Vignettes from Malta part 1
Leaving my mark
I was wandering around through the narrow streets of Malta looking at the buildings, wondering why the second stories seemed abandoned and what those arches were doing behind the windows. It must have been about quitting time because there were several cars on the road, which made walking a little more dangerous.
While I was looking up at a point of interest, I stepped into what I thought was sand. I looked down and realized that it was freshly patched cement. I pulled my foot out, looked around for anyone I could tell and then, not seeing anyone, walked away quickly. That was not how I was expecting to leave my mark in Malta.
Age is just a number.
Sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for my chest x-ray, I notice that the woman kiddy corner form me has a pink bag like the one that was given out at the University of Malta to new international students. We start talking, and when someone else comes into the waiting room, I move closer. There is some good give and take as we ask about why we are there, what we are going to study and all of the other usual subjects that people at the university cover when they first meet. Then she asks:
“So how old are you?”
“Old,” I say.
“33?”
“42.”
“That’s the same age like my dad.”
Awkward silence. “Yes, I suppose it is. How old are you? 21?”
“20.”
Sigh. And then the conversation continued about other things like Turkish coffee and Ankarra.
Spinal Tap was here
Our oven has an indicator that goes up to 11. Because, you know, 11 is one hotter than 10.
I was wandering around through the narrow streets of Malta looking at the buildings, wondering why the second stories seemed abandoned and what those arches were doing behind the windows. It must have been about quitting time because there were several cars on the road, which made walking a little more dangerous.
While I was looking up at a point of interest, I stepped into what I thought was sand. I looked down and realized that it was freshly patched cement. I pulled my foot out, looked around for anyone I could tell and then, not seeing anyone, walked away quickly. That was not how I was expecting to leave my mark in Malta.
Age is just a number.
Sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for my chest x-ray, I notice that the woman kiddy corner form me has a pink bag like the one that was given out at the University of Malta to new international students. We start talking, and when someone else comes into the waiting room, I move closer. There is some good give and take as we ask about why we are there, what we are going to study and all of the other usual subjects that people at the university cover when they first meet. Then she asks:
“So how old are you?”
“Old,” I say.
“33?”
“42.”
“That’s the same age like my dad.”
Awkward silence. “Yes, I suppose it is. How old are you? 21?”
“20.”
Sigh. And then the conversation continued about other things like Turkish coffee and Ankarra.
Spinal Tap was here
Our oven has an indicator that goes up to 11. Because, you know, 11 is one hotter than 10.