The Christmas Cleaning Frenzy in Malta

Maltese women must clean their houses every week. But come Christmas, oh G-d.

At last, at last, I was finally accepted by a group of wonderful Maltese teachers at my school. By accepted, I mean I was invited to lunch and coffee breaks with them. I could now laugh, cry and best of all-gossip with them.

Here's one of my last luscious gossip sessions I was privy to:

"Did you hear that M____ has been using Pledge instead of Endust this year?"

"Why? I thought she was happy with Endust?"

"She was, But you know how it is. She just gets on better with Pledge."

"What has she been doing with it?"

"Well, when she has to move a cupboard to clean behind it," (and this part was said in a low whisper) "she sprays it on the floor in front of her and the cupboard moves a lot faster."

At this point, the Lord's name was taken in vain.

Then all eyes were on me.

"What do you use?" I knew what they meant, really. What do Americans use to clean with? Do Americans measure up to the Maltese in cleaning capacity and capability?

I thought I was being clever when I said, "I don't even use a wet mop when I clean the floors."

There was a sudden intake of breath in the room.

"What do you do?"

"I do it dry."

"How?" At this point, I could feel the panic and revulsion rising in the room. I should have excused myself and left. But I couldn't stop the words from coming out-you know?

"Well, sometimes I take a towel or some dirty clothes and step on it and walk around the room and clean the floor that way."

Silence. Total silence.

My Maltese friends-who were probably no longer my friends-furtively glanced at each other and then at their watches.

"Well, I guess it's that time again. Yes, time to go."

And then I knew it was over. I had said something unacceptable about not using a mop to clean the floors (honestly, only when someone comes to visit but I didn't even admit that). And worst of all, my new friends had lied to me-just to get away from me.

When I looked at the time, it was only five minutes to 11. And class doesn't start until 11.

Everyone had done the unspeakable-but this action spoke volumes about how I was not really one of them-never was and never would be.

Teachers had left early for class. And that hurt.

Ilene Springer lives (and cleans once in a while) in Malta, and is author of An-American-in-Malta.com