What happened then
It must have been round about my 10th birthday, shortly after grandma had come to live with us following grandpa’s passing away.
The new Malta International Airport was inaugurated and the islanders were flocking in for the open-weekend. Malta was just coming out of long years of conservative politics, and the new-comers were showing off their first flagship of change, a breath of new, progressive, fresh air. When we were called to leave for the tour, I was playing a game of football out in the street. It was exciting, but something did not feel quite right.
When we arrived there, the parking was a hassle. Father found a spot on the outskirts and preferred that to the wild goose chase of a spot closer by. I complained, feeling sure there must be a more convenient parking. Indeed while walking towards the entrance we passed by an empty slot, but father laughed it saying we would have taken ages to come by it.
I flared up, cursed at his lack of will to even try, and ran off. He shouted out back at me, but I did not even glance back. I ran on, determined to make my way home. That was some 6km but I didn’t bother. We made it by car, so somehow it could be also done on foot. I ran on, slowing to a fast walk at times to catch my breath, and orient myself. These were roads we had never driven by. To shorten the distance, I ran through the middle of Qormi village, rather than around it via the bypass. I stopped twice to ask for directions, and hastened pace as the roads started becoming more familiar. Some 45min later, I arrived home where gandma opened the door. She looked surprised to see me, but I re-assured her I had convinced dad to let me play on and I only needed a glass of water… then I returned to my football and told my friends the same story I’d used for grandma.
My parents arrived not much later, and surprisingly did not drag me by my hair back home, but let me play on. For the time being, I kept my little secret to myself. When I finally did go home, there was a mixed feeling of admiration, pride, broken hearts and an after-taste of worry. I coolly explained it only took me 45mins to get back, and only stopped asking for directions twice. It was my second claim of independence, and it felt empowering.
What of it?
Still today the memories feel good. The deception to grandma and my friends. The feeling of achievement.
I also see another perspective. I have a one year old child, and I can’t image this happening me. I’d probably go wild with worry. My parents must surely have let off some anger between themselves. And damn, I was fit!
