When I sit down to write something, the same thing invariably happens.
My mind shuts down stubbornly, refuses to think what I need it to think, starts playing host to all sorts of irrelevant snippets and flashbacks from what I think must be previous more insignificant lives, tells my body to fidget non-stop just to spite me, and makes sure I am at the end of my tether before it releases its hold on enough grey matter to let a couple of thoughts crawl through. 

Today is no exception. 

I’m writing this on Saturday, because Sunday is festa time in my adoptive village, Qrendi , and I will need every minute to enjoy it to the full and not miss anything. 

My festa Sunday will start with a beautiful mass at 8am: that's the spiritual energising part, where I get to acknowledge my countless weaknesses and defects, and count my blessings all in the same instance. The highlight of mass is the panigierku which is the moment that confirms that zeal and fervour still exist in the right places, and when all of us villagers sing the Innu at the top of our voices, together in spirit but not necessarily in intonation.

Then it’s party time galore the village way. We host invited and uninvited guests alike.

The local band and whoever is accompanying it stops by for drinks and nibbles at home, filling the ancient precincts with community spirit in the form of festa marci to which we all sing heartily and clap like we've never done before.

Partying goes on all day in many forms until it’s time for the Statue of Our Lady of Lourdes to start her customary rounds in our delightful, quaint village streets. That is the cue to quit the booze and dancing, pull ourselves together, freshen up, don our festa Sunday best and solemn look, and wait for the procession of fratelli, priests and devotees to pass by our house for the traditional refreshments, bringing the beautiful statue of Our Lady to stop right in front of my door.

After that its free festa time with more fireworks, candy floss, hot dogs  and qubbajd until 10.30 pm when the statue goes back into the Church to a moving, age old routine of glorious incantations culminating in all of us teaming up into a community chorus that sings the festa into another page of history.

Now I know that I wrote that in a minute, and it took you less to read it, but I have to point out that a complete festa takes at least a full week to unfold in its entirety externally, and pivots on continuous religious and other preparation all year round. 

Locally we have one of the most active fratellanzi on the islands, headed by a young, very accomplished gentleman who is also spearheading active interaction, sharing and exchange of cultural practices with other fratellanzi from all over Europe, particularly Sicily. It’s amazing how these fratellanzi, particularly the Southern Mediterranean ones, are managing to keep this religious-cultural aspect of the European past alive and kicking by enticing the younger generation to live it, to experience it,  inadvertently creating different new relationships with our Church and what it stands for in the process.

Thus a host of accomplished and not so accomplished young people are injecting life into the ancient roots of these precious traditions by their energising, selfless participation. Needless to say they are greatly enriching themselves in a multitude of ways as they consciously or unconsciously turn the past into a present and future.

And that's just the fratellanzi, or the spiritual part of it. Then there are the hundreds of volunteers who year in year out dedicate a substantial part of their life (not just their time) to keep the external, civil aspect of the festa tradition alive and kicking. From musical productions, to cultural evenings and firework displays, to national symposia, to the creation of new street decorations simultaneously with the restoration of old precious artefacts, festa enthusiasts keep community activity calendars full to the brim, and even occasionally venture into the national cultural calendar with special activities of the highest standard that focus on particular aspects of these precious traditions that have withstood the test of time. 

I wonder if you can stop for an instant and just imagine our little islands without the vibrant colours, smells and sounds of our religious feasts, without our bands playing joyfully in our beautifully decorated  nicely lighted streets, without fireworks, without the solemn processions and the priests in their old  gold and silver embroidered attire, imagine us without the pomp  and ancient organs playing in our imposing richly decorated churches  that smell of incense and gizimina... just imagine our Victoria Gozo without San Gorg... or Santa Marija... (order of mention is alphabetical)

I don't know if you managed to conjure a picture of a soulless Malta and Gozo bereft of its traditions and idiosyncracies.

To be honest, I won't even try. It would be too depressing to even think it, painful to imagine it, and in any case we will not let it happen, ever, so I will spare myself unwarranted feelings of grief, and turn my thoughts to the next festa, my most beloved  home Festa tal-Karmnu taz-Zurrieq, which is as much a part of me as my fuzzy hair.  Or maybe more, because hair might fall off eventually for more reasons than one, but my identity and my love for tradition will live on even beyond my demise.

Enough thoughts and ruminations.

Off to retake control of my kitchen or I will burn my timpana and fenek moqli... And there is still the trifle to do... and the pane de spagna needs to soak in vermouth.....

And Sunday night my favourite team is playing...Holland....of course I wish there was Cruyff and Neeskins, and Van der Kerkoff  x 2 and Krol and Van der Saar and all the stars that have sparkled in the history of Dutch football, but in the end it’s not the individual stars that make a winner, it’s the team spirit which plays not AGAINST  another team, another country, but FOR  honour, for glory of one's country.

I will keep my fingers crossed. Hopefully this time we'll get it right!