks for at least 50 meters.  She just laughed about it, and I thought to myself, it’s always an adventure with Inga!

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Life has been heating up lately, and I’m not just talking about the weather! We attended our first outdoor festival, I finally made it to Gozo and the World Cup has descended upon us with an excitement that only happens when there is a major sports event about to occur in your hometown.  

I hate to admit that I really didn’t pay much attention to this global competition when we lived in the States.  To me it was soccer, not football, and because I am surrounded by so many people from different countries, there seems to be a never-ending smorgasbord of fans, flags, horns and face paint.  It’s not about what team you are rooting for, such as with the Superbowl, but what country.  I have been contaminated with World Cup fever.  It is an actual disease that can only be cured by huge LCD screens, plenty of beer and at least a couple of your fellow country folk close at hand to help cheer for your home-country. Flags are waved, worn as shirts, shawls and skirts, and everyone is  screaming their bloody arses off  (UK friends are rubbing off on me), as though the players can actually hear them and will run faster and kick harder! Exactly like us (except my husband, the Bears fan) when the Minnesota Vikings were in the playoffs!

The night that USA and England earned a draw, (bear with me, I’m just now learning the lingo…) I was with the Expats at a five-star hotel as we launched the new expat membership card.  I was helping out the organizer with registration duties not realizing there was a small flat screen television right above my head.  I must digress for a moment to let you all know that there is a lot of UK expats on the island, and most of the Maltese are also rooting for England.  In the United States the majority of people vacation in Mexico or Jamaica, but in the UK, there is a huge amount of  people who vacation and retire to Malta.  So needless to say there were quite a few UK fans enjoying the lovely pre-summer evening, taking advantage of the drink specials, and dining on the complimentary nibbles while they watched the game right above me and my little registration table.

As I was tending to my secretarial/treasurer duties, I realized that when I saw blank, sad faces, and I heard the most avid of fans spill out a string of swear words that would even make my father blush (scratch that, nothing makes my father blush),  I knew that the USA team had scored (for those of you who watched, a goal is a goal!!).  It was only me and another fellow American expat, a Marine from Florida, screaming with the passion reserved only for Superbowl Sunday, over the goal that kept the UK from receiving three points instead of the one point they ended up with.  Needless to say, the free beer stopped flowing and had I realized that there was even a chance of this happening (everyone feeling sorry for me because I was “chained” to the registration table…), I would have whoop-whooped a little less boisterously.

Homie has picked up another part-time job working at the World Cup Village (WCV) located on Manoel Island, which is conveniently just a five-minute walk from his job at the small restaurant on the Strand.   It has been working out perfectly and the restaurant has been very flexible with his schedule which was a pleasant surprise.  We’ve become great friends with a fellow novelist originally from the states and her swedish husband who came up with quite an original idea.  For only €8 he will take your photo (or up to three people) and super-impose the image on any world  ‘stadium’ background you choose.  He has hired my husband to help him run the booth and not only do they offer these one-of-a-kind photos, but they are also selling t-shirts.  The Swede has offered to split all profits with my husband 50/50; which we both felt was an amazing and generous offer.  Homie is a happy expat because he gets to see as many games as he wants on one of the biggest sports screens available on the island. He has the added benefit of being able to get a t-shirt for himself from every country, and this has made him very happy.  I am also happy because now I can finally stop feeling guilty for selling nearly every t-shirt he had since 1972 at our string of garage sales last summer.

The WCV is not like any event you would see in America.  Homie and I walked through the gates to set up the booth on Day 2 and a guard told us that the event did not start until 1:00 p.m.  Homie says, “I’m working at one of the booths.” and the guard says, “Okay.”  and didn’t give us a second glance.  No badges, no questions, no problem.  The booth is not locked down, just a “tent-like” structure with nary a door, and the Swede feels comfortable leaving all merchandise, photo printer, expensive bike trailer and other miscellaneous items over night and unattended.  The area itself is gated and locked, but not everyone leaves at the same time and each booth is only required to be opened for at least eight hours of the twelve that the event is open to the public.  When I researched Malta there was quite a bit of information regarding the low crime rate and now I am seeing it with my own eyes, and I have to tell you, it is pretty refreshing.  However, I still do not step off of the curb without looking twice as the Maltese all drive as though they just got their driver’s license yesterday.  Somehow, I think that may never change.

Here’s to the World Cup and team USA!  I don’t think they will be able to win the Cup, but wouldn’t it be brilliant if they did?

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It’s finally over.  Pope Benedict XVI was on the little rock in the sea for 26 hours, and although this was considered a visit of spiritual nature, celebrating the 1950th anniversary of the Shipwreck of St Paul, his visit swirled in controversy and debate.  As Malta cleaned up their streets and waited patiently for the homily praising their faith as a nation, where abortion and divorce are against the law, this visit would also feature the Pontiff meeting with eight child abuse victims who stated that “We now have peace in our hearts because the Pope found time to meet with us.”   The victims, now in their 40’s met with the Pope for 35 minutes, were given Rosary beads and told by His Holiness that he “would pray for them”.  One of the victims actually asked the Pope, “How could this have happened?” and the Pope replied, “I will pray for you.”  I guess he didn’t have an answer, but he will pray.

My question is, who was praying for these poor children when they were being sexually abused by their misguided and deceptive priests in which they were supposed to be able to trust and believe in, a representative of God, the emblem of trust and faith?  I had to ask myself how, now as adults,  could they be so easily placated by a 35-minute meeting and a blessed chain of beads.  I had to shake my head in disbelief as I read article after article on how allegations and confessions had been covered up by John Paul himself and others who were higher up in the Catholicism food chain. 

I was raised Catholic and the experience of my First Confession was not a fond memory.  Father Hall baptised me, commenced my First Communion and baptised my son.  Father Hall was also the priest who heard my First Confession.  Generally, you made your First Confession just before you made your Confirmation, so there was no getting out of it.  My best friend since second grade went in first and as her sister and I waited for our turn,  we could hear her bawling her head off, loudly.  It was all we could do to keep our composure and not giggle uncontrollably as we sat in the pew, waiting for our turn.  

I was next and as I crept in, I whispered, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”  I then nervously listed all of my sins that I could remember, trying to come up with a reasonable amount.  I swore at my mom, I stole a pack of gum, I hit my sister.  I lied about where I went one night with my friends.  That was about all I was going to divulge.  I thought it was a pretty good list of sins.  I mean, I really wasn’t a bad kid, I didn’t do a lot to get in trouble, and as my parents were quite over-protective and controlling, I really didn’t get the opportunity to get into a lot of trouble.  As I waited to hear what my penance was going to be, imagine my surprise to hear Father Hall ask me if I let any boys touch me.  Touch me?  Touch me where?  How could he possibly know that I let one of the boys in the neighborhood kiss me when we were playing ditch in Morelli’s yard one night when it was pitch black and everyone seemed to have nothing better to do one summer night?  So I did the unthinkable, I lied.  I said no.  I couldn’t admit it.  I felt instant shame.  I was only 13!  And naive as hell.  So not to be undone, Father Hall had to up the ante.  He says, “Well okay.  That’s good. But have you ever touched yourself?”  Now, this was getting weird.  Touch myself?  I said, “I don’t know what you mean.”  Father Hall said, “You know.  Touch yourself, down there.”  I knew what he was talking about and if he thought I was going to cop to anything, he could well, go to hell!  I said, “No! No! I don’t know what you are talking about!”  He must have recognized the panic in my voice because he then wrapped it up pretty quickly.  I got three Hail Mary’s and four Our Fathers and was told not to lie and make sure to buy my chewing gum from now on.  I hustled out of there so fast, I didn’t wait for my friends and just ran all the way home.  I tried to tell my mother about it, but of course she didn’t believe me and she said, “You must have misunderstood what he was saying.”  WTF?  Misunderstood?  Ummm, no.

So that is when I believe I lost my faith in the Catholic Church and everything it stood for.  Yes, I had my son baptized, the Catholic guilt ran deep in those days, and I didn’t want my son to go to hell just because he hadn’t had blessed holy water poured over his head.  Father Hall passed away nearly 20 years ago, and who even knows how many other young girls (or boys for that matter) he terrorized in the confessional. But that is nothing compared to what these other kids have gone through and it just pisses me off to no end that these horrible, unspeakable crimes against a child’s innocence occur, and keep occurring.  It’s not supposed to be that way. 

At first, when we found out the Pope was going to be in Malta, I truly thought about attending the huge publicized Mass and had a sliver of desire to go see him, then I thought, “Why?”  Just to say I saw the Pope?  So what.  That’s not me, and I’m not going to pretend it is. 

~Peace~

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Baseball
When we decided to move to Malta one of the drawbacks was the fact that we were going to miss out on seeing the Minnesota Twins play this season in the brand new outdoor stadium.  It wasn’t a deal breaker, but none-the-less, it was a bummer.  So when we were able to get the game in tonight, we were both happy to be there, if only by way of our computer screen and a shaky connection to Sopcast.  With a little bit of patience and some real determination, we finally connected in the bottom of the fourth inning.  What a beautiful diamond in the city, looking all green and new!  The Twins won, Kubel hit the first homerun in the new digs and we found ourselves craving a good old-fashioned American hotdog.  The only thing that may have made the experience a bit more realistic would be hearing the wail of Wally the Beerman!  It was a great game and the stadium looks amazing.  Outdoor baseball is back in Minnesota, and it is about time! 

Prostitutes 
When we first moved into the flat, our landlord kindly took Homie down and around the block to show him where the grocer, DVD store and Step-In (a little store kind of like Tom Thumb…) were located.  Then he pointed way down the block, near the bus stop and looked at Homie and seriously stated, “Be careful down there.  That’s where all the hookers are.”  We of course immediately started to wonder what kind of neighborhood we got ourselves caught up in.  Here we are five months later and we actually do live in a nice little neighborhood (if not for the continuous traffic…) complete with a kick-ass DVD store and a reasonable grocer right around the corner.  It takes five minutes to walk down to our little bus stop that takes us to Rasta Bar, and on the way,  nearly right across the street, sit the ladies of the night.

When we first moved in we were anxious to walk around and check out our surroundings.  As we first encountered the ladies, either sitting by the open window or standing in the doorway, our nostrils were assaulted with the fumes of heavy perfume and Aqua Net.  It doesn’t matter what time it is, whenever we have ventured past, they are all done up and open for business.    When I was able to catch their eye, I’d make sure to smile and say hello.  By the surprised look on their faces I realized that they were not expecting any Minnesota nice, but hey, that’s just me.   They don’t really bother anyone, except maybe someone’s wife, and it seems as though they are not hassled by the Puliza, as we have never seen or heard any trouble, even when we are dropped home by the Wembley cab service after hanging at the Rasta bar til 4 a.m.    Last night Homie walks in at 1 a.m. after a night in the kitchen chopping garlic and declares, “Well, I’ve done something tonight that I’ve never done before in my life.”  I said, “What could that possibly be?”  And he informed me with a huge smile on his face, “I directed some Russian guy to where the hookers are.”  I laughed and said, “Maybe you should consider pimping, there’s some money in that.”  And then we watched South Park.

Dingli Cliffs
Last weekend we were day trippin’ at the Dingli Cliffs.  I had been wanting to go for some time and we ended up having perfect weather as we headed out, on Homie’s only day off for the week.  We took the bus to Valletta and after consulting the trusty 2009 bus schedule we saw that Bus #81 would take us straight to one of the biggest tourist destinations on the island, the Dingli (din-glee) Cliffs.  The bus ride was the longest so far, about 30 minutes, and as we wound our way through the tiny villages and towns,  our new countryside started to get a bit greener.  Homie and I looked at each other like we were ten again and on the way to Disneyland, and I think it was completely due to the fact that we were now seeing grass, trees and colorful wild flowers.  Not a lot of color where we have been spending the majority of our time…

Just when we started to wonder how much further, the bus stopped with a screech and the driver shouts, “Dingli Cliffs!”  Everyone shuffles up and out of the bus and we find ourselves in the tiny little town of Dingli.  I do not see anything except a round-about and more cement.  Suddenly Homie exclaims, “Look at that sign!”  I look to where he is pointing (there is a picture of this in the photos…) and on the building in front of us is a little sign with an arrow that says, “Dingli Cliff”.  So we start to hoof it down the road, following our fellow passengers, wondering where the heck we are going.  We walk for about a half mile, with buildings on either side of us and all of a sudden we the buildings are behind us and we are confronted with the most beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea yet.  The road that skirts the cliffs is over a thousand feet above the sea, and is easily the most panoramic view we have witnessed so far on this tiny little island.  At the end of the road sits Bobbyland, the only restaurant in sight, so we stroll in for a few Cisks and split a dinner of Steak Diane (still can’t do the rabitt which Bobbyland is famous for…) which was delicious. 

Afterwards, we thought we’d have a bit of a hike, but the terrain was so rocky, with no defined paths, complete with rusty gates in the middle of nowhere to prevent you from any further descent.  We meander back down the winding road to the bus stop, noticing a decorative cemetary on the way.  I snap a few pictures just as we saw the bus turning in the roundabout.  A great day exploring another part of the island and as the older bus jostled its way toward Valletta,  I am once again amazed that this Minnesota girl is living and loving life in Malta.

~Peace~

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I haven’t been cooking any traditional Maltese food and one thing that I know I probably won’t do is Rabbit Stew.  I feel a little bad about it, because part of this whole adventure is learning and living the culture and that includes experiencing the Maltese cuisine.   Rabbit is a main staple here for the Maltese, and I just don’t know what my problem is, but I can’t seem to bring myself to order it when we are out, even though it smells quite delicious, almost like a spicy beef stew, but yet, not beefy. 

We had a pet rabbit growing up, and still to this day I can’t believe my mother let it roam about the house freely, but its name was Cinnamon and we loved her. (Or was it a “him”?)  I can’t remember how it even came to be that Cinnamon became our family pet, but she was so sweet and loved to sit on your lap and be petted.  So as I fondly remember Cinnamon, it becomes even more difficult to consider eating rabbit stew or anything made with rabbit as one of the ingredients.  When we go to the grocer, I quickly scan the meat counter to see if there is anything we want fresh (this is a splurge as fresh meat is so much more expensive than frozen, for obvious reasons…) because I do not even want to see fresh rabbit behind our grocer’s meat counter.  For our Easter dinner we plan to purchase a beef roast (wanted the ham, but oh-so-salty here) which Homie can then season and pat and nibble from while its cooking in its own juices and he is so looking forward to it!

It’s been a rather weepy couple of days for me, I’ve come to discover that I am over-emotional when a holiday rolls around.  Easter was always a favorite.  Years ago in my previous life, I would go to church with Grandma, then she would come to my house and help me cook dinner.  We’d play Yahtzee and drink coffee and I would get to listen to her stories of life on the farm growing up. Further down the path on Memory Lane I’d make an Easter basket for my grandson,  and have so much fun watching him trying to locate all the plastic eggs we’d hide all over the house that were full of chocolate and other things that he wasn’t supposed to have, that only a Grandma can get away with.  God I loved to torment my son whilst spoiling my grandson!  (It’s in my top-ten list of favorite things to do.)

It has been a very busy week here on what I fondly now refer to as the little rock in the sea.  Normally our one night out each week is Friday and last Friday Homie had to work.  So I went with my friend AB to the expat gathering at a little jazz club in Paceville.  The band was a young ‘Captain & Tenille’, but singing jazz , well I guess I wouldn’t even call it jazz, but to be fair they sounded okay (but not really).   After the first set I got restless and could practically hear the reggae calling my name from the Rasta Bar which was only a five-minute walk away.  Finally my companions were ready to head out and we went to another cool place I haven’t been to yet called Tiffany’s.  Situated right in the middle of a small man-made bay, it was a dark little cigar bar with oversized easy chairs and a great atmosphere.  It offered a huge balcony/deck where you could also dine and had a great view of the sea and million dollar condos. 

We left Tiff’s and finally headed to Rasta.  My new expat friends had not been and ended up loving it as much as Homie and I do.  LB was his regular charming self and I felt right at home as some of the regulars cheeky-kissed me when they saw me and LB got me a beer right away.  It wasn’t the same without my husband, but I was entertained talking to my Maltese friends and watching LB work the ladies.  We ended up staying out until nearly 4 a.m. and one of the expats, who has moved here from Germany gave us all a lift home, and I was so glad I didn’t have to deal with the Wembley cab all on my own.

Couple of updates.  Still haven’t found employment, but not worried at all, I know the Universe will provide. The expats are so cool, the ones that have been here the longest know so many people, and it won’t be long until I finally get my foot in the door. The freelance writing is still going great and the more I do it, the more I love it, and the more I learn.  Started the cigs, but monitoring my intake and will always and inevitably quit again.  Homie and I had our first bout of sickness, a stomach bug that came and went in 72 hours.  It really made us think about how damn lucky we are that we are so healthy and we were so grateful we didn’t have to go to hospital.  (That’s how they say it in Europe…you go to hospital.  You don’t go to ‘the’ hospital!)  While meeting all the new cool expat people I met a woman and her husband who is a marine and is working at the US Embassy (where I just recently submitted my latest application).  They were headed to Sicily the next morning for American supplies and she asked if there was anything I wanted from the PX.  Well I made my way around the jazz club until I found a pen and a napkin and she delivered it to me last Monday because we were still not feeling well enough to meet in St. Julian’s. What a sweetheart!!  Among other goodies, she delivered Lays potato chips, Mountain Dew and Advil! I truly believe it helped to speed up the recovery and 48 hours later we felt fine. 

Fine enough for Rasta Bar this Friday….

~Peace~

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