A Jewel of the Mediterranean
The Republic of Malta is a small island nation floating approximately 93 kilometers south of Sicily, Italy. Its capital, Valletta, is a city where Mediterranean history has folded upon itself in countless layers. Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, the Knights of St. John, and the British. This small island, owing to its geographic position, has been ruled by many civilizations.
The city of Valletta was systematically constructed by the Knights of St. John following the Great Siege against the Ottoman Empire in 1565. Named after Grand Master Jean de la Valette, the city is lined with buildings made of honey-colored limestone that gleam under the intense Mediterranean sun. Narrow alleyways, balconies, the sound of church bells. Everything speaks of history.
The official languages are Maltese and English. Maltese is a distinctive language strongly influenced by Arabic, and walking through the streets, its sounds reach your ears. The climate is Mediterranean, and the early summer when I would visit is a season when the breeze from the sea feels pleasant.
This two-night, three-day journey is a trip to walk alone and feel alone. Because it is a small city, I can walk slowly, breathe in its air, and sense the flow of time against my skin.
Day 1: Arriving in the City of Stone
In the morning, I landed at Malta International Airport. The airport was small, and I was able to step outside quickly. On the bus ride to Valletta, through the window I could see the dry land and scattered honey-colored houses. There was a dry brightness typical of Mediterranean islands.
I got off the bus in front of the City Gate, the entrance to Valletta. Passing through the gate with its modern design, a steep slope stretched out before me. Republic Street. Stone buildings lined both sides, and people walked threading between them. Dragging my luggage, I headed toward my accommodation.
The guesthouse was in the heart of the old town, down a narrow alley. It was an old stone building that had been renovated, and when I opened the door, cool air touched my skin. The stone walls protect the interior from summer heat. I put down my luggage and opened the window. The wall of the building opposite was right in front of me, and through the gap, I could see blue sky.
I spent the morning walking through the city. I passed through Republic Street and headed toward St. John’s Co-Cathedral. The moment I opened the door, I gasped at the splendor inside. Frescoes by Mattia Preti adorned the ceiling, and tombstones of the Knights were embedded in the floor. Each tombstone was decorated with coats of arms and carvings, making me hesitate to step on them. In the silence, tourists walked with hushed voices. Caravaggio’s “The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist” was also on display, and I stood transfixed for a while by its contrast of darkness and light.
I had lunch at a small café near the cathedral. I ordered pastizzi, a traditional Maltese dish. These are pies filled with ricotta cheese or mashed pea paste, with a crispy texture and just the right amount of saltiness. It was the kind of place locals also stopped by, and at the counter, elderly men were chatting in Maltese.
In the afternoon, I headed to the Upper Barrakka Gardens. A park at the end of Republic Street, and climbing the stairs, the magnificent view of the Grand Harbour spread before me. The blue sea, the Three Cities across the water, ships moored in the harbor. The wind was strong, and I leaned against the railing while holding down my hat. The view from here tells the story of why the Knights of St. John chose this place. The terrain as a fortress, the natural harbor. Behind the beauty, strategic intent shows through.
At noon, cannons are fired at the Saluting Battery. Tourists gather, cameras ready. A thunderous sound echoes, smoke rises. A tradition once performed daily to announce the time continues to this day.
In the evening, feeling somewhat tired, I returned to my accommodation. I took a shower and lay on the bed. From outside the window, I could hear distant voices and the sound of church bells. The sounds of Valletta.
At night, I went out again. Valletta at dusk shows a different face from the day. The stone buildings are dyed orange, and soft light illuminates the streets. I walked along Strait Street, searching for a restaurant. I entered a small place down a side alley, and inside it was bustling with locals. I ordered rabbit stew, fenkata. A traditional Maltese dish, the meat simmered in red wine was tender, falling apart easily. Soaking bread in it, the rich sauce filled my mouth.
When I left the restaurant, nighttime Valletta was quiet. Street lamps lit the cobblestones, and somewhere a cat was crying. On my way back to the guesthouse, I looked up at the sky. I could see stars. The Mediterranean night sky.
Day 2: Memories of Sea and Stone
In the morning, breakfast at the guesthouse was simple. Bread, jam, coffee. Morning light streamed through the window, illuminating the table. Today I decided to venture a bit further and visit other places on Malta.
I took a bus to Mdina. About thirty minutes from Valletta, it’s an ancient city located inland. It was once Malta’s capital and is called “the Silent City.” When I got off the bus, a city surrounded by walls appeared before me. I passed through the gate and walked along the stone-paved alleyways. There were few tourists, and it was quiet. The buildings were old, and the weight of history could be felt in the walls.
Emerging from a narrow alley, I found myself in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral. A beautiful Baroque building, the interior was filled with a serene atmosphere. The floor tiles were decorated with intricate patterns, and stained glass cast colors as light streamed through. I sat on a pew and stayed in that space for a while.
Before noon, I walked along the walls of Mdina. From there, I could see the entire pastoral landscape of Malta. Fields, stone walls, the sea visible in the distance. The wind was strong, and my hair was disheveled. This place is a tourist destination, yet at the same time it is where people live their lives. Balconies with laundry hanging, children playing in the alleys.
For lunch, I ate ħobż biż-żejt at a café near the walls. A round bread filled with tomato paste, tuna, capers, and olive oil. A simple sandwich, but the flavors of the ingredients came through clearly. The taste of the Mediterranean.
In the afternoon, I returned to Valletta by bus. I was tired, but I felt like walking a bit more. I headed to the National Museum of Archaeology. A museum displaying Malta’s history from prehistoric times, it is particularly famous for the “Sleeping Lady” statue unearthed from the Tarxien Temples. The rounded stone sculpture conveys a softness that seems impossible to believe was made thousands of years ago. Walking through the exhibits, I realized that this small island had been a place of human activity since before the common era.
When I left the museum, the evening light was illuminating the city. I headed to the Upper Barrakka Gardens once more. I wanted to see the scene at a different time from yesterday. The Grand Harbour at dusk was dyed gold. Ships moved quietly across the water, and the buildings on the opposite shore reflected the setting sun. I sat on a bench and simply gazed at that scene. The wind was becoming slightly cold.
At night, I entered a wine bar on Strait Street. I drank Maltese wine while picking at olives and cheese. At the next table, a local couple was quietly conversing. The bartender, noticing I was alone, called out, “How do you like Malta?” “It’s quiet and beautiful,” I answered. He smiled. “This city is something to be savored slowly,” he said.
By the time I returned to my accommodation, the streets were almost empty. My footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. In the distance, a dog was barking. I entered my room and lay on the bed. I had walked a lot today. My feet were tired, but it was a pleasant tiredness.
Day 3: A Morning of Farewell
On the final day, I woke up early. This afternoon I would have to head to the airport. I packed my bags and thought I would walk through the city one more time.
Morning Valletta was quiet. The shops were not yet open, and I could only see people cleaning. I walked down Republic Street and headed toward the Lower Barrakka Gardens. This one is quieter than the Upper, with fewer visitors. Morning light illuminated the Grand Harbour, and the water’s surface sparkled. I sat on a bench and gazed at the scene for a while. Soon, I would leave this place.
Leaving the gardens, I descended toward the harbor. The waterfront was lined with restaurants and cafés. They were not open yet in the morning, but I could see people preparing. Walking along the sea, I could hear the sound of waves. Ships passed by, seagulls cried.
I returned to my accommodation and checked out. The owner said, “Come again.” Carrying my luggage, I walked through the streets once more. My feelings were different from the previous days. There was a premonition of parting.
Before noon, I entered a café near the market for a final meal. I ordered aljotta, Maltese fish soup. A tomato-based soup with white fish, garlic, and herbs. Simple, but deeply nourishing. Soaking bread in it as I ate, I reflected on this journey.
Only two nights and three days. A short stay, but I had breathed the air of this city, walked its cobblestones, and heard the voices of its people. Valletta is a small city, but within it lies a long history and the lives of people living in the present. Because I walked alone, I was able to notice these details.
In the early afternoon, I took the bus and headed to the airport. Outside the window, the same scenery I had seen when I arrived flowed past. Honey-colored houses, dry land, blue sky. The city of Valletta grew distant.
At the airport, I completed the boarding procedures and waited for departure. Through the window at the gate, I could see the runway. Planes were taking off. Soon, I too would take flight.
I boarded the aircraft and took my seat. The sound of engines resonated, and the plane began to move. It ran down the runway and eventually lifted off. Through the window, I could see the island of Malta. A small island. In its center lies the city of Valletta. Surrounded by the blue Mediterranean Sea.
A Tangible Memory Within Imagination
This journey is an imaginary one, a place I have never actually visited. Yet, as I wrote these words, I felt as though I had walked the cobblestones of Valletta, felt the wind of the Grand Harbour, and tasted the pastizzi.
Perhaps travel is not only about physically going somewhere. Imagining, researching, and walking in one’s heart. That too is a form of journey. The city of Valletta truly exists, and its history, buildings, and cuisine are all real. I combined them and wove a story from the perspective of a solitary traveler.
An imaginary journey that nevertheless feels as though it truly happened. It is a world woven from respect for that land and the power of imagination. Someday, when the day comes that I actually visit Valletta, this imaginary memory and the real experience will overlap. At that moment, I will surely be visiting a city I already know for the very first time.
Valletta, Malta, jewel of the Mediterranean. A city of honey-colored stone. There, layers of time have accumulated, and people continue to live today. If this imaginary journey becomes the impetus for someone’s real journey someday, nothing would make me happier.
