I haven't really written much lately, but today just seemed like a story-day. I also haven't really written anything for this blog in forever, and have been reserving it for pictures mostly, but... well, I don't know where else to put this. :) So here goes.
The colors ranged from blue to grey
all that week. The moment I opened my eyes on that Monday morning there was a
delicious blue in the air; hearing the sound of birds I’d never heard before,
smelling flowers I’d never seen or touched before.
Blue has always meant love,
longing, peace and beauty to me. Blue is the color of the Pacific splashing at
my ankles, and the color of the Gulf tangling seaweed and red jellyfish around
me. Blue is the color of the mountain across the valley from our house; the
contentment of knowing I am Home. Blue is the color of the deep night sky as
fireworks scatter above us. It’s the color of the sky as geese honk south, and
it’s the sound that calls me to follow them. I’ve always wished that I had
wings. Blue is the color of my mom’s eyes as she brushed my bangs back from my sticky
forehead and kissed me, the color of my dad’s eyes as he reminded me of God’s
love and faithfulness.
Monday, October 7, 2013, our first
day in Malta. The floors were tiled, brown and grey. There was a bright summery
feel in the air, and morning smelled of fresh rain drying on dust and stone. I
could hear voices out the open window. One voice I recognized, one I had never
heard before and they were gentle, deep voices. The sky was blue, smudged with
white. Around me was a small room; white walls; narrow bed; plush red
bear-pillow. Fruit bowl on the dresser, oval mirror, a small bar of chocolate.
***
Mornings in Malta were generally
the same. Waking as early as was fair, considering we were 9 hours ahead of our
normal time. Merrie, with her long silver hair tied back or braided, would have
hot water and tea ready for us. Her eyes were sweet, her voice allowed for no
nonsense, though there was plenty of gentleness. Then Doug’s office. The
loveseat in front of the big arched window was probably my favorite spot. I
could see the big office chair, the spare computer, the entrance to the office,
and still the blue sky and a few of the plants that lined the balcony right
outside.
When I had read from the big black
Bible that sat on the coffee table, and when we had laughed a bit, then we
began our daily adventures.
Day one we explored an olive grove.
The air was warm and the sun warmer. The smell of dirt and dust, and mostly the
smell of fresh olive oil filled the air. We watched swarthy faces split to show
white smiles. Dark eyes glinted the sun back at us from a new angle. Sammy’s
accented description of young olive trees, finding shoots in archeological
digs, and explanation of the pressing process was laced with a smile and a
genuine love for his work. His thick dark hands flitted here and there as he
described and detailed to us what we didn’t know and talked about plans for his
grove.
Blue skies stretched down to meet
the blue waves of the Mediterranean. The grey of the sandstone was warm under
my bare feet as we climbed down the rocks to put our feet in the water. The
salted waves splashed us, wetting our sun-hungry skin and clothes.
Tanzonite-blue and white-edged, the Mediterranean felt like summer. We climbed
back up to a safer vantage, willing the moment to last forever. We soaked it in
as long as we could, seated shoulder-to-shoulder, our sandaled feet hanging
over the edge feeling the splash now and then.
***
Moments ended and began. Time passed
surely, but slowly. I don’t remember every moment, but some are rooted deeply
in my memory and I cannot forget them.
We wandered, grin-faced, through
the Classic Car Museum; our hands felt the leather seats of Jaguars and we
snapped photos next to the Black and Yellow of the Atom’s sleek sides.
The narrowing streets of Mdina
called us to wander again, so we did. We ate food and drank wine in what had
been an underground magazine years ago. It was named for Bacchus, but aside
from wine there was nothing reminiscent of the god of riotous merriment. The
timbers were darkened with smoke, or with years and years being lived under and
over them. The garden was cool under the trees, (the umbrella broken by the
wind from a few days before) but warm in the sun. The waitresses were sweet and
attentive, offering specials and a little laughter.
There was a jeweler’s with cases
full of Maltese crosses. Another day, another town, another jeweler, and we
would find watches. I still wear mine every day, and it’s tick is as sure now
as it was the first time I held it to my ear. There were the moats, now full of
tourists, grassy lawns and benches, were still deep and held stories in their
rough sandy-grey sides.
***
Blue is the color of the pool we
swam in, the color of the sky as we stretched out on the red bricks and felt
the hot October sun crawl across our skin. Blue is the color of Doug’s laughing
eyes as he told stories about Australia, Ireland and New York. Blue is the
color of Lizbelle’s brown eyes as she soaked in the love and the warmth of a second
home.
Merrie instructed us on how to get
back home if we got lost. Bus numbers. Look for the palm trees growing between
the left and right sides of the street. Zejtun. Then you can find your way
easily. Blue, purple, pink, yellow and white scarves flitted across our path as
we walked through the market with Merrie. Dark young faces, big smiles,
accented voices asking us if we wanted to buy fruits, vegetables, clothes. One
woman tried to sell her twenty-something son to me for a ridiculously low
price. I blushed and kept walking. Merrie and Belle laughed, jokingly haggled
with her and they finally all agreed that he wouldn’t fit in my suitcase. We
walked on, warmly greeted by friends and strangers both. Coolly ignored by some
of the latter.
Later, having decked us out in pink
and blue, skirts and blouses, having curled our hair and freshened our makeup,
Merrie brought out her camera and her props. We leaned against arches, held
baskets of flowers, and handed back to her the same joy that she and Doug had
poured into us all week.
***
Having made a special trip to the
airport to exchange money, Daddles took us to the big market in Marsaxlokk.
Brilliantly-blue boats, with eyes painted on the front of each one lined the
bay and there was a young fisherman leaning against a pole mending a net. It
felt like we could have been set back two hundred years. The sun-darkened faces
lit with smiles, and there were many different languages being spoken all
around us. At one booth a young Maltese man named Aidan gave us a taste of
prickly-pear liqueur. We decided to buy a bottle each, and see if we could
smuggle them home in our suitcase. Daddles and Aidan conversed and suggested
gifts for our families, and when we had loaded our arms with small knights,
scarves, hand-made jewelry and silver lighters, they wouldn’t allow us to pay
for a bit of it. With a stash of gifts under the table there, we wandered
through the rest of the market to see what else we could see.
Later, we would wander through the
capital city, taking pictures, buying mugs and postcards with the faces of
ancient captains or crosses on them.
***
Grey is not dull and sad for me.
Grey is the color of tea and wool socks. Grey is the color of evenings at home
around a snapping fire. Grey is the feel of spring rains – warm and without the
taste of dust in them. Grey is the feel of goodbye hugs, but not
forever-goodbye hugs.
Grey is the color of the evening
cloud cover, bringing the cool of the sea and the setting sun. We lay beside
the pool for as long as we dared, till the first few droplets of evening rain
sent us inside and Zaru out to re-cover the pool. Grey is curling up on the
couch in the theater-area of Doug’s house, with blankets and dried fruit and
hard pear cider, to watch Narnia. It’s feeling the smooth marbled stairs under
my bare feet, cool and hard. It’s lying on that narrow white bed, staring at
the dark ceiling and the light on the air conditioner, wondering at the fact
that I was thousands of miles from Home. Thousands of miles from family, from
pines and steaming cows and the frozen creek, but somehow home.
***
Evenings in the villa were
sometimes spent simply sitting on the balcony, reading Terry Pratchett, eating
chocolate and watching the sun set behind clouds, hearing the distant sounds of
the sea and of boats bumping docks. Sometimes we spent the evening cooking
together. We pitted hundreds of olives, and then ground them into tapenade. One
evening Doug talked me into making bread. I hadn’t thought bread-making could
be an adventure, but there is something about cooking bread at sea-level, in
the kitchen of a woman who has spent her life cooking for other people, that
turns an every-day job into an adventure. Doug and Merrie watched, his arms
comfortably around her, and later we enjoyed sliced bread with tapenade. I more
surprised than Merrie that it had turned out on the first try.
One evening we spent hours sitting
on the stools on either side of Daddles, flipping through album after album of
pictures; Ireland, children, Australia, grandchildren, the Little Green Island,
friends, more family. There were years of memories stored in those files, and I
felt privileged to soak them in. Another evening while Merrie was off at a
Bible study, we waited, holding our breath, as Doug investigated the other side
of the security camera at the end of the driveway. We knew what number to dial
in case of emergency.
Grey is puffing through the dry
fields with baskets full of pomegranates in our arms, helping to pick a fruit
I’d only ever tasted once. It’s smelling Daddles’ kimchi and realizing that I
love weird food. It’s eating Anzacs and tea in the afternoon.
Grey is listening to stories of war
as we discovered the moats and forts that have stood guard over Malta for
hundreds of years. Grey is looking at the Mediterranean one last time, knowing
it was our last chance to feel the waves slap our legs. Grey is soaking up the
sun and letting it burn our noses and cheeks as we took the Tesla out for a
spin. But grey is also the terrifyingly awesome feel of 0-60 in fewer seconds
than I’d ever felt before. It’s the feel of both arms held straight up and
fighting to keep them there as we sped down the highway. It’s hearing Doug’s
voice as he asked about my childhood and my future. Grey was knowing that that
moment would pass and I’d want it back.
When we got back home and pulled
into the garage, I climbed out of the sleek green car, and let my eyes run over
it. Someday I’d ride in it again, we told each other.
***
Saturday, October 12, 2013: Our
last day in Malta. Grey and blue entwined that day, swirling and catching each
other at random, unexpected moments. I drank my last cup of tea with Mompska,
running my eyes over the pictures of their grandkids and the Dutch door leading
out to the driveway out front. I recognized the sound of Zaru’s voice as he
talked with Doug about the day.
Afternoon came and Daddles offered
to give us a ride on his motorcycle. I went first, in my shorts and a blouse
Merrie had bought me. We rolled out of the driveway and headed for Zejtun and
puttered through the small town before coming back to the house. I suppose it
had a name before, but I’ll forever know it as The Beckiburner, because when we
got back, we decided we needed a picture. It never crossed my mind to be aware
of the hot exhaust pipe, but as it blistered it’s way into the skin of my calf,
I jumped off the bike. That Honda still marks my leg and probably will forever.
Then evening. Dinner with friends,
with Daddles and Mompska, with Lizbelle. Packing our clothes, our gifts, our
souvenirs, stepping out onto the balcony for one more glimpse of the stars and
one more moment in the quiet night, listening to the wind and the dogs. We
wrote notes for Merrie: thanks for the grey and the blue.
We only slept a couple of hours
that night, and I woke to Doug’s cheerful voice. We slipped into our traveling
clothes and shoes, pushed the last few things into our backpacks and quietly
left the house. The sky was a dark blue, and very still. It felt like choosing
Home over home. This time grey was leaving a bit of myself on the sandstone and
the dusty fields. It was leaving Malta’s fall, with her fresh vegetables and
cooler nights, for a rainy morning in London and then the frozen wind of
Pullman’s tiny airport.
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