Post 7 - Malta, Gozo and Joe
A Toast To: Shakin’ Bake.
Song Pairing: Rod Stewart "Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” (from the album, Blondes Have More Fun, 1978).
Two years ago, sitting in the living room of a close friend whom I have shared twenty-five years with, I mentioned wanting to take a trip to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. To my surprise, she too had the idea, and when I asked where she was thinking, she said Tuscany. Bing bing bing! Of all the regions in Italy, she picked the one I had on my bucket list. Then and there we decided to meet in Tuscany, May of 2026, to celebrate. Fast forward through eighteen months of diligently saving, budgeting, planning, and figuring out all the things I didn’t need but would buy for the trip. Now I have caught you up.
Prior to hitting up Italy, I decided it might be a good time to challenge myself through a solo adventure. I have done some lone tours in the past, but it has been, like, twenty years. No big deal, right? Like riding a bike. Figured this would fit right in with my goal of doing things that scare the shit out of me. So, I thought about where else I would like to go and studied the great big world of Google Maps and thought, hummm…Malta. Malta is close-ish to Italy. I love islands, and the three S’s (sun, sand, and sea) are my happy place. Malta made sense. I had also promised myself I would get there one day, as there was a deeper reason for choosing Malta. The reason was named Joe.
Joseph, Giuseppe, or Joe as I called him, came into my life around 1979. My parents had just moved from the valley to the city, and Joseph, married to Carol, were our next-door neighbours. Carol soon became a long-term caregiver or “babysitter,”as we called it back in the day, to my brother and me. Joe and Carol had their own children, two boys, a few years older, no girls, so Joe took to me pretty quickly. I mean, pudgy little redhead, what’s not to love?
Joe was from Gozo, a smaller island northwest of Malta, just a short ferry ride away. He was a proud Gozitan man who shared many stories of his upbringing and family “back home.” Joe introduced me to my love of food. All the good stuff. Pasta, sauce, cheese, bread, olive oil, salt. For my birthday, he would always buy ricotta-stuffed ravioli from Nicastro’s. These ravioli were massive. Served al dente, with olive oil generously drizzled on top, grated Parmesan, fresh ground pepper, and salt. Lots of salt. Oh, and bread to start. Bread dipped in olive oil and salt, maybe a crushed fresh tomato on top. This makes me laugh thinking about it because years later, I feared meals like this. Joe would load my plate, tell me to “mangia,” then offer me more, and when I said “no, I am stuffed,” he would tell me I was too skinny. For this reason, I think Joe was my first love. He cherished me. He became very much an honorary father figure, especially through my teenage years, when my Dad and I were estranged.
I hold many memories of Joe, all of them including laughter. He had the most hilarious laugh. I can’t describe it other than to say it was one of those crazy, contagious laughs. One that instantly made others laugh even if you didn’t overhear the context. He was a real joker and sneak. If I had to guess, Joe’s favourite memory of me, one that he told many times over as I was growing up, was of me singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” by Rod Stewart. I was four. I had no idea when I was belting out the words “if you like my body and you think I’m sexy” that it was probably humourous to the adults taking in my performances. I just remember getting attention and making people happy as I shook my tush, shouting out the lyrics.
Another favourite memory of Joe and me came later in my teens. Joe and Carol had a trailer parked up near the Big Rideau River, about forty minutes outside of town. I spent many weekends and summer days up there with them, sometimes with my Mom, sometimes as an escape from my Mom. Carol and Joe were about the only two people my Mom would let me spend time with without feeling guilty. She trusted them and was not jealous of our relationship. So I spent a lot of time with them. And why not? They had a dog named Kane, a Corgi named after a seven-foot-tall, 320-pound wrestler. Purposely ironic? Yes. There was also a ranch on the land next to the trailer park, where I learned to ride horses. I fished, I ate well, I laughed, and I was able to speak freely when my Mom was not around. It was great comfort to me having the trailer to escape to and Joe and Carol as my confidants. In later years, I would smoke cigarettes and drink wine with them.
Not far from the trailer park, in a little town called Smith Falls, was a Dairy Queen. Joe, Kane, and I often would go for a “drive” in his dark blue Bronco. Joe loved to go for drives, and he was very proud of his truck. He took good care of it, and it was always super clean. Oftentimes, a “drive” was just an excuse to hit up the DQ for a plain Jane, vanilla soft-serve cone. Sometimes we would do the chocolate dip, but often not, because we liked to share the cone with Kane. Every time we left the DQ, Joe would say, “Don’t tell Carol.” Looking back, I see where I got my love of driving and for taking pride in my car.
Joe and I nicknamed each other Shake and Bake. I have no idea where this came from. He started to greet me with “what’s a shakin’ my little bakin’, so I guess the names just evolved from that.” We had a lot of fun with it. Joe and Carol were lovers of animals and wildlife. Lady was their Irish Setter. The most beautiful, kind dog, whose ginger fur made me think she was my soulmate. Lady had a litter of puppies as the result of a wild, unapproved night out with the neighbours’ dog, which produced Zeus, a black lab mix. There were countless cats too, one of which was named Pumpkin in my honour. Joe also filled the spare room in the family home with birds. A little sanctuary of sorts. It was loud, messy, Carol hatted it, but as a child, I thought it was pretty cool. Sitting out on their front step was where I first had a chipmunk eat out of my hand. They never had rabbits though, which I found odd. It’s no question Joe and Carol were instrumental in shaping a good part of who I am today and my love for animals.
On February 15th, 2002, shortly after I started my first real job, I got a call from my mom at work. Joe had passed away. I had known the day was coming; I had several years to prepare for it. Joe, with his love of all the fine things in life— cigarettes, alcohol, overindulging on luxurious foods— had been diagnosed with heart disease. I’m not sure if his diagnosis was too late in the game for treatment options or if the treatment options just weren’t available. It’s possible he had a procedure with the hopes of extending his timeline, but I don’t remember. I was relieved when Joe died. He had been sick for so long, and he had not been able to do any of the things he enjoyed for months, years really. He was bedridden, tired, suffering, and in pain all the time. He stopped laughing, he stopped teasing me, and he was unable to do any of our fun, sneaky things. It took me a long time to mourn Joe. I had lost other relatives in my young life, but no one I was as close with as Joe. I felt him with me for a long time after he passed. Always, when I would drive out to see Carol, and always when I visited his grave. Joe loved Christmas, so every year, for several years after his death, I would visit his memorial, place a wreath or poinsettia, sit in the snow, and listen to “O Holy Night” on my Sony Discman. Josh Groban, Mariah Carey, or Andrea Bocelli’s versions, the ones I thought Joe would like best. Joe stayed close in spirit for many years, I guess until he knew I was okay, and then one day I just didn’t feel his presence anymore. I honoured him at my first wedding by sewing a Maltese cross to the inside of my dress and lighting a candle for him that burned through the night.
Almost twenty-five years since he has been gone, and here I am in Malta writing this.
I really could have used Joe watching over me when I arrived yesterday. I freaked the fuck out when I stepped into my hotel room. I went big, splurged a little, why not - it’s my fiftieth. Got a seaside suite, floor-to-ceiling window walls that fully open to a private balcony overlooking the island. Big bed, full kitchen, dual vanities in the bathroom, tub, living room - the place is bigger than my apartment! Daunting as fuck for a girl who likes living small. So turns out, solo travel at fifty is not like riding a bike. Not two hours into my stay, I was searching for flights back home for the next day. Twenty-one hours of travelling, thirty hours without sleep, alone, really far away with zero comforts of home. Pure panic. Anxiety through the roof. Tears.
Today I eased into things. Slept till 10:30 a.m. Big fucking oops. Missed breakfast, the only meal I paid for throughout my stay. Ordered room service, a club sandwich and a coffee - big canister, two mugs (rolling my eyes). Anxiety has lessened, still with me but manageable. It will leave when I do, guaranteed.
Tomorrow I will set foot on Gozo, where Joe’s ashes were spread in 2003. It’s been a long time coming. I know he will be there with me. I know he is beyond proud of me for taking this journey. He is absolutely giddy that I ate the rabbit stew and liked it. I also finally know why Joe and Carol never kept rabbits as pets. I hope to hear his laugh in the warm breeze coming from off the sea. This trip is dedicated with love to Joe.
RR
xo
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