There’s No Champagne Left in Malta

At 4:15am on July 31st, I awoke to do a truly ridiculous thing: fly 1,200 miles to Malta, attend a wedding where I knew exactly 2 of the 600+ guests, and fly back the next day.

This, my friends, is what life is all about.

For those of my readers who are a bit rusty on their European geography, Malta is an alluring little nugget quietly basking year-round in the Mediterranean sunshine, a few hops south of Sicily. For such a diminutive island (or, 3 islands, actually), it has robust history of rubbing shoulders with great empires of the east and west – think, Phoenicians, Romans, Ottomans, Arabs. And if my parochial-school upbringing still serves me well, it’s one of the few European countries to garner a mention in the Bible – which perhaps explains the Maltese people’s strong Catholic bent. I’ve been told the islands are very proud of their 365 churches – one for each day of the year.

History aside, I confidently left Hamburg armed with little more than a carry-on bag, great sunglasses, a snort-worthy Bill Bryson paperback, and a confirmed reservation at the luxe Hotel Phoenicia. Malta experts will assure you: you don’t need much more.

Several hours and 1 connection later, Lufthansa flight 4128 touched down in Luqa. It did not escape my attention that the Malta International airport is cleverly designed to maximize the arrival impact to the visitor by immediately requiring one to step outside: as the airplane door is flung open, the weather-worn northern European stumbles onto the stairs descending to the tarmac, pauses for a moment to allow one’s eyes adjust to 500% more sunlight than usual – gasps at the stunning, stark blue Mediterranean sky above and rich limestone landscape below – and involuntarily cries ” Malta! WOW, MALTA!!!!!”

Ok, maybe that was just me.

I admit, I’m an easy target for the Maltese Travel Bureau. I’m totally beguiled by Malta and its people, having spent a glorious week there about a decade ago. Pure delight and anticipation coursed through my veins during the 15 minute taxi ride to my 5-star hotel which I had quietly booked without consulting my more frugal-minded husband. The Hotel Phoenicia is the grand dame of hotels in Valletta; it exudes a quiet, assured elegance that is not contrived. I appreciate its tasteful appointments, the lobby’s sparkling chandelier, the fabulous pool, and of course the enthusiastic flirtations of the 60-something bellman.

Having risen earlier than the roosters, I conceived a notion of taking a long and satisfying nap to prepare myself for the festivities. This, fair reader, was not to happen. With my “travel diva” sensors on full alert, I knew I could not waste precious hours in slumber. A small chat with the bellman allowed me to outline my program: I wanted “˜insider Malta’, and I wanted it in 90 minutes or less. This fine chap gave me a knowing nod, whipped out his cell phone, and 6 minutes later produced driver “Tony”, who would prove to be at my service for the duration of my trip. Tony assured me of his qualifications: he spoke no fewer than 6 languages and had an impressive grasp of the history of Malta. I duly appreciated his comfortable, air-conditioned Mercedes taxi, and was soon to learn of his trained eye for women’s clothing (having owned several dress boutiques at one time), which proved handy in the hours to come.

Our whirlwind tour included the Upper Barracca Gardens in Valetta, which command an unparalleled view over the Grand Harbor, plus an incredibly scenic drive through the winding streets of the “Three Cities”. A dash through the yacht harbor, a slowdown by the sites of the “Water World” and “Midnight Express” movie locations, a detour through a thoroughly decked-out village celebrating a “festa” that weekend, a cruise by Fort Rinella and Kalkara’s hidden beach, and then probably a few other things I’ve forgotten, and back to the Hotel Phoenicia with ample time to prepare for the evening’s main event.

Tony cast a bit of fear into my heart when I asked him to drive me to the wedding that night. He replied “Certainly! But, what are you planning to wear? You know, in Malta people dress very formally for weddings. You must have a gown fit for the Oscars!” My eyes widened with concern as I envisioned my knee-length wrap dress still stuffed carelessly in my carry-on. Oscars? Gown? Panic set in, and I promptly fled into the hotel to consult with the concierge. After listening with raised eyebrows to my obvious lack of preparation, she sternly instructed me to go put on my dress with all accessories and return to the lobby for further inspection.

With all the moxie I could muster, I sashayed back into the lobby 10 minutes letter in full regalia. I appreciated the approving stares of passing menfolk, but knew that a more stringent test would soon be administered. Upon my approach, the concierge brightened considerably and said with an almost unsettling amount of surprise “my, you look quite nice now!” (and how did I look before?!) “Very smart, very stylish. Maybe this will be ok. But you still should have brought a gown. Unfortunately, all the stores are closed for the day, and so this is your only option.”

My pocketbook breathed great sighs of relief at the latter statement, and I resolved for future international wedding attendance to obtain appropriate dress code consultations well in advance.

At 6pm sharp, a more freshly-scrubbed Tony arrived to pick up a more fully-coiffed, bejeweled, and babed-up me. His bushy eyebrows raised in surprise as I approached the car. “My dear! I almost didn’t recognize you! You look fantastic! The dress suits you perfectly. The line is perfect. The color is perfect. You will be fine!” While perhaps he overstated the situation a wee bit (it was, really, just a wrap dress, and you can’t very well hide the effects of having undergone childbirth under that”¦), I took it that the Maltese ascribe a high value to wedding attire, and so I was pleased that I would not totally embarrass and dishonor my family name.

Upon our early arrival at the church in San Pawl tat-Targa (yes, that’s a name of a town), I tried to mingle casually with the other 600 guests while awaiting the bride. My very clever opening line, as I strode up to a friendly-looking Finnish gal and her handsome, chain-smoking Italian boyfriend, was “why are we all standing outside?” This garnered a few shrugs, but at least I’d found a friend. Mari expressed wonder at knowing 600 people to invite to one’s wedding (her comment was “I’m from a small Finnish town near the Russian border. We do things a bit differently out there.”).

Soon enough, everyone was comfortably seated inside (I panicked a bit over identifying the “bride side” vs. “groom side”, but it seemed to be more of a free-for-all seating plan), and sparkling bride Maria and dashing brother Joseph made an elegant appearance in a white vintage Rolls Royce convertible. This was my first experience with an authentic Catholic mass wedding, and I (as well as the other foreign guests – hailing from no fewer than 19 countries) was grateful that it was conducted in English. Admittedly, I was a little disappointed that the priest didn’t come in with the powdery, fragrant swinging incense thing, but I guess they’ve modernized. Those mundane thoughts quickly vaporized when brother Joseph (a world-renown opera singer – seriously) took the stage to sing “Ave Maria”. Mind you, this was sort of akin to having Gauguin paint a picture for your living room. It was absolutely heart-stopping. People stopped breathing. Even the birds stopped chirping. All of nature paused to listen for 5 glorious minutes.

And then, about another 90 minutes later (mind you, this was Catholic MASS), the priest finally pronounced them “Man and Wife”, and after a very chaste kiss the newlyweds and their 600 guests poured outside to generally rejoice, snap photos and sneak a few quick smokes.

Now, all this has been leading up to the star of this report: The Reception. Under heaven and earth, there has surely never been a wedding reception like this one. I suspect even the legendary Wedding at Cana (with all that water-to-wine business), if measured up against The Reception, would be found sorely lacking. As I entered the luxurious, antique- and art-filled Villa Arrigo, my travel diva sensors missed no detail. My approving eyes swept over the tasteful furnishings, the glove-clad servers, the hand-carved banisters, the white rose arrangements. But, there was more: we were escorted outside into the immaculately maintained, romantically-lit Marquee gardens. After I was able to tear my gaze away from the gorgeously uplit fountains, I noticed the real, no-fake-stuff-here SWANS gliding gracefully across the marbled pool. I gasped at the perfect ice sculptures (this, I have only seen in movies), then strolled over to the stunning hilltop view of the lights of Malta. All this wedding “shock-and-awe” piqued my appetite, and I spent several bewildered minutes trying to decide between the lobster table, the caviar table, the sushi table, and the made-to-order wrap table. Someone thrust a glass of Taittinger in my left hand and a canapé in my right, and I had to resist falling to my knees and thanking God Himself for bringing me to this once-in-a-lifetime event.

As I was chatting up some of the pink-bedecked bridesmaids, Joseph appeared out of nowhere with a bottle of champagne in one hand (“champagne” would prove to be an important theme for the rest of the evening – truly, I have never seen such a quantity of fine golden bubbly!), 2 glasses in the other, and firmly escorted me off to his secret “VIP” lair up on the hill. Note, as a rule, I don’t get to spend a lot of time in “VIP” lairs, but this was a refreshing exception. In said lair, stylishly-clad guests lounged about on stone benches, sipping endless glasses of bubbly and beckoning the wait-staff to keep our canapé trays full. I accepted all hospitality gratefully, and settled in for an entertaining evening of jovially tasteless Italian jokes (helpfully translated to English by Joseph’s friend Anton) and the type of general banter that arises between old, old friends. Little beknownst to me, I was sitting amongst folks with impressive musical pedigrees: Joseph, of course (a regular at the Met), several of his friends who comprised a popular Maltese rock band called Winter Moods, and who I perceived to be the “Mick Jagger” of Italy – Riccardo Cocciante. This quiet, gentle man with very wild hair was accompanied by an elegant and ever-watchful wife – clearly having beaten off a few groupies in her day.

The evening really got started when the brass band took to the stage and started sending dance vibes through the audience. And, much to everyone’s absolute delight, Joseph grabbed a microphone for an impromptu concert. Not much later, our tranquil Riccardo – apparently having had a firecracker stuffed into his belly button – burst onto stage with dance moves and sounds of which I haven’t heard the likes of in years. This musical dream team was further augmented by talented members of the Winter Moods, and the crowd truly went wild!

This brings me to a topic which I have been sorely remiss in discussing: the Bride and Groom. Maria, our blushing bride, looked to have jumped out of the pages of Modern Bride, with perfectly coiffed hair, a spectacular dress, a sparkling smile, and the genuine glow that is emanated only by a truly in-love bride on her wedding day. Groom Ian looked equally dashing – as dashing as a man can get when standing next to such an all-eclipsing beauty – and they delighted their guests by dancing on stage as Joseph-and-team regaled us with the pop hits of America & Italy. Throughout the evening, Maria had managed to accomplish something that few brides can pull off: the ability to greet each of her 600 guests as if THEY were the special, beloved guest of the evening. I calculated that if she spent only 1 minute speaking to each guest, it would take a mere 10 hours for her to cover her entire guest list. Good thing Maltese wedding receptions last a very, very, very long time.

One of the highlights of the evening was meeting, and having a surprisingly articulate conversation with, Joseph’s 3-year-old son, Xandru (pronounced “shandru”) – decked out head-to-toe in a white suit that stayed startlingly crisp and clean throughout the festivities. We like to joke that Xandru is my daughter Sophie’s future husband in the making, so I regaled the poor lad with stories about my brilliant daughter. He, somewhat bewildered, asked “but, where is she? Does she want to come play?” and I had to explain that she was at home in Germany. He winningly replied “Oh. Is that far?”

Sadly, all good parties must eventually come to an end – although this one, as it turned out, was not destined to end until strains of dawn appeared in the sky. At 2:30am (after many telephone calls pushing back the pick-up time “just another hour”¦”), my driver finally drew the line and called to say “it’s now or never, lady”. Since taxi drivers are quite difficult to come by in the middle of the night in suburban Malta, I bid sad “adieus” to the bride, Joseph, and many new friends. I had now been awake for nearly 23 hours, and I had a plane to catch the next morning. On my way out, as I dragged my heels and sniffed a little, little Xandru called out to me “Jennifer, where are you going? Are you leaving already??!” I had to laugh that this 3-year-old had out-partied me, but I suppose that is the Maltese in him.

6 hours later, an alarm clock rudely dragged me from the depths of glorious slumber, and I awoke with a smile and smudges of mascara still on my face. A perfect weekend was capped with breakfast on the massive stone balcony of the Phoenicia, overlooking beautiful gardens and beyond to the Grand Harbor. Tony whisked me away to the airport, and I departed Malta with fabulous memories, a handful of photos, and some stylish glass coasters that were gifts to each of the wedding guests. Back at home as I sip my tea and place it back down on my Maltese coaster, I recall with fondness this amazing weekend”¦ one I will not soon forget.


Some photos of the weekend:

Much of Malta is long, narrow, mysterious streets:

A view over the Grand Harbor:

In the Upper Barracca Gardens:



A traditional Maltese fishing boat in the yacht harbor:


Movie afficionadoes will appreciate some of the boats from Kevin Costner’s “Water World”:

A Maltese neighborhood decks itself out for its patron saint’s festa:

These are actually made of finely-painted wood!


Back to my digs:

And finally, the Big Event:


The newlyweds depart in a vintage Rolls Royce convertible:

The fabled reception locale:



I snuck a shot of Riccardo ..

The boys jam:

Sneaking a moment with the bride (us, clearly needing some powdering!)
CIMG2234 edited 550 Maria.jpg

And some quality time with Joseph up in the “lair”:
CIMG2237 edited 550 Joseph.jpg

The next morning, back at the hotel, a scenic end to a perfect weekend:






Thank you Tony, for the fine driving!

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6 Responses to There’s No Champagne Left in Malta

  1. Andrew says:

    Incredible. Simply incredible. A grand adventure and a gripping telling!

  2. Mom says:

    WOW! WHAT A WEEKEND!!! Lucky, lucky you! It was a gorgeous event in a gorgeous place!! We gotta go there!!

    Great writing too!! Thank you so much for such a wonderful record of your trip!

  3. Dad says:

    Hats off to Tony the faithful taxi driver who made it all possible. Listening to Joseph sing Ave Maria at his sister’s wedding and then sing a duet with Riccardo Cocciante accompanied by the Winter Moods rock band at the incredible reception sounds like world-class, show-stopping, stop everything, heart-stopping, once in a lifetime events. Hope the marriage works out. Great report.

  4. Lorie says:

    I am simply so very jealous!

  5. Nina says:

    Wow! I laughed out loud several times reading this. You really are quite the story teller… Got the gift, you do! Malta looks amazing!

  6. Lorie says:

    UPDATE your blog sista!

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