Yellow Bricks

Yellow bricks, green balconies and winding streets, but not a Euro to my name, which is how I had once again found myself wandering aimlessly through the streets of Malta – this time a narrow street in Valletta. I’d spontaneously booked a trip to return home for the first time in just over a decade, however after miscalculating dates, I’d only been left with the few Euros I had changed on the way. I’d managed to get a week-long bus ticket (and some pastizzi) on the first day and figured I’d just explore until my money came in. I wasn’t worried. After spending entire days on various beaches, I decided to head to Valletta. The capital was as busy as I’d remembered it, streets flanked with bright balconies and numerous groups of elderly men gathered on steps outside buildings. The familiar language, and accent I assume I once had washing over my ears as I traced paths I had walked so many times as a child. The warm smell of imqaret permeated the air, bringing back memories I didn’t know existed. Every similarity providing comfort as I navigated through the onslaught of people headed for the market, however it wasn’t long before similarities became differences. I’m not sure whether it was the new shops in place of old, or that I was struggling to remember how to ask for imqaret without sounding like a tourist, but I had begun to feel very out of place.

Feeling somewhat disillusioned and rather sorry for myself I decided to head back for the day, sticking to side streets to avoid the crowds. On the second or third road I turned onto, a group of locals sat outside drinking. One invited me to join, I declined – I couldn’t afford coffee. Feeling worse and thinking that perhaps this holiday had been a bad idea, I turned to leave when he called out again - this time in Maltese. I don’t remember exactly what he said, I was probably too caught up to pinpoint the details – I thought, he’s using Maltese so I must look like I belong! Without missing a beat, I’d already thrown back my response – in Maltese, shocking myself with the ease at which it came.

No longer heading back, I hopped on a bus to Birgu. Busses used to be loud, bright yellow vehicles with leather seats you would stick to, a far cry from the new airconditioned one I got on.

Roughly half an hour later I was stepping off the bus into the village I began life in - I hadn’t realised it was Festa San Lawrenz. I looked on as Fireworks erupted over the flat-roofed buildings hidden behind the arched gates, flashes of red and yellow flags catching my eye. I willed myself to move and started running through the discarded confetti as the sounds grew louder. On my left a man smiles as he raises his hands, to my right a group cheer and shout somewhat incoherently. In front of me children play, picking up discarded pieces of confetti that had earlier been fired from concealed cannons. There’s a moment of calm before the next deep boom sounds, signalling another round of fireworks lighting up the sky. It’s a warm evening in Birgu, the fortified city in Malta and locals and tourists alike (and those like me that aren’t quite either) have gathered in the streets and filled the piazza to celebrate. I spent the rest of the evening following processions of marching bands and statue-carrying locals through the streets and didn’t once feel out of place.

Looking back, it was very much like the part in a film where the protagonist finds themselves in an unrealistic, over-the-top situation and has some sort of epiphany or life-altering thought. I didn’t have either of those, but I did feel as though a small part of what had been missing had finally been returned.