What follows is the fourth and final part of our quasi-epic trip to Gozo. Quite quasi, to be honest, but I've made an epic out of it anyway. If you would like to start at the beginning of the saga, it may be less confusing.

Or maybe it won't.

The choice is yours.

Why you should never go to Malta on a Sunday.

On Sunday, we got up early and caught the helicopter back to the island of Malta, where we spent the day and the night.

Valetta is the capital of Malta. It is surrounded by an ugly sprawl of suburbs and resorts, and is much larger and more crowded than I expected.

We stayed in the Westin resort. Being an American company, it had ice machines (a rare treat in Europe!), large rooms with two large honest-to-God double beds. We had a balcony and a sea view. It also has a casino and pool-side bars and a small rocky beach as well as a pool. Being an American company, the tea was horrible and the drinks overpriced.

That was OK, though. We were in San Julian, right by Paceville. The area is covered with pubs and restaurants and extremely LOUD bars and discos.

But first, we headed to the center of Valetta. I had one, and only one, cultural agenda on this trip. (Well, there were the neolithic ruins, but Elvis loves ruins, too, so it doesn't count.) I wanted to see the Cathedral, which has two Caravaggios. Actually, I just wanted to see the Caravaggios. That was the main reason we decided to spend a night on Malta, in fact. Well, that, and avoiding a 5am helicopter flight and four hour layover at the Malta airport.

We were in the Cathedral just long enough to determine that the chapel containing the Caravaggios is not open on Sunday. Then they chucked us out because Mass was starting. Since we were only 25% Catholic (ie. Me), we decided not to stay for Mass.

And that was it, really. Nothing, and I mean nothing is open in Malta on Sundays, just one or two souvenir shops and a handful of caf�s. And all the "Malta Experience" places, which are glorified audio-visual shows and very cheesy. For some reason, audio-visual "experiences" are the big thing in Malta. Gozo had a couple, too. Valetta had about ten. We skipped them all.

So we strolled around the point that the old-section of Valetta is on. Well, to be honest, we hiked up and down steep hills. So steep, that some roads were actually staircases. Long ones. Which explains why my calves were aching on Monday, I guess. We enjoyed the lovely sea-views from way up there, sidestepped the drivers of horse drawn-carriages who desperately wanted to take us for a ride, in both senses of the word. We stopped at a dodgy pub to have a beer and use their even dodgier toilet.

Oooh, another toilet story. I was down to one piece of kleenex, aka toilet paper. The rest had been used up during Maggie's tar incident the day before. The restroom (poor choice of words, as it's hard to imagine anyone resting in that fetid dungeon), not surprisingly, did not have any paper. The pub itself, which was populated by unwashed men festooned with truly interesting, yet poorly executed, tattoos, was far to scummy for anything as refined as napkins. Not knowing that Maggie had to go as well, I didn't tear my remaining kleenex in half and save some for her.

So Maggie went to the kiosk next door and ordered a cup of coffee. Instant coffee; it was a classy place. She then made the guy give her a napkin (aka toilet paper) to go with it. She then had to wait while the kid who worked there ran to get change, as she only had a larger bill to pay with. If she didn't have to go before, she certainly did by the time that was finished.

When we finished our beers, we walked around the little park between it and the kiosk. Great views. And port-a-potties.

Oops.

I didn't check for toilet paper. I didn't want to know. After all is said and done, though, I liked the pub. The patrons were nice, if a bit rough. They smiled a lot, all the better to show off their rotting teeth. One of them got up, unasked, and turned on the bathroom light for me, all the better for me to face my doom, I guess. In short, I'd hang out there. Provided I had at least two packs of kleenex in my purse.

One hundred meters up the hill was a nicer pub, larger, with a cleaner clientele. Even some women.

Oops again.

We took a taxi back to St. Julian, and had the driver drop us off at Spinola Bay, which is lined with restaurants. Most of them, unfortunately, Italian. Now, I like Italian, but we live there. But by this time, Elvis had to go to the bathroom, Big Time, and he was getting more than a wee bit crabby, so we picked a nice one where we could sit out on the terrace and look out over the bay.

The food was fabulous, and we were able to order some Maltese food from the Italian menu. I had stufato di polipo, or octopus, cooked with pine nuts, raisins, hot pepper, anchovies, tomatoes and other goodies. Rather Sicilian, and yummy in the extreme. Maggie and Elvis had the roast suckling pig, which was huge, and mouth-wateringly tender. I don't remember what Mr. V had, but he ate it so fast I never got a good look at it anyway. Maggie, of course, had cheesecake. For dessert, I had another half bottle of wine, Elvis another beer, and Mr. V another coke. With ice.

Did I ever mention that Mr. V loves ice? He does, and he has all the waiters in Milan trained to bring him his coca-cola with a big glass of it. He loved the Westin and its ice machines on every floor.

Then we walked back to the Westin. We explored the resort a bit. Here's an odd thing: the "shopping wing" was closed because it was Sunday. Unheard of in a place like that. Maggie and I waded some more, tar-free. Then Elvis headed to the casino, taking Mr. V with him. Maggie and I headed out jewelry shopping. The only shops open were at the mall, a short walk away. They had some kind of kareoke contest going on that you could hear from blocks away.

But I got my jewelry-- a white-gold cross to wear with the white gold earrings and bracelet that Elvis gave me for Christmas. I also managed to get the final volume of the Otherworld series, which excited me almost as much. The two bracelets I bought were good deals, by the way, and incidental.

Hey, Elvis was spending the afternoon in a casino, so give me a break. I don't buy jewelry very often. I got some plain gold hoops in Valenza two years ago for thirty dollars, and that's about it. Of course, the fact that Elvis always buys me jewelry is neither here nor there, although it is most appreciated. I have been blessed with an excellent husband.

Dinner was at a place called Arthurs. Somebody must have told Arthur he needed to have a theme to make it in Paceville. The theme he chose was horses, and he themed with a vengeance. The booths were set up like stalls. With salt licks. Plus horse-blankets and feeders filled with hay. Jockey uniforms and horsey pictures hanging on the walls. A wide screen tv in the front playing old horse races, possibly Ascot from about twenty years ago. Country music.

Poor Arthur. We liked him. And he's so lonely. Perhaps in the summer, things will perk up just from the sheer volume of tourists.

It won't, unfortunately, be for the food.

The mains were good. The bragioli, beef stuffed with minced pork, was a bit tough but tasty. My fish was fresh and cooked well. I actually ordered the beef, but I switched with Elvis because the fish had cheese on it. It was good, but cheese on fish is heresy for Italians, so he hadn't even asked. The first course was a baked pasta dish, maccaroni with ground beef, rather like Greek pasticcio. It had been made sometime in the last week or so, and reheated so often that the top layer was an inpenetrable, solid mass. Once, it had cheese on top, but repeated reheating had turned it into mortar. Elvis' fish soup was OK, though. Our mistake, we shouldn't have listened to Arthur on that one.

The apple pie was good. It seemed to have been made with cornbread, and was more cake than pie, but it was good. Unlike the coffee, which was instant and made in the microwave, even my espresso. Maggie's macchiato did not come with frothed milk, or milk at all, but a healthy layer of canned whipped cream, which is a new one on me.

But how, you ask, did you know it was made in the microwave?

Because we heard the damn thing dinging, that's how. In fact, we heard the ding of the microwave throughout the meal. We were the only people there, since the other table had up and left soon after we arrived, so we just tried not to think about it.

It explained a lot, though.

Arthur gave me his card: "Be watered and fed like a thoroughbred."