Bunny Heaven in the Cloister

 Despite the almost turtle drowning, Dan and I (with Theo grumbling beside us) continue mosying around and investigating the 400 year old cloister in Valletta, Malta. Even though this cloister used to be a palace, there's nothing elaborate here, but the stone walls are quaint and soothing. 

We visit a room where the sisters did their ironing and mending. 

We visit a room filled with ovens for cooking and baking.

There is also a room that the nuns used to prepare rose water, known as Melissa. They used a wine making machine to distill rose petals, adding crushed rose leaves, red wine and other herbs. Rose water had a wonderful lemony aroma and attracted bees. It was used for its anti-inflammatory properties and to soothe and hydrate skin. 

We look up and notice the religious decorations that surround us--the various statues of saints, of angels affixed to the stone walls. 

We are so engrossed in trying to understand a lifestyle that is so different from ours that we don't notice that Theo has gone unusually silent. "Theo silence" usually means he's plotting something. I look around to make sure that all is well, but Theo isn't there. Another cat has taken his place. It's as if a magic spell has occurred. A young skinny cat is walking between Dan's leg, where Theo was just moments before. What?

There are only two possible explanations. Theo has turned into another cat (highly unlikely but this place does give off some unusual vibes) or Theo has walked off and by pure coincidence, another cat has appeared. Out of nowhere? 

This cloister is a big place. Theo could have wandered anywhere, but there's usually a method to his exploring. If only we can figure out what it is. What would he be interested in? Besides food . . .

We glance at the cat who is looking up at us. As if he's trying to tell us something. "Let's follow this guy and see where he leads," Dan suggests.

Sure enough, as if on cue, the cat takes off across the courtyard and down a hallway. He's wandering to a part of the cloister we haven't seen yet. Frankly it's a part we didn't even know existed. Dan and I hesitate. Are we really going to follow a cat?

Don't judge. 

Finally it all becomes clear. The cat does live there. Volunteers arrive every day and feed him. And where is the cat taking us? To a little bit of bunny heaven. Of course, that's where Theo is. Somehow he sniffed out the bunny smell and without saying a meow, he followed his nose. 

I want to say--"You're in big trouble." But I also feel an immense sense of gratitude that Theo is here, unharmed. I want to pick him up, but I hate to disturb him. 

Theo is mesmerized by the treasure he's found. He's got his full face in between the slats of the cage and he's watching the bunnies. 

Let him have his fun. Theo is safe. After a few minutes, we scoop him up, remind him he can't take a bunny home with him, and we leave the lovely and cool cloister.

The only question lingering in my mind is--how did the cloister cat know we were looking for Theo? How did he know where Theo was? Was it a lucky guess, or was there something more mysterious going on? 

I turn to say thanks, but he's gone. Without a meow, he led us to the bunnies, to Theo, and then he left. Mission complete. I try to get some answers out of Theo, but all he says, "I did what I had to do." His usual Theo response, but now I think I understand.

Theo Visits a 400 Year Old Cloister

 Valetta can be brutally hot in summer. As a tourist, you don't want to be roaming the streets in the afternoon. Even Theo admits--it's too hot, so we make a unanimous decision to find refuge, in much the same way as orphans did 400 years ago. St. Catherine's Monastery for female orphans, founded in 1575, still stands today. It no longer houses orphans, but it is still the refuge for a small group of nuns who live there. It is maintained by volunteers who come on a daily basis and tend the lovely garden, feed the animals that live there, and do whatever has to be done.

There is an interesting back story to how the orphanage came about. A marquis and his wife donated the building, formerly their palace Casa Vanilla, to say thank you to God for saving their son during a plague. They built a cloister and donated all their belongings after their death.

Entering this cloister is like walking back in time. Before electricity and running water and toilets, before radio and TV, before the internet, you can peek into the past and see what life was like when people made the decision to get away from it all.

Theo wants to go straight to the garden. He wants to sniff the flowers and trees. Dan and I, on the other hand, don't want to miss a thing so we decide to follow the placards carefully posted that identify the various rooms so we can see this old-fashioned world.

Our first room is where washing of clothes and linens were done. No, there is no washing machine. Instead, they used a large stone basin. 

Some of the brick walls are filled with religious photos. Now a days the walls also contain photos of the nuns who lived in the cloister.  We continue walking and discover a room filled with wash basins. When girls entered the convent to become a nun, part of the expected dowry from their family was often a zinc wash basin or a small wardrobe.

Girls did not always come willingly. Sometimes they were dragged to the cloister kicking and screaming by their families, who hoped living in the cloister would control their behavior. The cloister had a room called a control room where the troubled girls were kept until they conformed. It is small and sparse. 

 

Theo, ignoring the rope (where the door would have been) that says stay out, sniffs the basins and tables, trying, as we are, to make sense of a place that existed in a time that believed a girl's future could be determined by her family, that she might have little say in it.  We move onto the next area, but Theo stops with a pleading look in his eyes. 

"Okay. Okay. We'll visit the garden."

It is perfectly placed in the center of the cloister. The rooms surround it. You can access the garden from several doors. The sun shines in, and it is all greenery and flowers and fountains and statues. 

There is a small fountain. Water trickles from a spout to a wider basin below. Theo hears the water and rushes over. I'm thinking it is like our fountains at home that all the cats drink from, and Theo is  thirsty. But no, Theo stops and stares for another reason. 

Turtles. Two turtles live in the small basin. They blissfully swim around until they're tired and pause momentarily on the stones. They soon take off again, swimming faster than you would imagine, considering how slow they walk on land. 

Theo is mesmerized. He climbs to the top of the basin and leans over to get closer. There are times when I can read his mind.

"Do not go in that water."

He acts like he doesn't hear me. 

"Theo, if you go swimming in that water, you'll freak out the turtles. So don't do it."

Theo looks up, but I can't tell if he's agreeing with me or not. I wait. He continues to lean over and watch the turtles. 

I pull out my iPhone to take a video, but decide to take a moment to appreciate how peaceful and restful the garden is. I imagine the women who lived here during the centuries, how they must have enjoyed this space--the planting of vegetables and herbs, the fruit trees, the quiet and solitude of sitting on a bench . . . 

I hear it before I see it. The splash of water. It is either the turtles trying to escape or . . . I can't believe it. In that split second when I focus on taking the video, Theo jumps into the water. He misses one of the turtles by an inch or two. The water isn't deep, but I suspect that Theo didn't think it through. He jumps in, and now he panics. 

This is the kind of thing that can get you thrown out of cloister. It is a miracle that Theo is allowed to walk around and be a cat. Usually places say--only service animals allowed--and we sneak him in. But this is Valetta in Malta. 

It is not difficult to rescue Theo. Dan grabs on and lifts him out of the water, totally dripping. We have a few tissues with us but not enough to even begin to dry him off.

But Theo, a cat after all, gives a few shakes and the water shoots off in all directions. The front of Dan's shirt is soaked. Somehow I manage to avoid looking like I got caught in a rain shower.

All's well that ends well. "It actually feels quite good," Dan says. 

I secretly wish Theo had sprayed me. 

And, Theo? He doesn't care that he almost drowned a turtle. He doesn't care that he's leaving water spots on the stone floor as he traipses along, in search of another adventure. And that's the beauty of being a cat. He doesn't care.

   STAY TUNED TO PART 2 OF THE CLOISTER NEXT WEEK 

 

Theo and the Infamous Caravaggio

 Theo is a wonder. On one hand, he grows impatient as we roam through cities. He ignores the wondrous architecture. He is an over sniffer, like some people are over thinkers--he sniffs everything from horses to mozzarella cheese. 

On the other hand, if something catches his interest, he is all in. But how can I begin to explain that it was Theo's idea to visit another church. Yes. It sounds unbelievable. But this is not just any church.

Theo heard about St. John's Co-Cathedral in Valletta, Malta. The outside, built from limestone, is not remarkable. The inside, however, is described as the finest example of high Baroque architecture in Europe. Which means as we enter, we see a dizzying array of gold, tapestries, statues, paintings and all kinds of ornate decoration on the walls and floors. 

The floor is composed of nearly 400 tombstones of knights--each tomb represented by a colored marble slab bearing the crest, coat-of-arms, and epitaph for each knight buried there.

Who's looking at the floor? This place is magnificent. I feel like Alice in Wonderland. 

But Theo is not interested in the architecture per se--no surprise there. He's heard through the cat vine that there are two Caravaggio masterpieces in the church. Who is Caravaggio? 

If you're not into art, you probably never heard of him. If you are into art, you know he is considered as influential as Michelangelo. He's been called an infamous Italian scoundrel, controversial yet renowned, and known for painting everyday people, not just the rich and famous.

His life reads like a novel. While working as an artist in Rome, he killed a man in a brawl and was given the death sentence. He was forced to flee to Naples, then traveled to Sicily and Malta seeking and getting a papal pardon, returned to Milan, then almost died in another fight which left his face disfigured. When he did eventually die, no one knows if he died of a fever or lead poisoning or murder? 

His paintings reflect an intense realism and dramatic lighting. 

One is the "Beheading of St. John." It is one of Caravaggio's biggest works and one of the few he signed. It is estimated to be worth millions of dollars, but impossible to put a price tag on. The exhibit wing is crowded.

Sometimes we go places with Theo and no one is there. Sometimes it's crowded and no one cares. But this time we're wary. We figure he can see the painting, but he should stay in the backpack until the coast is clear. Our plan is that as we face the painting, we'll unzip and Theo can peek out. I'll stand on one side and block the side views. We hope everyone's eyes will be on the painting and not looking around.

Theo doesn't like the plan. He would rather scamper off and sniff the painting.

No way. That is not going to happen. 

He pouts and makes us feel incredibly guilty, citing prejudice against felines. "If I were a dog . . . " Theo is convinced dogs get better treatment than cats. "In France . . ."

We've heard his arguments before. 

"If Chuck were here . . . " That's another one of his favorite arguments. He heard too many stories from Chuck, some true, some exaggerated. 

Caravaggio's "Beheading of St. John" is before us. 

We move in closer. Theo is straining to see. To his credit, he doesn't meow or whimper, but stares at the painting with rapt attention, the way he watches TV sometimes or, I admit, the birds on the patio.

I point out the obvious things--the realistic depiction of the slayer, the lighting on St. John, the use of color, but Theo seems to be oblivious to all those details.

"Well, do you like it?"

He nods. 

Theo likes it. I feel good. As we walk through the church to the outside, I feel on top of the world. "Theo actually appreciates art."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Dan says.

I'm confused. "You saw his reaction."

"Kate, he has that exact look on his face when he's watching the birds on our patio."

He's right. I'm forced to reconsider. Is Theo a Caravaggio enthusiast or bird watcher? A little of both, I think.

Theo Behaves Badly in Valletta

 At first, Theo does not want to go to Malta. He wants to stay in Sicily.  It's the food, of course. He likes fish . . . fish . . . and more fish. He wants to go back to that open air market and smell the fish. He likes the heat of the summer.

What can Malta offer? He wants to know.

We are sailing on the Mediterranean Sea to Malta, an island country between Sicily and North Africa. The natives speak Maltese (98%), English (88%) and Italian (66%). We figure we'll fit right in. Theo is unsure. His Italian is a little shaky,

"Well, Malta is known for lampuki," I explain. "Fried mahi-mahi." Theo squints at me. He likes tuna and mackerel. Mahi mahi? He's not sure. 

Dan and I are excited. We know that Malta has had a long and turbulent history. When other countries tried to dominate the Mediterranean Sea, when Europe clashed with Africa and the Middle East, Malta fought back. Like Sicily, Malta was ruled by Phoenicians, Romans, Greeks, Arabs, Normans, Sicilians, French and the British (in short, practically everyone.) 

During WWII Malta was a base for the Allies. It was heavily bombed by Germany and Italy. Finally in 1964, Malta achieved its independence. In 1980 it was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site. That's the short version, but it explains why walking around Valletta, the capital city, is like traveling back in time. We don't tell Theo any of this. To understand Malta's backstory, you have to understand the ancient world. 

We do a walking tour and are in awe. It is hot--hotter even than Sicily in summer. You need sunglasses and a hat. Our strategy is to suffer less and walk early in the morning, swim in the afternoon, and party at night. But Theo loves the heat. We can hear him softly purring as we trudge through the streets. 

Valletta is a walled city, founded in the 1500's by the Knights of St. John, a Roman Catholic order. Still today you can admire the historic cannons that sat ready and waiting at the port, ready to protect the city from siege. A glimpse of life back then.

Theo doesn't care about the guns. He notices a horse with a carriage. For tourists. Theo insists on making friends. We don't have time. He wants to go over and sniff. Of course. Okay. One sniff, but that's it. Theo then refuses to leave. This has happened before--he's thinking he wants to make a friend. We're thinking--we don't have time.   

The horse snorts. He stamps his foot. Once. Twice. This horse doesn't want to make friends. Theo is insistent. Luckily the driver of the carriage is taking siesta and doesn't care what's happening, but I care. 

"You are behaving badly," I tell him. 

He shrugs.

The only option left is to scoop up Theo and carry him off. He gives us the stink eye.

We ignore his pouting and walk through the town, which is one of the smallest capital cities in Europe, admiring the historic limestone buildings, decorated in the high baroque style. (Who can believe the intricate details?) We navigate through narrow streets. We even spot a lion statue as we mosey along. 

 We enter the section of Valletta called the Upper Barrakka, known for their gardens. Finally, we release Theo. He gives us a withering glance as he scampers among the flowers. 

"You can sniff to your heart's content. Be happy."

 If we served him some lampuki, he would be over the moon. His dried cat food will have to do.

 

The Gangster Cat in Siracusa

 What is Italy really like? How are Italian cities different from American or European cities? The answer can be as varied as the cities in Italy. But one thing is for sure--Italians are good at using what they have to survive. They host open air markets where many locals (and tourists) shop. They offer loads of old churches. The new Italy is built around the old. In every town there is a square and a fountain.

We arrive in Siracusa, a city that has done its best to utilize the lava that over the years flowed down too regularly from Mt. Etna. The streets of this old Sicilian town are black because they were paved in lava. They are narrow and quaint, engulfed on both sides by old structures. 

The open air market is stupendous. They not only display spices, fruits, veggies, fish and meat and many other local products--dishes, for example. You can literally wander around this market for hours.

Theo is in his element. He loves to sniff everything. We hold tight to him so he isn't trampled to death with all the people milling about, but he is leaning over at each stall, trying to figure out what is there and if it is anything he'll like. To eat. 

 

Theo has no interest in fruits or veggies, but when we reach the fish stand, he starts to wiggle. The nice Italian guy working the stand doesn't help.

"Who are you," he asks in English. "Ah, you like the fish, no?" He picks up a filet and waves it in front of Theo's nose.

This is not a good idea. I don't know what the gangster cat would do to get at the raw fish, but I don't want to take any chances. We take a step backward, then smile and wave goodbye.

The market also offers a "how to make fresh mozzarella" demonstration. This is the local specialty and the core of Sicilian cooking. 

 

We step closer to see the process in action. The mozzarella maker is swishing the newly formed mozzarella in its own liquid. He lifts the delicious Italian cheese up and stretches it. 

Theo spots the mozzarella. He can smell it. He is safely ensconced in Dan's backpack, but he is a young, strong cat, and he wants out. Or more correctly speaking, he wants at the mozzarella. 

"Hold tight," I scream.

Dan, as always, is one step ahead of me. He's already anticipated the possible tragedy. He is holding onto Theo with all his might. Theo struggles valiantly. Is it the slightly milky smell? 

Together we realize that if we weren't more alert, Theo would have jumped into the mozzarella basin. And drowned? At the very least it could have caused an unforgivable international scandal:

Cat absconds with fresh mozzarella. Cat swims in mozzarella basin. 

"You are acting like an ugly American cat," I whisper to him as we leave the market. "We raised you better than that."

Later when we're in our hotel, relaxing, we talk about the market.

"Best day ever," Theo says with a big cat smile.  

Really?