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.

 

Chuck Eyes the Bikini Girls at the Villa

How does a cat gain the reputation of being a rascal?

It can easily happen when it has something to do with bikini girls.

I am often amazed at what Chuck knows and yet pretends not to know--when directly quizzed. For example.

In the middle of Sicily, in the middle of a green valley, sits a Roman villa by the name of Casale near a town called Piazza Armerina. This villa has 63 rooms and some believe it was originally designed as an imperial hunting palace, outfitted with an intricate heating and cooling system, indoor plumbing, swimming pool and 42 colorful floors of mosaic tiles estimated to have taken 21,000 days of work (if it’s true that a worker needs six days to complete a square meter of mosaic tile.)

Now you might be thinking--so? I am sure that Sicily is chock filled with villas, but this villa is special. Why?

Well, for one thing the floor tiles in this villa depict scenes from a lifestyle that no longer exists--a very comfortable middle class Roman family life of over 1500 years ago--and the only reason the villa still survives today is that it was destroyed by an earthquake and then covered (and thus preserved) by a landslide.

The earthquake occurred somewhere around 346 AD. The landslide in 1161 AD.

Chuckie decided--when we were in Sicily--that he wanted to see this villa. Was it because it was recognized as a UNESCO world heritage site? Was it because it was considered a “famous archaeological site of cultural tourism”?

When I mentioned these facts, of course, the Chuckster nodded in agreement, a kind of yah, yah, yah. But I know Chuckie. I know how he thinks.

It seems that the truth was a lot more interesting. Chuckie had seen somewhere, I suspect on the History Channel, that this villa had a floor mosaic of BIKINI GIRLS, and he wanted to see those girls for himself.

Now, we’re not talking Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue, but we are talking about a mosaic that depicted women in bikini bathingsuits that went back over fifteen hundred years ago. Could it be true?

The security at The Roman Villa of Casale is very strict. Several years ago tourists were allowed to wander from room to room and actually throw water on the tile floors so they could more clearly see the mosaic tiles which sprung to seeming life when the outer layer of what appeared to be dust was washed away. One day a tourist threw acid, not water, on one of the floors--irreparably destroying that particular floor--so tourists are no longer allowed to throw anything down on the floor. As one wanders from room to room, it is difficult to imagine what the floors must have looked like so many years ago.

Chuck and I kept a very low profile. Luckily, we arrived toward the end of the day. It was in November and as we began to lose the sun, I figured it would be easier for Chuck to peer out of my backpack, where he was hiding, and catch a glimpse of tile floor he wanted the most to see without being seen himself. I was nervous that if one of the Italian guards spotted us, we would be booted off the villa’s property.

Finally, we made it into the Bikini Girl Room, one of the rooms which surrounded the built in swimming pool area that was in the center of the villa. For a moment we were alone. Chuck popped his head out and snuck a peek at the mosaic floor. He remained absolutely still, and I could tell he was impressed.

“There they are, Chuck,” I said. “The bikini girls. Over 1,500 years old.”

He pointed to the girl in the red suit. She was obviously his favorite.

Just as I was snapping the photo as a keepsake, I heard noise from the hallway. A guard appeared. “Signora. Signora.”

It was easy to tell by the frown on his face and the multitude of hand motions that he was ushering me--I mean “us” out of the room.

Luckily, Chuck had ducked back under cover.

As we sauntered outside, I listened for the usual purring that I expected to hear--but this time there was no purr, only a kind of snore.

The kid was already in “dream land,” no doubt, sunbathing on some Italian beach somewhere, flanked on either side by the BIKINI GIRLS.