The flight from Belgrade was quiet, clear, as if the sky knew that I was going to a place I did not know, and which was waiting for me as if it had known me for a long time. Below me, as I descended, Malta appeared - small, stone, lit by the winter sun that reflected off its walls like gold dust. It was the end of December, the time of the holidays, the time when the world changes into lights and silence, and when even adults hope for something they can't say.
Step by step, as if I'm treading time - the narrow streets of Malta lead not only forward, but also backward, right into the heart of the centuries. But now, it was all shrouded in holiday sparkle. The streets of Valletta were decorated with stars and sparkling garlands, lamps hung over the stone alleys, and the air smelled of the sea, almonds and the new year. Through the windows of old houses, you could see small pine trees, candles, the colors of childhood.
Malta's architecture blew me away. Old stone houses, with wooden balconies painted in blue, green and red, looked out on the world with a peace that could not be faked. Each wall had its own wrinkle, each threshold - its own story. It's as if the whole town is one old man, wise and patient, who doesn't tell you everything right away, but lets you slowly understand him.
Malta does not speak loudly. She whispers. And as I walked through those streets, my footsteps echoing on the pavement, I felt the city getting under my skin. Decorated squares, children smiling under the lights, tourists who stop to take pictures of everything, even the wind that smells of the sea and lemons - everything was part of one picture that I slowly entered.
I strayed often, on purpose. Some streets were so narrow that I could touch both walls with my hands. Some led to churches, some to the sea, and some to silence. And while the holiday lights were reflected in the wet plates after the evening rain, everything seemed unreal - like dreams that are not forgotten.
In the evening I sat in the square, drinking hot coffee and watching the lights twinkle. People were passing by, carrying bags with gifts, children were jumping around the tree, and soft music could be heard from a window. I was there, and it was like I was everywhere. And as I sat there, I felt that I wasn't looking at Malta's face - I was looking straight into her heart.
That's me through the streets of Malta.
Not a guide, not a tourist.
Just someone who arrived from winter to the sun, from everyday life to a fairy tale.
Only someone who, among the lamps and old houses, felt how the past and the present, and silence and song, and stone and wind - can fit in one breath.
