Malta: IV

by gurdeepmattu


We walk, through Mdina, as so many others have done, the worn limestone, the cars taking up whole streets, the balmy air.  There is talk of criminology, discourse analysis, marriage, lactose-intolerance.  Someone is nearly run over by a reversing car.

We head back to St Julian’s and there are some nightclubs and groups of angular nut-brown teenagers smoking shisha pipes.  It smells of apple, of cherry, of deodorant and post-modern adolescent, all the knowledge with the same unfettered desires and unrequited passions.  It was torture, my time around, and I look at it like you might look at the Sun, blinking through nascent tears and a searing blockade of a decade of retreat and manoeuvre.

We drink a decaf on the balcony and I turn in for the night listening to hip-hop on my Sansa headphones.   They make MP3s sound like a tape deck and I’m back in front of the AIWA taping John Peel.