She was going to hike it, come hell or high water. Even though she knew that, like Steve McCroskey in Airplane!, she picked the wrong week to quit smoking. Regardless, she wanted to be as “pure” as possible for her pilgrimage to the Megalithic Temples of Malta. But as she made the trek up the massive hill to get there, she was starting to wonder why that really mattered, rueing the day she believed herself capable of “winging it” with a nicotine patch alone—she should have brought along at least one emergency cigarette. But no, she thought she had to be “mindful” of the temples and their hallowed history.

Yet there was nothing “hallowed” about the rage steadily coursing through her veins as she mounted the summit leading up to the Ħaġar Qim Temple. A place even more prehistoric than addiction itself. In fact, if Enid could go back to that point in existence, before humans ever perfected the concept of what it was to be addicted—a time before cigarettes were even a thought in anyone’s head—she might be better off. No, she knew she would be better off. Perhaps on the other side of this hill, she would be lucky enough to encounter a movie-like plot that offered her a chance opportunity to enter a time machine that could only be “unlocked” through the most random and implausible of maneuvers—sort of like Max Dennison in Hocus Pocus lighting the black flame candle “on a lark.”

“On a lark” shit was always driving the plot in movies, especially 90s ones. Alas, schlepping to the Megalithic Temples was no 90s film experience. And with each aching, withdrawal-laden step that Enid took, she wished all the more that it was, knowing full well it would have been the only way to give this journey a happy (even if zany) ending. Already barely at the beginning of this narrative and it was apparent that the only possible third act result was catastrophe. That Enid’s irritability level was quickly reaching a crescendo only further sealed that inevitability. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for even half a drag right now. But no, she must stay the course, keep the patch on. Trust in the patch’s ability to stave off insatiable cravings for unbridled nicotine. And yes, she knew its placement on the shoulder part of her arm was going to leave behind one very fucked-up tan line. Or, in this case, one very fucked-up tan circle.

That’s right, it was one of those patches that looked like it should be put on a wart. The back of the box insisted that the patch would provide a “steady level” of nicotine throughout the day. But it really didn’t feel like that promise was being delivered upon, and Enid desperately wished that, if not a cigarette, that she had at least packed along an extra stash of nicotine gum. Designed for more “instant relief” when it came to numbing out the cravings. And her intense hunger. In fact, even though she had eaten a huge sandwich roughly one hour ago before preparing to climb this hill toward the temple, she was already absolutely ravenous. The steep incline of the hill likely didn’t help, forcing her to burn more calories than a flat surface would have. She cursed the day she had ever taken up smoking in the first place. It doomed her, like so many other Europeans (or, to make the distinction, British people), to be forever addicted. It was such a natural, inherent part of “the culture,” even in the twenty-first century, that people often viewed you as “odd” (or, worse still, American) if you didn’t smoke. No one was disgusted enough by it for any sense of negative reinforcement to sink in. In this regard, Enid did wish that Europe would emulate the U.S.—instead the continent chose to emulate that country only in terms of grotesque capitalistic pursuits.  

This, in part, was why Enid wanted to get back to something “real,” something prehistoric. A period that arguably served as the last time anything was truly real (precisely because it couldn’t be documented, therefore manipulated). Granted, the prehistoric version of humanity was still foolish enough to engage in religious practices. To build “altars,” as it were, to an invisible deity (or deities) that didn’t exist—and if they did/do, they certainly couldn’t be bothered to give enough of a damn to “tend to their creations.” As for the question of whether or not girth relates to stupidity (hence, believing in a god), it was a Maltese historian named Giovanni Francesco Abela who once said that the Ħaġar Qim ruins provided “indubitable evidence of the fact that the first inhabitants of Malta were of the race of Giants.”

Throughout her tour of the island, Enid not only noticed that such a shade-drenched comment about the Maltese happened to be true, but also that her own size was starting to feel decidedly robust since arriving there almost a week earlier. To be fair, however, that was likely to do with the fact that her hunger levels had ramped up because of her ill-advised bid to quit smoking. And, as she did her best to keep moving forward up the hill, those very hunger levels were tormenting her almost as much as the fiery hot sun shooting down its UV rays onto the exposed parts of her flesh. Slowly but surely creating the circular tan line from her nicotine patch that would serve as the ultimate “souvenir” of her trip.

Perhaps if she had turned around even just twenty minutes sooner, she might have avoided how intense the white-looking circle would become. But no, having started her walk all the way from the bottom of where one boards the boats to tour the Blue Grotto (deciding to hoof it from there because the bus never came), it left ample time for the sun to do its “work” (a.k.a. its iniquitous, sadistic deed).

Despite being almost close enough to the temple to seek shade and shelter, of sorts, Enid decided to stop in her tracks, turn around and descend the hill anew. She could bear this false pilgrimage no longer, metaphorically kicking herself for trying to do something so patently out of her comfort zone on multiple fronts—first and foremost being her attempt to quit smoking at all. Why not just commit to premature aging and a cruel form of death (lung cancer, heart disease, stroke, etc.) in exchange for all the joy and lack of hunger (ergo, erstwhile thinness) that smoking gave her?

About another forty-five minutes later, after reaching the bottom of the hill where there was a convenience store (though that might be too modern a word for the crude edifice selling drinks, snacks and other sundries), she answered that very question by purchasing a brand-new pack of cigarettes. Ciggies that, in her state of hallucinatory madness, seemed to shine and shimmer like (white-)gold in the sunlight. Though not as much as her white circular tan line did in the dark for the next few months.

No matter, she thought, lighting up a fresh “cancer stick” while taking in a majestic view of the shoreline. All the pain and meaninglessness of the day was worth it now that she had taken her first drag, ripping off the nicotine patch after a few more puffs. Perhaps she was even feeling reinvigorated enough to try walking up the hill again and actually making it to the temple this time.