"From here to Eternity" a Malta Travel Page by ray_d

It seems, somehow, that life has become too complicated.
So pretty the island.
A bare rock, small, of little consequence, but a unique Jewel in the centre of the Mediterranean Sea.

And yet it has not missed History's notice.
During the preceding millennia history that has made it important enough for countless invaders to need mourn the loss of the flower of their youth on its unforgiving shores.
Victims of forgoten conflicts, they never again will see the country they gave their life for.
Buried under the sparse, corse, dry soil that embraced them, they lie, finally at rest.
The soil they have nourished with their body, it as if it was their own land.

I was born to a Village-Blacksmith and a "town" girl.
She, with her family, had been evacuated from one of the Harbour-side towns.
Towns that were in direct line of fire in the early stages of World War II. These towns were the walled old Cities, already tired from long forgotten sea-borne onslaughts.
This tim they succumbed to a violent battering from the deep blue sky.

I grew up an irreverent youth with the Island on the cusp of transitioning from a 3 rd world hidden treasure to a Mecca for tourism.
Things are not the same anymore.
They are so much better and so desperately worse.

Tourism has changed the future for the inhabitants.
A future that unburdened them from the chains of subsistence-level farming.
It has also taken them into the realms of having to forgo the innocence of life that once existed.

I was one who left to pursue a future.
A life overseas, among feared strangers whom I now call loyal friends.
Friends I count as inseparable an an integral part in my success.

With success came the wish for simpler times.
And with a comfortable lifestyle comes a need to reminisce the past.

July, each year, the Sirens on the island of Melita beckon me with their song.
Without a moment's hesitation, I rearrange my pathetically busy life,
throw deadlines to the winds;
Leave the cell-phone to its panic-stricken stress,
and allow myself the indulgence of a little time in Heaven.

I feel the need to shed my tie,
park the power-suit,
loose the superior-attitude
and in feverish pleasure and unencumbered joy, frolic barefoot on the salt-encrusted limestone of the rugged, sun-bleached coast.

I am young no longer.
I am now the strange guy that speaks Maltese with a funny accent.
The old chap that knows people's grandfathers and the man others greet with intimate hugs.
The Guy that always seems to disappear before you get used to having him around.

Some call me Uncle and most call me Friend, the ones that called me Son have gone to a different Heaven.

The hours in the perfumed Mediterranean-air are precious.
Endless lunches with food of subtle tastes and rough and ready bread and wine flavouring the delicate touch of tepid Sun on sparkling sea.
Nightly drunken conversations of lost loves, unlikely myths, political presumption and childhood indiscretions are the privilege of the young at heart.
Political correctness has little place in this life of straight talk; God's most beautiful creation has an unrivalled place of importance in the Maltese-male's psyche.

The end of the day always comes too quickly.
At sun-down the Cicada choir sings for my unique pleasure and while foreign youth experiment with a week's freedom purchased at a Travel Agent, I hold hands with my Lady and tread the silver path reflected by my personal Moon to the Spiritual sanctuary that cannot be bought by a discount ticket.

This is one programme that can only be accessed by memories of the reborn and I hold the only password.

My wicked Sirens; again, your song has charmed another willing victim to his temporary oblivion.

My beautiful Island, soon I will breathe the perfume of your seductive skin.
You will always be the Lover I can never escape from