Jubil(ee)ation

Although London has 33% of its inhabitants who are pure British citizens, I have managed to make quite a few British friends during my time here.  Of these, I would say half are either royalists or do not really care much about the Royals and the other half are sheer republicans.  In my case, I do not have much of an opinion, since Malta ceased being part of the Empire a long time ago, although I must say my host country has generally been quite kind to me and, as a sign of respect, I do respect HM and her entire entourage.

This weekend, I would daresay that the entire U.K. is suddenly enthusiastic about the Queen, in the light of her 60th Jubilee celebrations and, even more so, because of the 4 day weekend we are enjoying...

It is surprising to note that, while back home all public buildings and schools would invariably sport a huge photo of the President in the building's foyer, I have not yet encountered this practice here.  However, in London, wherever you go, you can see the Queen's presence in one way or another: my own workplace is called Imperial College, the Royal Albert Hall, so-and-so Palace, Queen's Gate or Palace Gate, Kew Royal Botanic Gardens, Royal this and that, Jubilee Line, Royal Mail,  Royal Opera House, Royal Academy, Royal Festival Hall, Royal College of Music...the list is endless.  Deep down, they all love the Royals.  And, Queen or no Queen, the Brits do love their pomp and ceremony and the Jubilee was no exception trying to make the best of this once in a life time event.

My interest in the British monarchy was rather limited to the Tudor period until a few months ago, but I kicked off my personal tribute to the Windsor house last week when I read "The King's Speech", entirely devoted to HM's father.  I managed to start it and finish it in the same day.  Not that I am suddenly such a big fan of the Queen or her family, but (a) it is a good book and (b) I travelled some 300km on the train that day (up to Coventry and back) and, naturally, had plenty of time to kill.  But the big thing happened this weekend, precisely coinciding with the early summer bank holiday...

Summer 2012, which had supposedly started last week with temperatures surpassing those back home, is now suspended but the Diamond Jubilee festivities proceeded nonetheless.  From our experience of the NYE events in Central London, we decided to head off to the River 3 or 4 hours earlier than the scheduled time, to ensuire getting a good spot.  Our efforts were rewarded, at the cost of standing in the same location from 11.30 till 4.30, but we did get a (distant) glimpse of HM...more on that later.

The weather did not disappoint us: it was London at its best with grey clouds, mist and the light drizzle.  Of course, had it been sunny and bright, people would have thought the pictures are a forgery.  From our vintage point beside the Millennium Bridge on the North Bank and facing the Globe and Tate on the right and the cloud-covered Shard on the Right, we waited and waited for the 1000 piece flotilla escorting the Royal Barge.  It was a sight simply seeing the Brits, most of them having come a long way from the North, dressed up in white, red and blue, wearing such coloured wigs, Union Jack outfits, waving flags and, of course, eating.  People had been there since 8am or even camped overnight, though they only were ahead of us by 50cm.

Thanks to the joys of smartphones, we knew exactly when the Queen left Battersea via BBC live and waited and waited till the first boats appeared.  And then they reached us: colours and energetic rowers, bells and flags and then sea cadets and scores of Commonwealth flags (Malta included) and finally the Queen and the Royal Family.

It was impressive to see that the 86 year old monarch was still waving incessantly and had not sat down yet (and indeed did not sit till the very end).  From our enviable viewpoint, we only saw the Queen having the size of my thumb - I had always thought the Thames was quite narrow but I was wrong - but it was worth the wait. It was one of those "I was there" moments.

And the organisation?  Impeccable, British style event handling: some 1,000,000 turned out along the Thames' banks on the day and there was not even one moment of confusion.  Amazing people.  No wonder these guys had 25% of the whole world's territory and population in their control.

Of course, the pageant was not all: a huge concert is scheduled tonight featuring Sir Macca, Sir Elton, Sir Cliff, Kylie, Steve Wonder and much more.  I can't wait for it to start, though unfortunately my name was not amongst the lucky 10000 randomly picked ones.  Nonetheless, I will join the Brits and shout, "God save the Queen!"

Vic-Tory

I have been here since September 2007, save for a 5 month interruption, and every time there is an election here, I am amazed at the way the Brits handle politics.  This week rekindled my amazement, on the occasion of the Mayoral elections in London.

I am not quite sure whether my qualification to vote in British elections (local and national) are due to Malta being part of the E.U. or the Commonwealth, but every time there is some sort of electoral activity, I always get the vote in the post.  This time, it was time to elect a new Mayor.  I recall the last Mayoral election, in which I had voted.  This time round, I did get the chance to vote, but of all days, I left the office at 9pm on the ballot day and got home too late to pick up my ballot card and head off to the polling station and cast my vote.  In any case, Boris was re-elected on the Tory ticket, but it was only by a whisker, at least by British standards.  And Labour gained massive votes throughout the rest of the country, apparently; I still have to adjourn myself with what was happening over the past 3 days...

What is extraordinary, particularly for someone who comes from Malta, where partisan politics are almost as important (if not in equal measures) to religion, that the Brits do not really care much on politics.  Not that they are not voting or anything, but there is none of the month-long drama which unfolds back home, with bill boards, tons of leaflets in the mail, hotly debated issues, controversies and what not.  The country (or the city in this case) proceeds as usual; there is no unnecessary tension in the air.  So much so, that I had almost completely forgotten about the election, until I was on the Tube en route home and there was one result forecast on the front page of the Evening Standard.

Well, I suppose life for all Londoners will go on, be it with Boris or with Ken, though the latter had the much-appealing promise of cutting down the Tube fares, though it seems that the Left and Right are in a delicate state of balance in Europe and beyond: a new Conservative Greek prime minister (though alarming Greek voters preferred to give their preferences to Neo Nazi candidates), Putin is back in power in Russia, French premiere Sarkozy who is now replaced by Socialist Hollande and Merkel's coalition in Germany is hanging off a thin string.  And Malta?  Maybe an election is due much sooner than we thought...

A meeting with a master

Amidst the unpleasant circumstances of the Malta visit, one particular hour stood out as a noteworthy (positive) event: a meeting with Professor Richard England.

A few weeks back, I managed to purchase one of the monographs which celebrate his contribution to the Maltese architectural scene. It occurred to me to attempt contacting England with the hope of getting an appointment and get it signed in some hasty meeting amidst his busy schedule. I did send an email to the usual "Contact us" address off the website and, to my great surprise, I received an email from his personal email account a few days later, inviting me to call him on his mobile phone and arrange to meet him during my Malta visit.

Once on the island, I did call him and he asked me to visit him at home on the Monday evening. And so we did, drove up to that familiar street off Paceville where I sometimes used to park during busy weekends. As soon as I opened the gate, Richard himself opened the door and ushered us into his home and to his studio.

Wow, is the unavoidable cliché that one will say upon setting eyes on the immense, ordered collection of books, figures, drawings and CDs. Richard broke the ice by asking our opinion on the current architectural status in the world and I urged him to stick to tiny Malta for the time being. With a sense of nostalgia, he confessed that there is no longer a Maltese architecture to talk about, only a "building industry".

It was a relief to hear that England still believes there are a "handful" of good architects in their early or late 30s, the foremost of which is, in his opinion, my own cousin Chris. We discussed Valletta, Piano's proposal, the prospect of highrises in Malta, our Ph.D. research in London, his view of the superstar architects and of sustainability and structural engineering. And of course, signed my book. Not only that, but he presented us with a marvellous collection of his architectural-artistic sketches and drawings. Also with a dedication and signed, of course.

A good one hour later, Richard warmly wished us well in our research and asked us to keep in touch and pay him other visits whenever we are in Malta. On the way out, he showed us a pencil drawing on tracing paper from Basil Spence's hand - one of the original proposals for Coventry Cathedral. England re-iterated the importance of architects using the pencil (or, in his case, the pen) and not the computer, for the latter "does not think" and only the hand can transfer ideas from the mind to paper.

A meeting which I initially envisaged as being intimidating, hurried and impersonal turned out to be warm, leisurely and of a kind which would almost be even beyond one between two acquaintances. Meeting Richard England, who is (almost) definitely the best living Maltese architect and (most) probably a very significant architect of the Mediterranean region, truly exceeded all expectations.

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!