A small street in the capital city of Valletta. On the whole, Malta is a damn cool place to be. Vibrant as ever in its cosmopolitanism, and so easily the jazz cigarette of places I've visited. (Fun fact: Maltese is the only Afro-Asiatic language in Europe—an eclectic mix between Arabic and Sicilian.) I arrived late in the night and took to the promenade: a winding coastal front stretching from residential, cafe-adorned Sliema to the party bays of St. Julian's. And nothing makes a first impression quite like being cradled by sea and Tina Turner (reverberating kind of omnipresently over the waves from a distant nightclub somewhere—who can complain?) The following day, I'm transported back in time and temperament to living relics like Mdina, the so-nicknamed Silent City. Each town has its own unmistakable pulse, though often of the dusty and dreamy variety, coated in sand and the sepia-layered lacquer of distinctly Maltese balconies. The best part, of course, is that it barely takes any time at all—seventeen miles of harbours and your best tahini, end to end. All the more reason to enjoy it slowly. So I did.