Francesca Baker

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St Julian’s, Malta

Siesta time. A Mediterranean summer happily hums outside my window, melodies of clinking glasses and local laughter. Bright blue skies melt slick pavements. Impatient car horns want to move in. The pillows feel cool on my head and the sheets crisp on my limbs. Stone walls calm the room as sun beats down outside. A breeze, rustling to get comfy, nudges the windchimes and makes the white gossamer curtains flicker in the sunlight. Warm air and cool tiles.
Later we’ll go out to eat crispy pizza or snack on oozing ricotta from greasy pastry and sip red wine before we walk along the water’s edge and watch love glow in the sea. Flickering lights will reflect in dark crested waves whilst bright blue, red and yellow fishing boats teeter on turquoise sea, their bow-painted Osiris’ eyes resting before tomorrow’s early morning call. I feel at ease. I feel at home.

26 Memory Maps Creative Journey

The place I grew up in isn’t the kind of person I am. It doesn’t infuse my identity in the same way Malta does. I love St Julian’s, and have many memories of evenings here, with different people, at different times. It’s always the same. We eat a dinner of fresh fish and doughy pizza. After, we walk along the water’s edge, beside the sea sparkling under a bright moon. The LOVE statue is lit up, and reflects in the water. We step and sing together. I feel the thrill of relaxation; a warm familiarity, my home from home.

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