Did I ever mention why we decided to go to Gozo?

We wanted to go somewhere, what with the holidays and bridging opportunities. Angie wanted to go to Hungary, which is where she and Bruce are now, in fact. But there were problems with flights if we only went for a long weekend, which is all Elvis and Mr. V could spare. Amsterdam? Flower festival or something, fully booked. Barcelona? Convention, fully booked. Copenhagen? Been there, and wouldn't mind going back, but Elvis had been hoping for something warmer. Monica, my fabulous travel agent, suggested somewhere in the Middle East (bad idea these days), Morocco (very, very tempting) and Gozo. Gozo? That sound's like something out of the Muppets! Yes, Cocktails, you were right. How could I possibly pass up a place with such a fabulous name?

The hotel was beautiful. Our room had a balcony with a view, a living room with couches, comfy chairs, satellite tv, and a big table where the four of us played Wizard at night, accompanied by a bottle of white wine we got to-go at the restaurant or the champagne Maggie bought at the airport. We had two twin beds pushed together, with twin sheets and twin coverlets. Elvis called houskeeping, and they came and made it into one big bed. Which was better, although someone always has to sleep in the gully.

We were on half-board, which usually means poor service, a severely abbeviated menu, and whatever dregs the kitchen is willing to spare from the "paying" tables.

Not this time.

Good Lord, was the food fabulous. And so much of it, too! First course, main, dessert. We had to purchase our own wine. Big deal. The first night, I had a filet that was tough and fatty, although Maggie's was perfect. I mentioned it to the waiters when they came to clear the plates. They offered to make another one, but I declined. I'd had more than enough to eat.

So they made us a chocolate soufflé instead. With chocolate sauce, vanilla sauce, or both. I had both. And they made us one every night. Unbelievable.

In fact, we had dessert at almost every meal. Chocolate soufflé, chocolate gateau, apple pie with custard. So, you see, it was a blessing in disguise that it was too cold to swim. It will be weeks before I get up the courage to try on my swimsuits.

And it won't be one of the bikinis, either.

On Friday, we slept in a bit, then went for tea in the cliff-top bar with the fabulous view as we'd just missed breakfast. That's another thing about the hotel: they made a fabulous pot of tea.

While we were caffeinating ourselves, Maggie and Mr. V returned to the hotel from their morning walk. They did not sleep in, possibly because they had not had housekeeping turn their two twin beds into one big double. Anyway, they returned with a car and driver they'd hired for the day, but couldn't find us, and left.

So Elvis talked to the staff, who said it was a lovely, hour and 15 minute walk to Victoria (or Rabat in Maltese. I'll stick with Rabat. It's shorter.) It was a beautiful day, perfect for walking, and there was that souffl&3233; to think about, so off we went.

I imagine the staff, who we thought were our friends, are still laughing. Maybe they do that to all the tourists. In any case, it took us two hours, and it was not a lovely walk. Rabat and its citadel are the highest points on the island. We started at the coast. Can you say uphill? Along the main road, or small highway, really. Two lanes going in either direction, and home to the island's only stop light. No shoulder on the road, either, just a bit of a curb that we hopped on and off when the deluges of traffic appeared everytime the light turned green.

Gozo, as I said, is small. But boy-oh-boy does it have a lot of cars. And we trudged along, smelling the fresh exhaust when there was traffic, and fresh manure when there was not. Trying to avoid getting shat on by the swarms of birds hanging out in the kilometer or so of road that was tree-lined. Contemplating the small shrines set up to other pedestrians who had been killed strolling along the same road.

Yay us.

There were diversions. We passed a long row of fig trees hanging over a stone wall. Gozo is covered with stone walls and terracing. I looked for a fresh fig. I craved a fresh fig. But the only ripe ones were already on the ground, being squished under our feet and the tires of speeding cars.

And there was a large rock on the edge of the road. The only one. That I promptly tripped over. It was well after the fig trees, so I had no excuse. Trust me to pull that one off. It was large, it was obvious, I saw it in plenty of time, I tried to avoid it. I just missed.

All in all, we were pretty cheerful. Until Elvis got crabby after the first hour or so. When Elvis gets crabby, so do I, eventually. This is because Elvis just won't stop until everyone else in his vicinity is as miserable as he is.

The last half hour or so, which is how long it took us to walk from the outskirts of Rabat to the center, more steeply uphill, was pretty fraught. Then we found a café on the main square, with food and plenty of beer, where we sat down and I inspected my brand-new humungous blister. We drank plenty of Cisk, and Elvis had a chicken breast sandwich, and I ate fried cheese with a salad that kept falling off my plate. More beer, and we were ready to tackle the five minute walk up to the citadel.

Lovely, gorgeous views from the citadel. You can see the whole island from there. Then we walked around the old quarter a bit, hopped in a taxi, and had him drive us down to the harbor, where we found a workingman's pub, and sat outside on benches drinking beer and watching the boats.

Later, we moved around to the other side of the pub, where the sun still shone, sat on ancient stone benches and basked a bit with more beer and two old dogs who decided to plop down by our feet for a nap. It was nice to just hang out with Elvis. We don't seem to do that enough anymore.

Then back to the hotel for more Cosmic Wimpout and cocktails in the cliff-top bar with Maggie and Mr. V. Our new pals at the bar (ie. the bartenders) brought us a big tray of cheese and sausage, just like they had the day before. Maggie and Mr. V told us about their day, which involved stopping at each and every toilet they passed.

Guess Maggie shouldn't have had those prunes at breakfast.

After that, dinner, which we took in the more casual restaurant. I had a fabulous pizza-like concoction. No cheese, but potatoes, olives, onions, capers, herbs and tomato sauce. They left off the anchovies, as I asked for a little salt as possible. Warning: food in Malta is very salty, and I spent the entire trip being bloated. But, hey, no swimsuit, so we had chocolate gateau for dessert. After that, it was up to our room for another round Wizard and another bottle of wine.

It was a good, good day.

To be continued....