Larnaca

Yes, ok, I missed a day. I was too busy tangoing in Paris.

Actually there isn't any interesting to write about a day spent moving from Malta to Cyprus, bus, check-in, plane, customs, taxi, ad nauseum. I arrived about 2000, was so tired and also had been fed on the plane so I didn't bother to look for dinner. Then there were the small annoyances; I was dealing with Greeks here after all. I couldn't figure out to turn on the air-conditioner. Luckily it wasn't a sultry night. In the morning it turned out that the window must be closed to enable a magnetic switch. So I will start with the first full day. This is one end of Finikoudes, a beach with a palm tree lined promenade. And rental umbrellas.

For lack of moxie to choose something I went to the old castle in Larnaca to join a free walking tour of the artists' district. The tour guide was personable and knowledgeable, but the group was large and it was hard to hear what she said. Anyway there was a bit of history of the castle and the Turkish invasion in 1974 and subsequent partition of the island. The situation remains unresolved. Where the artists are concerned a few have returned to their ancestral properties in Larnaca.

The first workshop we visited was a statuette maker using moulds, cast from the original object or from a scaled down copy of some archeological find, followed by a maker of, well, pretty objects. You can see that I don't know much about artistic methods, though I like admiring pretty objects.

Here is a potter and the tour guide. One of the things he made was the clever Pythagorean Cup. A couple of people bought one from his showroom.

The tour ended shortly thereafter. The guide suggested eating on the back streets rather than the more expensive seafront and bade us farewell. I realised that with all our wandering in the artists' district we had come full circle. Larnaca's streets are not rectilinear but are descended from its fishing village days.

I was ravenous at this point. Ruling out any place offering any kind of foreign breakfast, I picked a kebab restaurant. This proved to be a good choice and my main was preceded by mezes of pickled vegetables, olives, tzatziki and fresh bread.

Feeling uncommonly tired, I siestaed the afternoon away.

In the evening, I obtained the help of Vasillis, the exceeding helpful concierge, to book a tour to Famagusta the next day. I wanted to do a Segway tour of Nicosia on Sunday but that was their day of rest. As I say they are Greek here. So I'll have to do a walking tour.

I explored the promenade and surrounding streets. There are a lot of upmarket stores here catering for the tourists. Lots of waterfront apartments.

And food and drink establishments all  along the promenade. Tuck Inn, haha, I bet the owner was chuffed when he thought up the name.

Dinner was just outside this Church of St. Lazarus. But when I asked for the calamari, they said no fish today. What's with that? Was it because of Friday? I'll find out some day.

I tried some honey puff pastry from this street vendor.

Theme from Last Tango In Paris

But speaking of Last Tango In Paris, the theme from the eponymous film is another piece that I want to learn to play, but it won't sound as sinuous and sleazy as Argentinian composer Gato Barbieri on tenor saxophone. (Go for the live performance from the Latin Quarter, not the Oliver Nelson orchestral version.) But Philip Sear shows that a piano arrangement can sound lovely too.

The nihilistic lyrics by Dory Previn, written later to be sung by Andy Williams, who is usually wrongly credited, are also a perfect match to theme of the film. The best vocal I've heard is the version by Marlena Shaw, which oozes cynicism.

Another favourite of mine is the cool version by Gotan Project.

Last Gelato in Valletta

No, I don't think they will make a film of it.

So, it was my last evening on Malta and again I caught the bus to Valletta. Buses on the waterfront road are so packed during rush hours that I had to wait until about 1900 to set out. Unlike the night before, which was warm, sultry and without breeze, it was pleasantly cool and breezy tonight.

The problem though was that the culinary offerings were 50% Italian, 30% Maltese, and 20% something else, and I was sick of the first two. For the rest: fast food, no; Indian and Chinese, there are better in Australia; Greek, I'll be in Cyprus tomorrow night. In the end I settled for some crumbed plaice with salad and chips.

Hearing an electric mandolinist launch into pop oldies such at the Beatles' All You Need Is Love, Here There and Everywhere, and other standards like Hotel California, I decided to have a last gelato from Amorino's while listening. And so endeth the evening, and my sojourn in Malta.

St. John's Co-Cathedral

This was the only major sight left to see. In fact I had a glimpse of it during Sunday services, but photographs were not allowed then. I debated with myself whether I wanted to pay to view and take pictures. In the end I decided to because an audio guide was included in the admission.

Why is St. John's a Co-Cathedral you ask, as did I. Well, in short it means the bishop's seat is shared between two cathedrals, in this case the other one is in Mdina.

By the way St. John's is not the one that has the dome in skyline photos of Valletta. That's the Basilica next to the Anglican St. Paul's Pro-Cathedral.

But before that I attended the noontime firing of the Saluting Battery near the Upper Barrakka Gardens. One can pay to view from closer but it's otherwise free.

After lunch the crowds were thinner at the entrance. As it turned out, the long queue was for groups. As an individual I walked right up to the ticket counter.

The interior was very impressive, though I can't say that I like Baroque.

There was so much detail that if there were a dictionary entry for High Baroque, it would be a picture of the interior of St. John's.

In the foreground are the elaborately decorated tombstones of the Knights.

If Baroque is your sort of thing, then ask me to show you the numerous other photos I took of the nave and side chapels. It would take more than a blog entry to do St. John's justice.

Mellieħa and St. Paul's Bay

With only a couple of days left on Malta, today I'm going to investigate Malta's best sandy beaches. Mellieħa is a large region so I rode the bus for about an hour until it reached a suitable beach, which turned out to be Għadira Bay. Here I found the rental umbrella or baked lobster variety of package tourism, complete with the AYCE buffet restaurants.

The water did look a lovely clear shade of aqua though, reminiscent of Balearic or Carribean waters.

A large Lascaris Red Tower overlooks the beaches from a hilltop.

So I caught the bus back and stopped at San Pawl (patron saint of cats and dogs, haha) Bay to take a few pictures.

Malta is believed to be the island where the apostle Paul was shipwrecked en route to Rome and worked his miracle of not succumbing to snakebite.

In the evening I rode the bus to Valletta again, dined, but only found restaurant musicians who played Nardis; the accordionist was having the night off. I was becalmed, waiting for a change of wind towards Cyprus.

O Cantador / Like A Lover

One of the pleasures of travel is leisure to explore connections, especially in music, one of my loves. I noticed that the melody to Like A Lover on my Sérgio Mendes album was familiar. A search revealed that it was an English reworking by Alan and Marilyn Bergman of the Dori Caymmi/Nelson Motta classic O Cantador.

Of course! I had the Flora Purim interpretation for years and never noticed the identity, because Like A Lover is a breezy, wistful love song in the Sérgio Mendes rendition, while O Cantador is slow, dark and shot through with pain. This is not the first reworking of a Brazilian song that changed the character. In the case of Manha de Carnaval / A Day in the Life of a Fool, it's the other way around, the English version is the sad one.

You don't need to understand Portuguese to feel the pathos in this Anna Setton interpretation which is set to be a definitive rendering. You can also follow the Portuguese lyrics using my attempt at translation. Travelling in Europe gives me (possibly false) confidence in such tasks. There's a pun in the Portuguese lyrics: cantador / canto a dor, singer / I sing of grief.

Anna Setton is a promising talent and I look forward to her first album; it seems she has done only concerts so far. When I get home I'm going to track down a music sheet and practice both versions. I know the slower version will be harder to play. A bit of mistiming and the mood is damaged.

O Cantador (The Singer)

Amanhece, preciso ir
Dawn, I must go
Meu caminho é sem volta e sem ninguém
My road has no return and no one
Eu vou prá onde a estrada levar
I go where the road takes me
Cantador só sei cantar
Cantador only knows how to sing
Ah! Eu canto a dor
Ah! I sing of grief
Canto a vida e a morte, canto o amor
I sing of life and death, I sing of love
Cantador não escolhe o seu cantar
Cantador chooses not what he sings
Canta o mundo que vê
He sings the world he sees
E pro mundo que vi meu canto é dor
And the world sees that my song is grief
Mas é forte prá espantar a morte
But it is strong to ward off death
Prá todos ouvirem minha voz
For all who hear my voice
Mesmo longe
Even from afar

De que servem meu canto e eu
For them my song and I serve
Se em meu peito há um amor que não morreu
I know my bosom has a love that never died
Ah! Se eu soubesse ao menos chorar
Ah! If I had at least known to cry
Cantador só sei cantar
Cantador only knows how to sing
Ah! Eu canto a dor
Ah! I sing the grief
De uma vida perdida sem amor
Of a life lost without love

Valletta evening

With unlimited bus travel I have taken to commuting from Sliema to Valletta for dinner. There is a better choice of restaurants there, and I like the open spaces, which make Sliema feel like a cabin.

It's a pity there is little hotel accommodation in Valletta, but there are apartments for rent and I browsed a few real estate agent windows.

An accordionist is playing Besame Mucho as I enter the city gate.

I located the Trattoria Zero Sei which I tried to eat at on Saturday. This time they were open, and there was a 1 hour gap I could fit into. Ensued this (paraphrased) conversation with the chatty proprietor (you can easily guess my questions):

We make our own pasta and all the recipes are authentic Roman. We don't use cream or butter in Carbonara. I sold two restaurants in Rome and brought my family here. Life is better here. I thought if I can break even I'm a happy man, but every night I'm booked out. I realised the Maltese like to eat because it's a crowded island with few outdoor activities. 06? Ah that's the area code for Rome, ha.

You picked us because of the Keep Calm sign on the glass door? You know, I don't want to spend money on advertising—advertising is expensive—because then I would have to raise my prices; how could I offer pasta for 9€? So I draw this silly sign by hand and the tourists go ka-chug, click, click, and I get my publicity, ah ha ha.

I didn't have the Carbonara, but the Amatriciana which indeed is typical of the Lazio region. The home made spaghetti was indeed al dente.

A trio of double bass, bass guitar and saxophone set up outside the court of justice. When the bass started plucking an even eighths intro. I bet with myself it would segue into The Girl From Ipanema. I won that bet. I won the next bet too about Manha de Carnaval. Sitting on a bench, I savoured the bars, tears welling in my eyes. It was homesickness, but for me home is not a place, but my beloved activities. I resolved to learn every piece in the MPB repertory.

At this point the trio packed up. The accordionist was still playing. I sat on nearby steps as he went through the old favourites: La Vie En Rose, Tico Tico, El Choclo, Sway, and Autumn Leaves.