Wired Temples, that fountain of information, trivia and links attracted my attention to Malta Calling.

It was bound to happen. And now there’s a good chance that it will.

I mean a tongue-in-cheek account of present-day Malta seen through the eyes of your unsuspecting but observant foreign resident (who happens to be an established writer). Ever since Peter Mayle brought the lavender, truffles and dolcevita of Provence to a wide audience of Anglophones, I’ve often wondered why Malta’s quirks hadn’t attracted much literary attention. Forget the knights, the temples and the Maltese falcon. What I mean is the here and now, the day to day hussle and bussle, attitudes and concerns, eccentricities and idiosyncracies. The archaic editorials of local newspapers, the strange spectacle of local politics, the beauty of a summer sunset, the rude waiter and the kind librarian, the pompous politician and the snobby columnist, the potholes and the returned migrant, the linguistic muddles and misunderstandings, the claustrophobia and the worries. The odd interview with a local politician, the chance meeting with an up-and-coming popstar. Perhaps a spot of unexpected hanky-panky leading to an analysis on attitudes to sex in a predominantly Catholic country.

I’ve got a feeling that it will read like an American version of Stephen Clarke’s A Year in the Merde, which started off as a bit of a joke and ended up as an international bestseller, translated into 14 languages (including French). Incidentally the French title is God Save La France and my friend Elodie (an Amelie Poulain lookalike) is best friends with Clarke’s former lover/present girlfriend. I promise that that’s not a blague – the Elodie in the book is actually named after her.

Here’s a typical passage from A Year in the Merde in which the narrator, Paul West, is learning how to navigate his way round the ubiquitous Parisian turd.

As you walk, your subconscious scans the pavement ahead. It learns to spot the tiniest bump on the horizon, and prepares your feet to step instinctively around it. Ask a Parisian how they manage, against all odds, to keep their feet clean. They don’t know. It’s an instinct that is part of being Parisian. Those 650 people a year who go to hospital after slipping on merde – I bet they’re tourists, or provincials, or the old and infirm suffering from depleted insticts.

Other chapters include Make amour; not war and Liberté, égalité, get out of my way.

But back to Cultural Learnings of Malta for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of United States and America. This could seriously be a breakthrough for Maltese tourism and might actually surpass Michael O’Leary’s decision to bring Ryan to Francis and Evarist. If it takes off, as I hope it will, Malta could get some fantastic publicity completely gratis. Let’s just hope that we don’t get all colonially sensitive on Michael's ass. And did we forget to say that it might turn out to be a really good read, even though we're more into Clarke than Bryson. Awguri Michael! We’re looking forward.

PS: the project I mentioned in my last post is also book-related. A few ideas have been simmering nicely. You never know. Michael and Lanzarote may be trying to outdo eachother during next year's rentree litteraire.

¶ 3:23 PM