Some Days You Are The Pigeon…

Authors note: Writing this nearing midnight in the airport in Malta waiting for a delayed flight that will now be arriving at 1 am.

My grandmother had a saying, “Some days you are the pigeon. Some days you are the statue.” Yesterday was a statue day. I have been collecting pictures of statues and pigeons along the way, just because it makes me laugh. Today, we needed some laughs.

On reflection, I have possibly been getting a little cocky about our travel skills. We have made lots of mistakes along the way (“Wait, you need a visa to get into Turkey?!?!?”), but all of them were easily fixable (“ah, you can buy them in the airport for 50 Euros”) or minorly inconvenient (“switch train platforms, we need to go the other way”). Maybe that cocky made us careless. Maybe, we were destined for a fall.

As we were plotting our weekend in Malta as a stopover between mainland southern Italy and Sicily, I was confident that we would navigate it all. In retrospect, there were some warning signs that we should have been more attentive.

First, Malta required us to download the VeriFly app, fill out 10x the paperwork of anywhere else, and upload multiple copies to different places. And the kids had to get COVID tests.

Second, southern Italy has more in common with Albania than northern Italy, and, while searching for COVID tests for my Mom when she was departing, it was MUCH harder than it had been anywhere else we have been. In addition, fewer people spoke English and most of the people we spoke with were far less friendly and helpful than basically anywhere else we have been.

But Mom had gotten a COVID test in the airport the morning of her flight, and I had the lay of the land in the airport before we arrived. We got the kids rapid-tested (Antigen), had McDonald’s for breakfast (don’t judge), and headed to the gate. We couldn’t upload the test results because we were too close to the flight, but the fine print said we could bring written copies. In line at the gate as we were boarding, things began to fall apart.

The woman checking tickets and papers said, “this won’t work. Wrong test.” We had shown these papers to two other people before us, so we were surprised. Quick googling, this time with more scrutiny over test types accepted for different age groups revealed that antigen tests worked for unvaccinated adults, but not children 5-11, who required a PCR. Shit.

Booted from the plane, we wait for a rental car.

Then things moved fast: luggage tags were surrendered so our bags could get off, frantic instructions given to the Granos to get where they needed to in Malta, I took the kids and set off to figure out how quickly we could get a PCR test, while Theresa hunted for alternate flight options that might get us there later and fought to get our flight credits transferred. We still got this.

We don’t got this.

The next available flight was the next afternoon from a different airport. The only place to get a PCR test was a half hour away in downtown Bari. The only opening (discovered after a frustrated Italian woman on the phone sent me her WhatsApp to text with her) was at 4pm. Results would back the same day if you paid a 30 Euro “urgency” on top of the 60 Euro fee. Shit.

OK, deep breath, let’s salvage what we can. “Kids, google hotels near Bari with a pool.” Refined after some thought to indoor pool (it was cold and cloudy), we found a place near the testing site. Theresa booked us on the next flight out, which would get us to Malta at 3pm- our flight out wasn’t until 10pm the next day, so that gives us some time. I found a rental car, just like the one we had turned in.

The rest of the day was like moving through mud. The rental car place didn’t get our online booking for a half hour and refused to just rent us a car without it. The hotel pool only had “family time” for one hour, it was directly when we had to get the kids tested. We circled for 15 minutes looking for parking near the testing site before I finally gave up and parked illegally. The testing site had a numbering system I didn’t understand, and we waited in line for a while before being impatiently pointed back to the place to get numbers and waiting again. They gave us reams of paperwork to fill out, but the only pens were attached to the counter, meaning we could only do them one at a time while in the way of everyone else. They initially were not going to accept electronic versions of the kids’ passports, which I had left with Theresa at the hotel.

Oh, and meanwhile the airport ride I had arranged for us in Malta said that we “hadn’t confirmed,” so the Granos were on their own to get there. The host refused to give me a phone number at first, so all of our communications were a three-way VRBO message to text and back and forth with the Granos, whose flight was late (doubtless because of us). The host had a “conference” at 4:30pm, so if they didn’t make it in time, they would have to wait until much later to get in. The host testily informed me that he had been at the room waiting for them since 2pm, when we were supposed to arrive. When they did arrive and rang the bell, nobody answered, and the host was no longer responding to my messages (turns out he fell asleep because 3pm is siesta time here), leaving them waiting outside (and me hoping they were in the right place) for an hour.

Not the kids’ favorite COVID test. Or mine.

A couple hundred Euros later and a nasal excavation that left the twins, veteran nasal swabbers at this point, slightly dazed (Ava’s was surprisingly fine), we returned to the car to find, not the ticket I feared, but blocked in by two other cars with just inches to spare on either side. Fine. Back at the hotel, we go down to the pool (which is awesome looking) to find it’s in a spa and they heavily frown at the idea of having kids there – displeasure they make known by being mildly unpleasant.

But were we settled in a nice place with a beautiful pool, a garden, and fountains. The Maltaese host woke up, let the Granos in, and they sent us pictures of the lovely house, the stunning rooftop view, and the cafes they found nearby. The spa had massages available. There were lots of options for dinner, and we decided on pizza for the kids and sushi for the adults.

The Grano’s were having a different experience

But just as we were hopping into the pool, in Rome, our friend and neighbor Erin, mother of kids’ close buddy Cole, had her purse stolen with her credit cards, passport, and cash in it, leaving her stranded far from their hotel with only her phone. The police were not helpful (“Take this report and maybe the train station will let you on to get back to your hotel. Maybe.”). A flurry of calls, WhatsApps, and texts later we had figured out how to get them a ride to the hotel. We investigated ways to get them cash and a credit card, including driving to Rome that night or flying to Rome the next morning. But ultimately, after hearing from a friend who had been stationed there and talking to Erin, we figured out that Western Union would likely work to get her cash in the morning (it didn’t). The Embassy was closed for the weekend.

Sigh.

The only bad gas station meal I’ve had in Italy

The next day was basically more of the same. Terrible gas-station breakfast (and gas station food in most of Italy could be served at most American restaurants), technology still not working to upload travel docs, ridiculous silliness at the airport, and the suspense of whether they were going to let us through the border once we actually landed in Malta (after some persuasion, they did).

But once we did get to our place in Malta, it was even cooler than I thought an island that had been inhabited by layers and layers of different civilizations for at least 5,000 years, has perfect weather, is brilliantly walkable, has delicious food, and stunning architecture could be.

Of course, then they wouldn’t let us leave…

30Hrs in Malta

Marvelous Miss Reno