I’m doing my favourite thing, people watching, this time from a café in Valletta, capital of Malta.
The streets are thick with tourists, and not for the first time, I wonder what this place would be like in high season.
Local travel has been tricky, so I mostly walk everywhere.
Roads are narrow and very busy, so narrow that the rearview mirrors hang over the sidewalk when cars pass.
Sidewalks are also narrow, so much so that two people cannot pass one another without someone stepping out on the road.
No daydreaming here; I need to keep my wits about me.
The busses don’t run on time at all.
It’s not the fault of the drivers – they drive like maniacs – it’s the congestion that slows everything down.
Malta is the third most-densely populated country in Europe.
They drive on the left side of the road, have British electrical outlets, and most of the door handles are in the middle of the doors.
The tap water tastes awful, but the coffee and beer are top notch.
My hostel friends are fabulous – Helen from England, Emma from Australia, Tina from Denmark, and Alan from somewhere; he doesn’t want to say.
Mysterious fellow, Alan is; always looking over his shoulder like he’s expecting Interpol to show up.
Tina talks with her hands, waving them around when she wants to emphasize something.
At dinner, she talks emphatically and the piece of pizza crust on her fork flies across the table and lands on my open book.
She’s embarrassed, but I simply pick up the crust and eat it.
I’m on a budget, after all.
