Clipped at The Blue Lagoon

"Economic depression seems about the only reliable note of hope in the matter of saving the countryside. It is too late now, for instance, for Malta to recall the Saracens to defeat those who are building condominiums. Famine and plague, which worked wonders in the past, are also hard to find (unless one travels to the East at great expense). The major hope can only be a stupendous, world-wide economic catastrophe which would certainly make sun-bathing seem frivolous and quickly reduce the new buildings of Malta to ruin."

Had a quick drink at a local place before bed. I was influenced by a number of airport advertisements to try the "Game of Thrones-themed" Johnnie Walker whiskey. The bartender had to crack the seal. I was the only one, it seems, susceptible to the billboards. It was just fine. The bar's owner showed up and sort of hovered by everyone's table in turn, not saying anything, just sort of being there. 

It wasn't too different from the slippered man in Naples. I finished my sponsored tie-in drink and left. Arrived home just in time to see the results of the Brexit-plan vote. History! And a wonderfully old-fashioned scene in which to experience it. The family I am staying with was all gathered around the television waiting to see what would happen. It was like the cover of an old Saturday Evening Post. 

The Prime Minister is in trouble. The kids went to bed, and my hosts and I stayed up to learn more about one another. They expressed interest in my plays and told me interesting things about the furniture in their home. The Maltese tile on the floors is a marvel. It was nice and the first actual conversation I've had in over a week. 

Slept well and woke up early for a cruise to Gozo, a separate island just north of the mainland (which is also an island). The main draw was a charming little cove called The Blue Lagoon. It was on Game of Thrones. I had had the whiskey, so I felt compelled.  

Very sweet morning in a city I have become quickly familiar with. Fishermen sold the dawn catch from the back of their trucks, a barista sang "If I Could Turn Back Time" in heavily accented English. I ate paztizzi, enjoyed a latte, and read a short essay on Malta from the '70s. It was dramatically out of date, but I loved the bit in the author's bio where it said he kept food on the table during The Depression by writing crossword puzzles.

Whenever my attention flagged, I thought, "aw, this guy wrote crossword puzzles," and I pushed through. It was the same with The White Guard. I had to force myself through large sections by thinking, "aw, I saw this guy's house in Kyiv." Very susceptible to airport billboards and "About the Author" copy.

As well, I've become super interested in Caravaggio thanks to a blurb in a travel guide. I've enjoyed his style, but his biography is craaazy. All sorts of exiles and duels and papal reprieves, and a mysterious death. On top of all the awesome work. Can't wait to dig into HIS bio when I get back.

Finished my sensible breakfast and headed for the docks. Bought a ticket from a one-eyed Irish woman. She asked me where I was from, and when I said Seattle, she said, "Cull. It's a cull city to be from." I bet she says that to all the cities. I boarded the Captain Morgan Cruise ship, and we were off.

Gorgeous morning with dramatic, orange light washing over Valletta and teasing out pink and peach stones. The sea was rough, and waves crashed on the little jetties and lighthouses, high arcs of foam bright white against the dark blue.

It made me think of the first scene in Merchant of Venice where the dude is like, "ugh, my ship wrecked and my silks enrobe the waves!" and his buddy is like, "honey, your mind is tossing on the ocean."

Long, luxuriously chilly sail with the curvature of the earth seemingly visible on the horizon. It felt so remote, though land was very close. The waterfronts of the inhabitable shores here are, to be blunt, destroyed by condominiums. Violently ugly and tragically identical to one another. The Borg would be like, "Yikes, maybe some diversity is in order. Maybe mix in a new design?"

I went back and forth on it in my mind. I was like, "people need places to live," but from what I can tell these are all speculative towers they hope the wealthy will move into. Who would? Who would want to? Factories would have been preferable to these assembly line horrors. BUT, if you look the other way... wine-dark glory, the sea itself! So, perhaps the concept is: "the only way to avoid witnessing the terror of this building is to move into it!" An aesthetic blackmail.

I turned back to the blue. 

The cruise included an open bar of beer, wine, and water. Folks were loading up, getting their money's worth before lunch. I stuck to water, since none of the offerings featured a licensed HBO property, and that is all I drink now. I read a pretty lame biography of Catullus. I had thought it might give me a few cute details to add to the play, but... I couldn't get past the bad writing. And there was nothing in the author's bio to push me through. 

There was a cute bit about how a lady only liked pork from pigs fed from a strict diet of acorns. Oh, and the cover had a blurb from Boris Johnson! Brexit had followed me to Gozo! 

I liked the idea that politicians in the UK are also expected to have opinions on classical literature. Like, most of them went to Oxford and Cambridge where they make you learn Latin. So... 

It made me think of the Bush/Gore debate where they asked them their favorite books and Gore said The Red and the Black by Stendhal. That kind of high-falutin' talk will get the Supreme Court to invalidate your election win for sure. And it did. If only he'd said "The Pelican Brief" or something we'd have clean air and cool oceans.  

The breeze was penetrating my thin hoodie, but I let it. I liked being cold at this moment. People were getting drunk and taking dangerous selfies before lunch. It occurred to me there'd been no safety lecture and no signs pointed to life vests. The Maltese Lawsuit. 

As we got closer to Gozo, they made a long announcement in five (5) languages amounting to a hard sell to buy an extra ticket for a "trip to the caves." It was long and alternated between arabesque descriptions of untold wonder and gothic warnings. 

"We are about to dee-simbark in Camino which is home to the world fammis Blue Lagoon, fammis in all the world for it color and it clearness. You cannot say, ladies gentleman, that you have seen the sand through twainty maters of water, but here you can. We are partner with speed boat that will show you coral of peenk and coral of blue and take you to say-krit-a caverns where you can sweem and see your feet.

Many great film have been made here encluding the Popeye and the Gladiator, and it is the number one thing to see in all the Malta. We will be on a rock for three hours with no shops and NOTHING TO BUY OR EAT, and the rock is very small and there is no activity but the sun bathing. You may sit for three hour on the rock or you can see the peenk coral and the feesh and the blue coral and your own feet as you swim." 

This was in sharp contrast to the description of the tour which suggested we would have several hours in a charming old village on the island. But... the five-languages lady was saying (over and over again) that we would be abandoned on a rock in the freezing cold and left with nothing to buy! No shops! And we may as well pay the extra fee to see the caverns. Or, you know, we would be wasting our lives! 

I bought the ticket. Thirty minutes later, we were taken to a very nice little village with charming shops and coffee stands. A fleet of comfortably heated red vans collected us and showed us farms and figs and cheeses. I ate ravioli in a cafe, the concept of being abandoned on a rock as far away from reality as possible.   

The happy little red vans brought us back to the harbor where colorful "native" fishing boats bobbed. They had eyes painted on the bow, apparently a nod to a Turkish custom, but it had the effect of making them look like props from a Sid and Marty Krofft show. Follow me to Living Island, 

"Come and play with me, Jimmy, come and play with me. And I will take you on a trip, far across the sea." Bring your magic flute! 

The marks who bought the speed boat ticket were then asked to wait outside the main ship while the intelligent people boarded, then we were asked to walk to a different part of the wharf where some Shades pushed us onto a "speed boat" with vinyl flaps covering the cabin. They were completely opaque, impossible to see out of. 

A small opening in the back was the only viewing area. It attracted the selfie crowd who threatened to capsize us in their vanity. At least our corpses would be easy to locate in the "twenty maters of clayrest Gladiator waughtaire." It was a toootal ripoff with neither caves nor coral. Neither feesh nor feet. A homo habilus in a wool cap drove us in meaningless circles while we all cursed ourselves as fools. 

He brought us back to the cruise ship after about fifteen minutes, all of us enraged. Said ship was docked and the rest of the crowd was already climbing the rocks and getting great pictures of the blue lagoon. There had been absolutely no need to take the speed boat. 

Whuddya gonna do? A classic scam from the ancient world. God bless 'em, they need the euros more than I do. Some stayed behind to battle the pilot, who just shrugged, "Sometimes there is more coral than other times," but I counted it as a loss and tried to get up the hill before we ran out of time.  It was legitimately beautiful, and I could see the blue of the sea through the red of my anger. 

Everyone got trashed on the way back. Not me, though. I just read my bad Catullus book and thought about Brexit devastating Captain Morgan Cruises and how that may be the only positive to come out of an otherwise ruinous political action. 

At home, oranges were waiting for me. Coffee and comfort. Tomorrow I will see the interior. And I won't be anywhere near the water, and I won't spend a goddamn dime.

Unless they have nice shops.