Street life - From Saul to Paul
Blessed be He that brought Saul, or rather St Paul, to our shores, albeit through the intervention of a raging tempest that led to shipwreck and snake biting... blessed is St Paul, for one day of the year he brings us together and shows us our...
Blessed be He that brought Saul, or rather St Paul, to our shores, albeit through the intervention of a raging tempest that led to shipwreck and snake biting... blessed is St Paul, for one day of the year he brings us together and shows us our differences. The shipwreck festivities clearly divide the capital, but call out to the nation to join in prayer to the apostle, the most sanctified of saints. United and divided we stand; it is quite clear that though we are all invited, the festa belongs to the inhabitants of "this" side of Valletta, the Grand Harbour side, with all the implications and allegiances firmly nailed into place.
There is much trepidation concentrated within each finger tip as I type, so it would be best to throw in my disclaimer prior to my religio-baroccorococoaesthetico outburst of praise and dedication to the most glorious of celebrations - il-festa ta' San Pawl Nawfragu. I fear I may sound artificial and trite as I begin to relate to you the agonies and the ecstasies of all those who immersed themselves under the confetti showers and into the swaying aisles of St Paul's church for the running return of Melchiorre Gafà 's masterpiece. I fear that my observations of the procession through the streets of Valletta, and of the followers and devotees plied with Bell's and bursting with tearful euphoria would sound cliché or exaggerated, but I cannot help myself, I have to share them with you, I have been touched.
Due to the early arrival of lent, the festa, which is traditionally celebrated on February 10, had been moved forward to Saturday the 16th. It was a crisp morning, bright with promise, as I made my way towards St Paul's church. The band was gathered outside the steps, waiting to start up the first of many anthems. Not many people were there as yet, perhaps it was the change of date, perhaps it was simply too early, but soon the few were walking behind the plodding band, looking up at chubby hands filled with confetti nests, lazy arms hanging out of gallarija windows releasing the shreds with a controlled wrist movement. The paper snow floated down gently over the band that wound its way down St Paul Street, turning left on Archbishop Street before turning once again onto Republic Street, where they would replenish themselves with a cappuccino at the Café Cordina counter.
Just as this last sentence was long so too was the day that followed, for it seemed that all the quintessential elements of Malta were to be packed into the 10 hours that followed, and as it is a dense and chequered history we must extol, so it was a vibrant, never-ending street affair, that required stamina and sustenance.
Perhaps it is my weakness for Valletta but the festa ta' San Pawl has released a latent devotion and obsession that has not been felt since St Catherine's feast in ?ejtun was still celebrated in November. The first warning bang of the drum, the clash of the cymbals, the toothless octogenarian proudly bearing the banner, the laconic girlfriends who drag their feet alongside Fredu as he blows his tuba, the sashes of red that blow down the street, the pink damask that drapes the church walls, the profligate silver, the sublime gold leaf on St Paul's robe in the early evening light... along the way I bumped into friends and acquaintances who had all gathered to revel in the Felliniesque fanfare that continued to build until reaching its climax inside the church filled with weeping men chanting the Sancti Pauli in hopeless abandon, unable to contain themselves, they burst forth with declarations of love: San Pawl kemm int sabi?.
For it cannot be denied, the statue is immensely beautiful, his face smiling down on his subjects, his hand raised as he beckons and declares, as he leans back as though blinded by an overbearing light. San Pawl, appostlu taghna they continue to cry out, wiping the tears away with jewelled, stout fingers, coughing out prayers in coarse Latin, fixing their ties and furs before rushing out once more to continue to the celebrations in the bars that run along the street.
They were all there, the rich and the poor, the unknown and the politician, the child and the grand dame, the rector and the drunk, the altar boy and the mini skirt, the sacred and the profane and me, lost among the crowds, aching with hunger and cold and joy, as I imagined St Paul must have been when first touched by the light.
There is much trepidation concentrated within each finger tip as I type, so it would be best to throw in my disclaimer prior to my religio-baroccorococoaesthetico outburst of praise and dedication to the most glorious of celebrations - il-festa ta' San Pawl Nawfragu. I fear I may sound artificial and trite as I begin to relate to you the agonies and the ecstasies of all those who immersed themselves under the confetti showers and into the swaying aisles of St Paul's church for the running return of Melchiorre Gafà 's masterpiece. I fear that my observations of the procession through the streets of Valletta, and of the followers and devotees plied with Bell's and bursting with tearful euphoria would sound cliché or exaggerated, but I cannot help myself, I have to share them with you, I have been touched.
Due to the early arrival of lent, the festa, which is traditionally celebrated on February 10, had been moved forward to Saturday the 16th. It was a crisp morning, bright with promise, as I made my way towards St Paul's church. The band was gathered outside the steps, waiting to start up the first of many anthems. Not many people were there as yet, perhaps it was the change of date, perhaps it was simply too early, but soon the few were walking behind the plodding band, looking up at chubby hands filled with confetti nests, lazy arms hanging out of gallarija windows releasing the shreds with a controlled wrist movement. The paper snow floated down gently over the band that wound its way down St Paul Street, turning left on Archbishop Street before turning once again onto Republic Street, where they would replenish themselves with a cappuccino at the Café Cordina counter.
Just as this last sentence was long so too was the day that followed, for it seemed that all the quintessential elements of Malta were to be packed into the 10 hours that followed, and as it is a dense and chequered history we must extol, so it was a vibrant, never-ending street affair, that required stamina and sustenance.
Perhaps it is my weakness for Valletta but the festa ta' San Pawl has released a latent devotion and obsession that has not been felt since St Catherine's feast in ?ejtun was still celebrated in November. The first warning bang of the drum, the clash of the cymbals, the toothless octogenarian proudly bearing the banner, the laconic girlfriends who drag their feet alongside Fredu as he blows his tuba, the sashes of red that blow down the street, the pink damask that drapes the church walls, the profligate silver, the sublime gold leaf on St Paul's robe in the early evening light... along the way I bumped into friends and acquaintances who had all gathered to revel in the Felliniesque fanfare that continued to build until reaching its climax inside the church filled with weeping men chanting the Sancti Pauli in hopeless abandon, unable to contain themselves, they burst forth with declarations of love: San Pawl kemm int sabi?.
For it cannot be denied, the statue is immensely beautiful, his face smiling down on his subjects, his hand raised as he beckons and declares, as he leans back as though blinded by an overbearing light. San Pawl, appostlu taghna they continue to cry out, wiping the tears away with jewelled, stout fingers, coughing out prayers in coarse Latin, fixing their ties and furs before rushing out once more to continue to the celebrations in the bars that run along the street.
They were all there, the rich and the poor, the unknown and the politician, the child and the grand dame, the rector and the drunk, the altar boy and the mini skirt, the sacred and the profane and me, lost among the crowds, aching with hunger and cold and joy, as I imagined St Paul must have been when first touched by the light.