Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

I like Malta quite a bit, but I couldn’t tell you why. It suffers from most of the problems that seem to come along with being an ex-British isle (traffic flows on the wrong side, roads are poorly laid out, large portions of the island bear a strong resemblance to a garbage dump, an obvious lack of enforced building codes, and so forth), but I still like the place. Given their more laissez-faire attitude towards incorporating, we even briefly contemplated adding the island to the list of places to live, but we hit a wall when we asked ourselves how we could sustain ourselves (sadly, I’m not sure goat and olive farming are particularly lucrative, and I’m not a software engineer, so working for one of the online casino-gaming companies isn’t in the cards).

Nonetheless, I like Malta. With Parisian temperatures in the low single digits, escaping to a near-balmy 16° was welcome, though much of that warm was sapped away by the winds that are apparently endemic to the island at this time of year. We somehow managed to avoid one of our stated goals of sleeping next to the pool (owing to a perhaps overly-ambitious desire to return to Valletta on day 2; day 1 was spent in the previously-skipped Mdina), but the two-and-a-half hours spent at the spa (we’ll omit the number of hours spent at the hotel bar) undoubtedly met or exceeded the relaxation quotient, if getting wrapped in a cacao mixture and cellophane (hi, I’m a melted snickers bar), getting a massage (which is like being stuck in a dark elevator (oh the music of spas) with a burly Ukrainian woman who inspects her surroundings by squeezing the life out of them; my left shoulder is still sore), and getting a facial (confession: I briefly considered eating the cucumber slices placed on my eyelids) is relaxing. Which, of course, it is. I’m holding out for a hot stone massage the next time, however.

I am also happy to report that the Electro Lobster Project was as good as I remember it being; I can thus in good conscience continue to annoy the Purrito by randomly answering “Electro lobster project” when she asks me what I want for dinner.

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