Kevin Jonathan Drake
48 years old
Actor

My best ever trip…

New or different experiences are the core of all we strive to achieve in life

Madeira, 10/11 years ago. The Portuguese islands are some 800 miles off the coast of North Africa, in the Atlantic.

The whole place is particular in that it is ‘neither fish nor fowl’ in any respect. Volcanic islands, steep, deep waters all around, high humidity, almost tropical, with a ‘feel’ that is completely European and Mediterranean.

The food is amazing, fish-based, with a particular specialty being peixe-spada. Not swordfish, as I immediately thought, but scabbard fish (look it up) – a big ugly creature with huge eyes (lives below 1km depth) and interminable rows of razor-sharp teeth. Tasty as anything though, especially with fried bananas (there are millions of banana trees on the island) and passion-fruit jus.

On Madeira you can, literally, swim with the whales and dolphins out in the open Atlantic, as well as explore the billions of idiosyncratic life forms and peculiarities that are only common in Madeira. The islands’ airport runway, for example, is raised on concrete stilts, wedged into the side of a cliff. Until five seconds before touchdown you are convinced that the plane is about to belly-flop into the ocean!

I felt so welcome in…

Sheffield and Ireland. Not being very familiar with Yorkshire, I was very favourably impressed by Sheffield – Britain’s fourth largest city, I am informed, after London, Birmingham and Manchester.

Visiting on various occasions, however, the characteristic that stands out is the effortless hospitality and friendliness of Sheffield’s denizens. It reminds me very much of the warmth and hospitality one is accustomed to experiencing among the Maltese.

It has also been transformed into a lovely, picturesque and green city – a very far cry from its origins as the world’s number one steel manufacturing town.

I feel that same brand of easy hospitality each time I visit Ireland too. It is no wonder, then, that the Maltese and the Irish have always gotten along like a house on fire.

Ireland is another favourite destination of mine, and includes a place I would gladly up sticks and move to for a while: the desolate but awesome Aran islands.

I couldn’t wait to leave…

Paris. I’ve been to France many times for various reasons. My one and only visit to Paris, in 1998, however, was probably my first and last. I’m aware that pooh-poohing Paris is tantamount to sacrilegious blasphemy in most people’s minds… but I beg to differ.

Visiting the city with a toddler and young child in tow, though, was obviously a bad, bad idea to begin with. Paris is, very plainly put, the most child-unfriendly city I have ever been to. Take Montmartre Metro station: here we have a tube station in one of Paris’ most visited quarters which does not even have a lift or any access, other than stairs, for people with pushchairs, prams, wheelchairs and so on.

Parisians have turned ‘looking down at others possessing child-creatures’, into a veritable art form. My one-year-old daughter, thankfully, was as allergic to Parisians as they appeared to be allergic to her ‘kind’, and would proceed to scream, bawl and viciously kick to break loose from me, each time we entered a tube train or crowded place.

It must have provided the prissy Parsien/nes with countless hours of annoyance and teeth-grinding irritation. Good girl. Daddy’s VERY proud of his Princess!

As recognised cities of magnificence go, I much prefer Prague to Paris, if push comes to shove.

I treasure the memory of…

The Greek island of Crete, Kiriti, and its mountainous region of Sfakia, will always hold an immensely special place in my memories and in my heart. It is the home of someone who was (and is) a crucial part of my life, the symbol of all that ‘could have been’.

My last memories of Crete are in a cemetery at the outskirts of Iraklio, a place which holds the remains of another hero of mine – writer Nikos Kazantzakis. I will never return there in person. But I travel there several times a day. More so at night.

I partied hardest in…

Good question. I haven’t a clue. I guess that the best parties are the ones you should remember least. So by that very yardstick, token and example, I would have to say that we should be focusing on the 1980s and early-to-mid 1990s – the period most peppered with memorial ‘Black Holes’.

Locations? Ach! Same problem. I would hazard a guess that places such as Perugia in Italy, Rome, Greek islands, London, and Tel Aviv, would feature prominently somehow. All of Italy, actually. There’s always a party going on, somewhere in Italy. You just need to look and listen out for it.

As long as I will remain able to travel, at the very least, to Italy, I will be content

I cringe when I think of…

Bratislava. The Slovakian capital does come as a negative surprise to most, maybe because many people travel there from Vienna, Prague or Budapest – three cities that are among almost everybody’s top 10 in Europe.

I’m pretty certain that allowing myself a little more time to explore the city would have uncovered many pleasant surprises. But the initial shock discouraged me from staying longer than absolutely necessary. Maybe I owe Bratislava a second chance.

An amusing anecdote…

I have always had a love-hate relationship with Amsterdam. It’s all very interesting, cute and giddily exciting for a couple of days or so. Then the ugly side, the underbelly of excesses, becomes more evident, and a feeling of menace, of being around something disturbing takes over. It’s been like that for me each time I’ve visited.

My first Amsterdam ‘adventure’ was in 1988. My first night there? Mugged by two guys with knives in a street running parallel to the main road. Not pleasant.

My last visit? Heh. Opting for an apartment, rather than a hotel room, I discovered with some dismay that the flat booked was situated right above a very popular and well-attended pick-up/cruising watering hole. One of Amsterdam’s most renowned gay bars, my Lonely Planet guide informed me. All well and good, ‘have one on me’, kind of thing. Metaphorically-speaking.

And all would have been perfectly fine and dandy were it not for the establishment’s nightly ‘specialty All patrons still on their feet and in situ, engaging in what one must assume to be very vigorous, loud, and quasi-acrobatic group-sex.

The goings-on almost always climaxed (I’m going to stop apologising for puns, here) at around 3-4 am. Walls and floors in Amsterdam are very thin indeed. Thank the gods for industrial-strength sleeping pills and Dutch Courage!

I wish I could live in…

New York City. It’s not so much a ‘wish’ as it is a conviction, a knowledge, that I could live in NYC. I love the city. My favourite city, by far. No contest with any other.

I am also convinced that I haven’t yet even explored the tip of the NYiC-berg, but what I’ve seen so far, appeals to me greatly.

Again, we talk about a ‘feel’. It is just that, though, like the best art or the most sophisticated jazz… a feel. It gets you or it doesn’t, and you don’t even need to know why. New York immediately conjures up that ‘feel’ in me. I ‘get’ it. Right away.

Exciting, familiar, new, fast, relaxed, interesting, trivial, rough, clean, dark, happy, menacing, emotional… all this and more, and all else. That is New York to me. I would fly there in a heartbeat. And I probably should, too.

I adored the food in…

Barcelona. I’ve been to the Catalan capital many times over the years and am still very much enamored of the city. Apart from the easy-going, relaxed and hugely artistic ‘feel’ of the place, the food is nonpareil, second to none.

Catalan cuisine is the perfect fusion of southern European and North African flavours and blends, adding particular Iberian idiosyncrasies such as the chorizo sausages, paella-style dishes, strong cheeses, hams and all types of tapas and Basque pintxos (similar to tapas/meze’).

Wines are great, eating places varied and distinctive with plenty of character, as well as menus and types of food to suit any traveller’s pocket. I’ve always returned from Barca with several extra kilos to shed.

The same could probably be said of most other food-fuelled destinations I’ve been to. Perhaps it’s time to go again, who knows? I could do with adding a few kilos, for a change!

I enjoy returning to…

Italy. It is as much a part of who I am as Britain is. I cannot remember when I first visited the peninsula, but I know I was very young. In over 40 years I’ve lived there, worked there, studied there, gone on holiday or for work…. I’ve built lifetime bonds with Italians and was almost going to marry one.

I know Italy and I know nothing of it, simultaneously. All I can say with any definitive certainty is: there is no other place on the gods’ good earth (apart from Malta and Gozo) that I feel more at home, in my element, doing what I should be doing, where it should be done.

Due to my medical condition – M.E. (Myalgic encephalomyelitis – a Neuro-Immune, progressive-degenerative disease), my travelling opportunities have been drastically curtailed, both for practical considerations, more so due to financial constraints.

Nonetheless, over the past two-and-a-half years, my only three overseas visits included two trips to Italy – Catania (a city that keeps surprising me, pleasantly, each time I visit), and Corcumello – one of the most beautifully serene villages I have ever visited in my life, on a mountainside in Abruzzo. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to a Paradiso Terrestre. As long as I will remain able to travel, at the very least, to Italy, I will be content… all will be well.

The hardest part of travelling is…

Packing. I’m useless at packing, feeling the need to carry everything, including the kitchen sink, around with me and at all times, ‘just in case’.

When I do finally decide on the mandatory bare minimums to cart around, the anal-retentive Virgoan selective-perfectionist, must then rack his brain for the ideal packing procedure. It’s a nightmare, period, and I have no credible excuse for it. But it’s something I’ve learnt to deal with, albeit reluctantly.

The return leg is always worse, and logically so. It’s a manic-packer-meets-the-unrepentant-shopaholic syndrome. The stress, anguish and mental agonizing involved is positively toe-curling!

An example: my partner at the time and I leave for the UK to embark upon a 12-day cruise into the Med. We possess, collectively, 56kilos of luggage – cases full of ‘Just in Cases’. Never mind. We stop, we shop. We SHOP. We drop.

Fast forward to Barcelona airport, just off the ship. I check us in… 121 kilos of luggage (61kg over!). I rest my case.

Travel has taught me to…

Truly appreciate how amazing the Maltese islands are. Travelling around areas of the globe, over the years, has instilled in me a kind of patriotism, in the truest sense of the word: a consciousness and awareness of how blessed we really are to live here.

Malta and Gozo are unique, very special, and in many more ways that I could ever hope to list. We are blessed, make no mistake.

Not having had automatic Maltese citizenship, like most all Maltese, I had to choose nationality, at age 18, and chose Malta as my home. This was 30 years ago.

It could be the reason why, in later years, and after many travels, I have started to consider the notions of nationality in more depth. I am very proud to be Maltese, with every single aspect that being Maltese implies.

I have no regrets, and I don’t intend having any either. I love this country, its people – my people – in all its weird, whacky, wonderfully diverse and often divergent ways.

It’s a small country with a huge heart, a brilliant mind, in great shape, with curves, abs and all; a smile to die for, and a passion for all life that is unique.

This is my home, and will always be the place I will return to, even if only to return into Her arms one final time.

I dream of one day visiting…

New Zealand and the South Pacific. I still can’t fathom why New Zealand, but it has been my destination of choice for some 40 years.

The Lord of The Rings’ cinematography, capturing New Zealand in all its glory, only highlighted what I’ve always seemed to know instinctively – that one day I’ll get there. It is inevitable.

It could be because I’m interested in seeing, having grown up in one of the most densely-populated territories in the world, what it’s like to live in one of the least densely populated places. Or it could be the sheep.

Or the great way in which the Kiwis have integrated with each other, peacefully, seamlessly over the years, transforming a Maori culture and a Western white culture into one unique entity, retaining the best of both ‘worlds’; creating a distinct, harmonious people and land.

The rugby’s alright too, I suppose. Haka anyone?

I travel because…

I have always wanted to live, and not just exist. I still do.

I am an experience junkie, like most other human beings. New or different experiences are the core of all we strive to achieve in life.

Nevertheless, the smaller your scope of vision and accessibility, the less you are able to experience.

That counts for the material, physical world, as much as it does for all the worlds of the imagination. You cannot venture further afield in your mind unless you take steps to move away from your comfort zones and explore whatever is there to be explored.

And there is so very much still to be explored, for any of us.

Travel is just one of the means to explore and discover. One of the most effective means, to be sure.

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