So I took a pain pill and went out to lunch.

Let me explain.

Suddenly, my feet have been announcing themselves. Like, “HERE WE ARE!”

Ignored for 60 years, they suddenly are like the middle child of appendages. Any attention will be fine. Even negative.

After two days of paying WAAAAY too much attention to them. (“Yes I KNOW you are there. And I also know you miss your hiking boots, sweetie. But, it’s hot here in Malta. And I’m hot.  Trust me, so will you be. We NEED to wear our sandals, OK? And we have our supportive sandals, isn’t that fun?!”)

And then, like bratty children, no matter how I cajole and empathize, they act out and ache for days. Little shits.

And and I don’t want to be in a situation to see how yet another country has remarkably better health care than my own. That is SO depressing. American healthcare is great for gunshot wounds. Very good. In fact, we LEAD THE WORLD* in gunshot wound care. We are VERY experienced.

Anyway, turns out my feet are are swollen and aching because of edema and because Malta is humid. (Or I have heart, liver or kidney failure and this will be my last post.)There’s not much I can do to treat it except keep my feel elevated, reduce salt and wait for my body to acclimatize.

In the meantime, my rings don’t fit, only my hiking boots fit (don’t get excited, bratty feet) and one pair of adjustable sandals.

But I’m in freakin’ Malta. I’ve gotta walk. There are views to see, restaurants to try and old stone forts and architecture everywhere.

Walk. We. Must.

So I took a pain pill and went out to lunch. I wanted to see if, once stoned, my feet would let me walk on them and be like, “hey, no worries, dude. Whatever…”.

I wanted to learn if I would still be able to function. Or at least enjoy my dis-functionality.

As it turned out, it was kinda both. My feet remained swollen but ached less. And I cared less. Win-win.

So I left Ron back in the apartment and walked to the harbor. Holy crap! The boats in this marina are crazy huge. The kind of boats, like the Martha Ann, that cost $575,000 a week to charter. (Look up Yacht Martha Ann on You Tube…)

Your charter fee includes sleeping for 12, though it forces you to select your least favorite two friends and put them in funky pull out beds (hey, what do you expect for half a mil?!).

It comes with a crew of 22 who do everything to sail the floating mansion, clean, cook and look after you and your 10 favorite and 2 least favorite friends. But the cost of food and drink is on you.

And if you are cruising on the Martha Ann, I don’t think Pringles and Fanta will keep your guests happy.

Later, Ron, (another) Sara, David and I met a few crew members from the Martha Ann. They were both very nice young women and had been working on the boat for three years. One was head of housekeeping and the other was a bookkeeper. They sailed all over the Mediterranean, Caribbean and even back to the States where the owner lived.

It seemed like a fabulous life and something I might have enjoyed in my 20s-30s.**

Until they told us the long and sad story of another crew and the owner’s witchy wife who could never be satisfied (…get your head out of the gutter. I’m talking standards here…) and made the cruising a living hell. I shook my head in empathetic agreement but thought, “Yup, life. Bad bosses happen on both land and sea”.

Now, October, the boat is slated for dry dock and maintenance. So these young women had a couple of months off. Malta’s airport, home of many discount airlines, was beconing them to Europe.

Anyway. We were talking about lunch, right?

I learned a bit at this lunch during which I stared slack-jawed at the world on a side-walk cafe.

1. Just because you CAN get it zipped does not mean you should wear it. Seriously.
2. It is easy to pick out Italian women. They are the ones in the four inch stilettos and PULLING IT OFF.
3. Caio-caio is like buh-bye. Seriously. That’s a thing.
4. It is easy to pick out the Brits. They are in the big, floppy hats wearing sensible shoes.
5. And it is easy to pick out the Americans. They are the ones with the hot pick wrist bands with laminated name tags hung on lanyards around their ample necks. They are following a small woman holding up a bright pin wheel on a tall stick.

Sigh. They are the cruisers.

People, people, people. If you are reading this blog it’s either because you know me and want to follow how my usually ridiculous behavior plays in other places. Or, you are an older traveler and you are curious about independent traveling.

Cruising is not independent travel. It saddens me that Americans are so afraid (PETRIFIED!) of the rest of the world that they need the protection of 4000 other Americans and a 200,000 ton boat.

Second sigh. Oh well, to each her own.

Personally, I would rather stagger along the harbor (um, feet are SORE, remember?) meeting locals by asking directions and when suddenly they decide to simply walk me to my destination, chatting the whole way, bonus!

Because people are generally nice. And gracious. And happy to show you their little beautiful part of this great big wonderful world.

*I totally made this statistic up. But it sounds logical, right?

** Johnston offspring: do not look up super-yacht crew.com, learn about training and certification for becoming a yacht crew member.