When I first planned to go to Malta in May of 1992, I had done so without the benefit of really knowing anyone of Maltese heritage. My interest was purely academic (I am an anthropologist), although I met a Maltese man about two days prior to my leaving New York in May, 1992. He was the doorman in a West Side apartment building of a woman with whom I had had a dinner date. When I told my date of my interest in Maltese culture, and that I was travelling there in a few days, she suggested that I meet the doorman. He and I talked for about two hours. Among other things, I noted into the first of my six brand new field note books, that I had met a Maltese man who had thick black hair and large bushy eyebrows. I theorized that his excess of hair was to assist in cooling him from the hot sun.I arrived in Malta with no firm plans regarding where I would be staying. My library readings told me that Malta was made up of three islands and that the larger Island, Malta, had the most accommodations to offer. I took a bus from the airport to the capital city, Valletta, and inquired about sleeping arrangements. During that time, I had taken up a conversation with a Scottish fellow. He had been to Malta fourteen times, he said, so I took him to be an expert on where the best places to stay would be. He offered to assist me in finding a place to stay. He was a tourist, though.
We travelled by bus, the least expensive method of travel for a tourist in Malta, to a town near the water. There, I was introduced to a Maltese man, about seventy years old, who was a good friend of the Scottish fellow. My immediate need was to find a place to stay. Arrangements were offered to me by this Maltese man at a very reasonable price, to stay for three days in a one bedroom apartment. The apartment belonged to the Maltese man's sister-in-law. She lived in Italy, and would not be using it until July, when she annually returned for a summer vacation in Malta with her children.
My decision now was to find long term accommodations in this seaside town, or to move on to a better location for me to spend the summer. The Maltese chap who arranged accommodations was chatty, and eventually permitted me to record portions of his life history. But, he said, this seaside village would soon be full of Maltese vacationers, and in his opinion, there would be great difficulty for me to get to know too many people here. He was willing to talk with me, but even his time was limited. And although he knew of a few people in this village, he agreed that I would be best to seek out another site for the location of my study.
Through the Scottish fellow, I was introduced to another man and his wife. They were German tourists who had just arrived in the seaside town from the smaller Maltese island of Gozo. Actually, the name of the island is Ghawdex, but most non-Maltese call it Gozo; it is easier to say Gozo, and surely easier to spell.
The German couple had spent a few days in the home of a Maltese woman. The German man said the place, a bed and breakfast on Gozo, was reasonable and rather remote: "In a small farm area," he said. I now had a reference to a remote, quiet section of Malta, and had the fantasy that maybe there was the possibility of staying with a Maltese family, I thought.
The home was that of a Maltese family, and the German man told me that the proprietress was very friendly. Perfect, I thought, I could stay with a Maltese family. That would be ideal. I called the woman who ran the business, and she told me that I could stay for a few days, but she did not encourage long term residents. Hers was a transient, bed and breakfast, she said. I agreed to her conditions when she stipulated that she would assist me in finding other accommodations. This was a business she conducted also: that of a realtor.
When I arrived in Gozo at the ferry, the Maltese woman and her husband were there to greet me. Her husband acts as the all-around, maintenance man and chauffeur. They generally picked up all first-time visitors to her bed and breakfast. Instantly, I felt some sense of connection to this Maltese woman. She, too, felt as if we had known each other. But it was a simple fact that we never met before: she had not been to the United States, and I was never before in Malta.
After a few days, the sense of familiarity was as strong as ever. Charlene was very nice to me, and I noticed that she talked to me more often than she spoke to her other house guests. Then one day it hit me. Charlene's home had pictures on the walls of her two daughters. The picture on the wall in the dining room, of her daughter and son-in-law contained the image of the man I spoke to in New York City. Her son-in-law was the very doorman I had met and spoken to that night before I left for Malta.
I had not before made the connection, because she said her daughter in America was married to a man with a good job, and Charlene had neglected to mention that he often had a part-time job as a doorman. Some Maltese men had jobs in buildings as maintenance men or doormen or the like. It seemed that for some Maltese newcomers, this was a way for them to get into the work scene in New York, or to make extra money. Needless to say, when the connection was established that the only living Maltese I had ever met was her son-in-law, I was invited to spend the remainder of that summer in her home.
We even became friends in a special way. When I returned to New York City, she asked me to look after her daughter and son-in-law. Her daughter and husband, the doorman, became friendly with me in a way that only those who have had a similar connection can relate to. Charlene and I corresponded almost monthly, to this day.