I did a spot of window shopping in Rabat the other day. Now, over there, there’s none of the high street shops like Debenhams or Mango or Accessorize like we have say, in Paola. Instead, the Rabat-trademarked Fiorita has taken over the fort.
According to my sister who lives there, in years to come Rabat will become known as Fioritaville. There’s a Fiorita shop for every need: kids clothes, women’s clothes, men’s clothes, evening wear – you name it, it’s there.
I particularly love the ‘Occasion Dresses’ outlet which is full of racks of huge dresses with elaborate xinxilli. The concept of simple outfits is inconceivable in village clothes shops because what pride is there is a dress without a huge faux diamond or enormous gold braided flowers as a ‘gost’.
Rabat is an exercise in the anthropology of clothes and I don’t want to sound like I’m poking fun at these shops because I have great respect for what these boutiques represent: they embody the wardrobe of village life, a life where dressing down for social events would never.
And there is a certain reassuring cycle about it. While during the week an overstretched pair of tight leggings and a t-shirt will do, come the festa, everyone knows that their outfits have to surpass even their Sunday best.
This reflects the structured patterns of village life where everything revolves around the church, market, clubs, and the square. In fact, every evening the Rabat piazza could be a snapshot of any other Mediterranean city in Greece or Spain or Italy.
Most delightful of all is St Paul’s square where men and women still gather in the evening and sit on benches and chat, knit or play cards.
For all our promotion of Malta as the place where time stood still (or is that Gozo?) this is not so common anymore and over the years our squares are becoming dry of different generations. I’m also noticing segregation by age: old people belong to church activities and that’s it.
I was in Brussels last week-end and watched the Belgium vs Argentina game in a pub away from the touristy track and it was packed with locals aged 17 to 70.
There are not many entertainment places on the island where you can do that: the only one I know of is the St Joseph Band club, again, in Rabat, where you can go and watch a football game with your mother, or with your daughter or your boyfriend. You can’t do that in, say, the Paola Band Club which is a men’s only territory.
Old people are like that here – it must be the fresh air
Perhaps it’s a sign of the middle age creeping in, but I am finding myself observing elderly people more and more. I do worry about turning into an old whiner, should I live long enough.
In Rabat again, this week, my sister and I were chatting to an 87 year old lady. She told us about her love of sculpting , gilding and fishing, how she’s plugged in online and has a tablet to boot.
“Not for me the tombola,” she told us. Later, as we were walking home, my sister told me: “That’s the kind of lady I want to be when I grow old.” As I nodded in agreement, she said: “Old people are like that here - it must be the fresh air.”
It helps. But I also think it’s the village life. Of course it has a claustrophobic down side, but it is fool-proof when it comes to a structured multi-generational life.
Up to a few decades ago whole families lived in the same village, so old people could keep on living in their own house and members of the family would pop round to check on them, and they could in turn be useful by keeping an eye on the young ones. So no one was really ever alone.
We are an ageing population, and I am not sure our elderly homes are the right solution for the still active and healthy elderly. Most smell of carbolic soap and the residents are either confined to their little rooms, or the dining room and the television room. It’s like the waiting room to death.
Perhaps the answer lies in retirement villages, very popular now over the continent. They promote independent living in separate individual cottages. There’s a gym, a health centre, indoor pool and even little proper restaurants as opposed to canteens. Come to think of it wouldn’t it be a brilliant idea for the White Rocks complex? Or that dilapidated Jerma?
It would be perfect: fresh air, all enmities close by and the pros of communal living. As a final touch I would suggest a Fiorita or two for the completely authentic village feel.
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