Farewell, nanna

There are few things in life which, despite all possible levels of education, I know I will always fail to understand; some things might be beyond my personal interest, say astrophysics or quantum mechanics, but when it comes to the metaphysical world, one issue stands out: death.

Until a few days ago, I have had the misfortune of enduring 4 family deaths and, sadly enough, this number has now risen to 5 with the passing away of my last remaining grandparent, Nanna Connie.

I was very eager to flying back to Malta for the Maltese long weekend; we had booked tickets way back in December probably and by Wednesday, I guess I already was in holiday-mode. Alas, on Thursday morning, my wife greeted me with a sad SMS from mum, which informed me that nanna had moved on to a better life in the early hours of the day.

I am not a man who easily expresses emotion, which is probably not a good thing, and will not do much of an effort to do so here, but as the last of my roots is now gone, I cannot not put paper to pen (so to speak) and share a few words.

Despite the 6 decade age difference, I can very much relate to nanna and trace some elements in me which make up the 25% I inherited from her: I am a man of few words, soft-spoken most of the times, love food and photos, probably will have high cholesterol levels in the future, and, of course, sport the omnipresent red cheeks channelled over to me via dad.

The trip to Malta which was supposedly a break turned out to be a sort of Micallef family re union (albeit in the most unfavourable of circumstances) and, in the most beautiful weather conditions, we all gathered for (probably) the last time at Marsa church - nanna's 2nd home for so many years - to pay our last respects.

Farewell, nanna. Give my best to nannu, and if you see any of the Grechs too, give them a hug on my behalf. I am doing my best to make you all proud, as you have always been of me.

Two years...

...since our wedding!

Almost unbelievable!

731* days!

Happy anniversary, Marianna!

* 2012 is a leap year

A triumphal performance

I hate labels, but probably more than anything else, I consider myself to be a musician. My interests are not solely limited to the piano and classical music, but range from classic rock to indie, from musicals to jazz. One genre has been a sort of mystery: opera. Probably because Malta lacks a proper opera house or perhaps I have only been to one opera in my life, Orff's Carmina Burana, which, despite its vocal beauty, lacked the theatricality of stage performance which one would expect in, say, a Mozart or Verdi opera. This all changed last Sunday when we went to see the Aida at the wonderful Royal Albert Hall.

It was a lovely day - spring seems to be making an appearance here in London - and we ventured off to South Ken on a Sunday late morning, for a very different reason from our usual Monday-Friday trip there. Tickets in hand and up to the topmost level, an usher asked us if we would like to get an upgrade to one of the (£65 worth) seats just off the 'stage' (which was really in the round). What sort of question is that? Surely a rhetoric one! We exchanged tickets and 1 minute later we were seated just 5m away from the edge of the performance area. And soon the show began.

A three-hour-long delight, a celebration of live music, powerful singing and a contemporary twist to the otherwise late 19th century masterpiece. In my operatic ignorance, I was only vaguely aware of the plot, except that it was set in ancient Egypt and even more unfamiliar with the music, except for the cliché that is the Triumphal march, but in its Shakespearean-tragedy quality, the plot was simple enough to follow, even if with the help of the English translation, and the outing proved to be a brilliant start to my interest in opera.

The next appointment by the same company at the same venue is in a year's time, almost to the day, with nothing else but Bizet's Carmen. You know what I am going to do next? I think I am going to book tickets...

(Old) York

Until a few days ago, the furthest north I had ever been in the U.K. (and in the world, for that matter) was to Crewe in Chesire. This was superseded last Friday, when we travelled up to York for the weekend...

It was probably the worst time of the year ever to go to North Yorkshire. It was quasi freezing in London and did not expect the situation to be any more pleasant 300 km up. We took the 7.15pm (non stop) train and as soon as the train doors opened in York station, it was like stepping out in the Arctic; it was some -3 degrees and I thought my ears were about to fall off. Outside the station, all was a monochromatic scene of white: snow everywhere! We headed to our cosy hotel literally down the road, checked in and settled for a nice warming glass of Southern Comfort before retiring.

The next day, it was somewhat warmer, just above freezing point. Nice. The usual English breakfast awaited downstairs and then out into the cold with our first exploration of the medieval city. It was initially extremely confusing to see that the many city gates were actually called "Bars" and the streets in the older parts were called "Gates". Taking note of that, we made our way through the city walls (unfortunately closed off due to the snow) and across the Ouse, we headed to the well-known Shambles. And then the main star of York, the Minster.

Gothic architecture has always impressed me and the cathedral at York proved to be equally fascinating as other noteworthy examples here in U.K., say Westminster, Canterbury and Salisbury. It was terribly cold inside, probably more than outside, despite the continuous line of heaters along the building's perimeter, but then again I did not expect these to heat up such an immense volume. A British tour guide showed us around for a good 1.25 hours, explaining every little detail until it was time for lunch. A pub lunch, of course. Bangers and mash. And ginger beer. Bliss.

Next stop, visiting the main parts of the city walls and then the York Brewery. I always associated beer with summer, but if you happen to be around at this time of the year, then it would be a shame not to pay a visit to the tiny brewery at York. After sampling 2 of their brews, a very charismatic Brit showed us around (or explained to us the whole brewing process really), after which we sampled yet another 2 brews. Very tasty indeed. A quick trip to the hotel and then dinner, after which a couple of shots of the minster at night and off to bed.

Besides all the medieval and Gothic architecture, what really impressed me during the first day was the fact that, while we were wrapped up in 3 or 4 layers of clothing and still complaining at times, most of the youngsters walked around on the Saturday night wearing T shirts, short dresses with bare backs and other such summer clothes. Is this normal behaviour? Are they immune to the cold?

The Sunday started with breakfast and check out and then off to the gardens behind the minster, which, all laden with snow, really looked like anything but a garden. The ruins of the abbey there were almost as impressive as the minster. The final stop after a quick coffee was the Jorvik centre. I had previously never really seen anything related to the Vikings, but I suppose this was a very good start. It was very well presented, in typical English style, and enjoyed every minute of it. Except the bit when we "drove" past a Viking trying to take a dump...especially considering that it was a very interactive show, with smells and all...

Another pub lunch finished off the morning and then it was time to get the train back to London, with a lot of good memories of the north. Oh, I forgot to mention, also with a nice aching bruise on my bottom from my slip down a staircase, courtesy of the ice! And now that I have seen the old (original) York, I guess I should be thinking of visiting New York!

V for _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

No, not "Vendetta", though, of course, we all love that movie and is a must-watch on and around 5/11. Hint: first letter 'V' and last letter 'A' are correct. Yup, Valencia. We are just back from 4 great days in the Spanish town which has been on the "To visit" list for quite a while and which was our first trip for 2012. It was a quick affair: in 15 minutes, I had booked flights, hotels and airport transfers and, after borrowing 2 Valencia books from a friend who had actually lived in Valencia for a couple of months, I was totally immersed in the city and all it had to offer. Until we actually visited the place last Thursday and experienced it all, at first hand...

Like most of our trips, the 'commute' started on Wednesday night, with the usual bus ride to town and then the coach to one of those airports which somehow are labelled "London-XX" but which, to date, I fail to understand how an airport even outside the M25 is in London. Anyhow, we got to London Stansted at around 3am-ish and after deciphering all the stores there, we boarded the plane to Valencia. And that was our night's sleep: 2.5 hours on a Ryanair plane. Touchdown and off to the city centre and I immediately started making out a couple of observations...

Spain may be only the channel and the bay of Biscay away from the U.K., but there are imaginary oceans between the 2 countries. People talk and yell on the metro, no persistent messages of "Mind this" and "Do that" every 5 seconds which seem to address an audience with extreme dementia and, of course, not a word in English, anywhere (though with my fair Italian speaking skills and the odd appended 's', I managed to get tickets). Check-in at the hotel done, a 5 minute walk awaited us which took us straight to the main attraction of Valencia: the masterpiece of its own architect-turned-superstar son, Santiago Calatrava.

Wow, the scale and openness of the place. And thinking that this was all riverbed, makes it even more special. The sheer scale of the urban space and the "buildings" forming the C.A.C. was not compromised by the otherwise s****y weather which welcomed us for the first 3 days (though it was no deterrent for taking a total of 1100+ photos, each). Architecturally speaking, the Spanish are well less refined than the Brits when it comes to detailing and workmanship, but so far I have not seen anything as daunting as this mega complex. 150,000,000 euro worth of steel, concrete and water provided endless joy to our architect eyes.

Having bought the admission tickets, we entered the Science Museum, again totally impressive from a structural/design point of view but, although it was fun and interesting, it was surely not as well presented as any of the London museums. A quick bite and we started with the long walk along the ex-riverbed of the River Turia. I must point here that anyone with an allergy to and/or phobia of oranges should not dare set foot on Valencian soil. The sight of orange trees, fully loaded with fruit, became such a common sight all over the city that it soon became something to take for granted and not wander at anymore.

Having surveyed the Gulliver, Palau de la Musica, a number of the bridges and spaces in the Turia, we finished off the afternoon with some shopping at Zara (where else but in Spain?) and then a very tasty dinner of rabbit paella and bountiful salads, after which we headed to the hotel for the first decent sleep in over 30 hours. Only after visiting the C.A.C. at night, which was probably even more impressive than during daytime, courtesy of the reflection magic which Santiago correctly envisioned to be occurring in his shallow pools.

Day 2 kicked off with breakfast and then immediately started the tour of the historic part of the city. First stop: something very Spanish - the bull arena and its museum. Although slightly disappointed that I could not be inside the actual ring, the visit to the Museo Taurino was very interesting and somewhat unique. After a quick look at the impressive North Station, the first of Valencia's 3 main squares, Plaza Ajuntamento, where the Town Hall and the Post Office are, though the latter is probably more dominating and impressive than the former.

The itinerary proceeded with a 2 hour roam around the narrow streets of the old quarters, probably highlighted by the "discovery" of the church of St. John Hospitaller, intrinsically linked with Malta and the Knights. A much-needed pit-stop followed at the Horchateria El Siglo, which furnished us with a horchata and the accompanying fartons in the shadow of the Santa Catalina bell tower just off the second main square. Next, the Mercado Central and its fabulous bright interior and even more impressive collection of all kinds of sea food and meat products of all sorts and strange body parts...

Across the road, we visited the Lonja, whose twisted columns left a marking impression but somewhat blurred by the persisting hunger. Two streets away was lunch: tapas! A quick and unceremonious affair but exceedingly tasty (and salty) meal of grilled sardines, sea snails, salted cod, bread and white wine. At this point, I started to get confused at the endless variety of bathroom signs in Valencia: servicios, lavandos, laseos, the universal W.C. and then caballeros or hombres to indicate male...why can't they simplify the nomenclature and not confuse me further when I really need to go?! Anyway, let's proceed...

More exploration of the old quarters followed, including the final main square, Plaza de la Virgen, the awesome cathedral and its wholly Baroque and fluid facade, the Almoina (which we visited later and is probably one of the best preservation projects I have seen to date) and then the only Norman Foster building in Valencia: the Palacio de Congresos, or "beached fish"; all of his buildings seem to adapt weird nicknames! Back to the centre, we visited the well-hidden Banos del Almirante, a visit which seemed like a private tour since we were just 2 being shown around! Finally, a few shots of the cathedral area by night, then a super-tasty dinner of marinara-style paella and salad and off to bed.

Day 3: first a visit to the Barrio del Carmen, or the Carmen quarter. A somewhat bohemian part of town, with colourful graffiti decorating many shopfronts and alternative outlets, all centred around the old Carmelite church and the Torres de Serrano and Torres de Quart, which we both scaled to the summit later in the day and probably were responsible for the leg cramps which I still have 2 days after...

The rest of the day was mostly dedicated to the C.A.C., first with a 3D show in the Hemisferic and then a good 3 or 4 hours in the Oceanografic, with its huge collection of fish, sharks, sea mammals and the impressive show at the Dolphinarium. I felt slightly uneasy walking down the glass submerged tunnels with sharks and sting rays swimming above my head; it will probably be the closest I will ever get to these sea beasts...

Back to the centre, we visited a number of churches and the cathedral again and most of the buildings we had seen earlier by night; it is a totally different landscape seeing the wonderful variety of medieval and Baroque buildings floodlit, but as I pointed out earlier, probably the highlight was the Almoina archaeological site.

The final day started with the check-out and then immediately exploiting the long-awaited sunshine which I had stereotypically associated with Spain but had not yet manifested itself. Visiting the Jardines del Real, the modern Hesperides and then the Cabecera proved to be the best way to make the most of the sunshine, but we had to pay a visit, albeit a brief one, to the Museo de Bellas Artes. The final stop was by the marina and the beach, characterised by the ultra-modern Vels e Vents and then a final amazing lunch of paella, Iberian pork and tiramisu.

The proxima parada would be sadly be London, though happily laden with 1.4GB of photos (each) and countless cherished memories of yet another Spanish destination off our list and surely not the last!

A visit to the Seven Sisters

I needed a break! Although it might sound awfully biased, I deserved a break after a solid 2 month long stretch of work, focused on a mini project as part of my Ph.D., which resulted in a complete study and a 36 page journal paper which I submitted next week. Indeed, my co-supervisor suggested that I take a week off from work; I did not follow the tempting advice fully but took a 2.5 day break: a weekend trip to the south coast at Eastbourne and the Seven Sisters.

It might seem a very bad idea to go by the sea in late November and indeed it was a very risky business but the Friday turned out to be a sunny day and come Friday afternoon, we headed on a Southern train to Eastbourne to a sea-facing B+B which I booked a few days before. Although it was a room with a sea view, by 7.30pm it was pitch dark and saw none of the English Channel but were nonetheless welcomed into a largish room with a double and a single bed, complete with flat screen and DVD player and with a largish bathroom, including a bath. Compared with our own "home" at Ealing, this seemed too luxurious! After a quick trip to the first pub round the corner, a pint or 2 whilst amused by a karaoke show, we slept after watching Casino Royale and got up unusually early on the Saturday morning.

By 8.15am, we were at the breakfast room, where an unending fiesta of saturated fats deceitfully disguised under the very appealing form of sausages, bacon, (sunny-side-up) egg, hash browns, bacon and baked beans (and coffee and toast and cake) awaited us. Oh, the joys of cooked English breakfast! The exaggerated intake of calories surely proved to be a much-needed supply of fuel for a long day ahead...

We walked up to the town centre along the pebbly coast and took a bus to a tiny place called East Dean and then down to the Seven Sisters Country Park. At the end of the River Chuckmere to be precise. There commenced our famous Satuday walk, up and down all of the 7 gleaming white chalk hills - the Seven Sisters - down to Burling Gap and the "beach", up to the Belle Tout Lighthouse and then alongside the cliffs towering above the Beachy Head lighthouse: a total of some 14 km (as the crow flies) in 4.5 hours and with a maximum gradient of some 22% towards the end. Thank you, Google Earth, for the statistics.

By 3pm, we were totally famished, not to mention the feet started to complain and our arrival at the Beachy Head Pub was more than welcome. There a massive lunch awaited: a whale of a fish-and-chips and a pint of cider in a cosy and warm ambient. Perfect. A not-so-short walk to the main road took us to the first bus stop and we were back in the town centre by 6.30pm. One long and hot bath undid all the aches and pains in the feet and it was then time for Richard Gere and Julia Roberts (yes, Pretty woman) to conclude the night. Together with nachos, cookies and what not.

Next: easy like Sunday morning. Another full English breakfast worthy of royalty and then a laid back trip around the town, starting off by a stroll along the coast up to the pier and then a visit to 1 or 2 parks and back to the centre for yet another pub lunch, which proved to take longer than usual. After lunch, we headed to the outskirts of town to a marina development until sunset (that is 4pm) and then back to the guest house for our belongings and the station.

3 hours later, we were back in Ealing, mentally refreshed, physically drained but feeling very lucky that the weather was totally brilliant (in fact even warm at times) and visiting one of the widest expanses of cliff, green and sea in Britain (together with intermittent massive consumption of food) makes me say that the Seven Sisters are a set of family members I am really glad to have made an acquaintance with!

Gaddafi's gone

The topic of this post is probably the same as those in all journalistic writings all over the world: Muammar Gaddafi, former leader of Libya, has been caught and killed. The Libyan revolution is over, probably the last stage of the Arab spring, at least for the time being.

Just over 8 months after the protesting began in Libya, it seems that the fighting is over and Libyans can start rebuilding their country. This will be a massive undertaking and definitely outside the scope of this post. What I want to write about is a sideline to the main story.

It is totally amazing that within hours or perhaps minutes of the former leader's capture, videos of the undertaking started appearing on YouTube. Footage from phones somehow found their way online, depicting the last few minutes or hours of a person's life and the degrading way of how the man met his fate. By now, the death has been confirmed and more of these videos are surfacing by the minute. The more I see, the more I am disgusted.

I am not saying Gaddafi was a fine example of decent human behaviour and probably would have deserved being executed after his capture. What I fail to understand is that despite all the wrong a person could have done in his/her life, there remains a basic, minimum threshold of humanity which still needs to be respected. A person close to death does not deserve such maltreatment and humiliation and, what is worse, a dead person should not be thrown on a street, trampled upon or stripped naked. The Libyans were right to get rid of a man who treated people like animals but it seems that they have not learnt the lesson and are doing it all over again.

I only trust that the Arab spring was not, in fact, an autumn. In any case, so long, Colonel.