Coastal Parking

I parked on the road adjacent to the promenade.

The street felt darker than usual, as if the tall buildings overlooking the coast cast a heavier shadow. Looking up at the sky, framed by the penthouses, the blue had taken on a slightly grey hue.

It was a ten-minute walk to the bar, a thriving summer spot. The bar was perched directly on the limestone coastline, a lively public space. I wondered whether it had gained popularity over the years due to its location, rather than its promising ‘Seaside Saturday vibes’. People walking along the promenade above had full visibility of the bar, waves crashing against its outer walls. And if the wooden canopy blended too well into the surroundings for a foreign eye, the music would surely catch one’s attention.

Crossing the street and walking along the promenade, the underlying coast was crawling with activity. It was a Sunday, the weekend of Santa Marija festivities.

The coast could be accessed through either of two masonry staircases: one linear, descending directly to the coast, the other curved, with an interim landing that hosted an outdoor gym in the middle of the promenade wall.

I wondered what came first: the bar, the gym, or the promenade itself.

The open enclave along the promenade wall offered a variety of bent and straight iron pole arrangements, allowing one to dangle, climb, hang, and sit. Shirtless gym-goers overlooked the people at the bar and on the coast, and vice versa. In contrast, those on the promenade enjoyed both views. People watching people, watching people.

A curved road allowed vehicular access to the bar, dividing it from a children’s playground on the other side. The playground was always less busy than the coastline. Play seemed better exercised by children walking along the uneven limestone and jumping into saline puddles than on a wooden seesaw, I thought. The road led to the back of the bar and opened into irregular parking, a cul-de-sac of sorts.

As I walked down the straight staircase from the promenade, scenes of people inhabiting the coastline unfolded. Most were in groups, either gathered around BBQs, sunbathing, or sitting on the rocks. Some children played in small natural pools of washed-up seawater.

This unravelling of life was every urbanist’s dream, I thought. How joyful it was to see such organic life through an accidental display of Whyte’s ‘triangulation’ principle.

*
*

One white van. A Peugeot Partner.

It was parked right along the edge of the coastline, its front bumper touching the high stone wall supporting the promenade above.

What the actual fuck was a white van doing parked on the coastline?

I looked at the wheels, coated in limestone dust, the limestone coast trailed with black rubber residue.

I pulled out my phone to take a photo, cautious not to be seen by the group drinking nearby. The group sat under a gazebo, wedged between the van, the promenade wall, and a grey Land Rover.

Why was there a Land Rover on the coast?

I tried to trace how the vehicles had reached so far in. Walking further towards the bar, I kept looking back at the cars. How casually this had been accepted. I found myself analysing the gazebo people, their clothes, what they were drinking, their mannerisms, in search for clues to justify my reaction.

Inside the bar, my friend signalled to an empty chair. The bar was less busy than usual. Conversation came and went. but my attention stayed outside. I excused myself and walked to the edge for another look.

A black Audi Q8, the largest of the Audi SUV range, had made way into the depths of the coast. The contrast was immediate, as the slow, controlled movement of the vehicle sliced through the yellow limestone. Not unlike the car advertisements, only misplaced.

Tracing the route backwards, I noticed the informal path: a strip of concrete connecting the asphalt parking to the coastline, originally intended for scuba trucks. The Audi followed it with ease, parking next to the Land Rover. The female driver slowly climbed out of the SUV and exchanged pleasantries with the gazebo-people, handing over a cooler bag.

Momentarily, I pondered on the driver's mindset as they manoeuvred through the limestone mounds, BBQ setups, beachgoers, strollers, and other pushover inhabitants. Where the people flipping meat over the grill simply too unbothered to make way for the car?

A light grey Toyota pickup followed shortly after.

How many people had been invited?

The dust lifted by the tyres blended with the smoke from the grills, drifting slowly across the coast.

Walking back, I showed the photos to the boys. The usual comments surfaced; lack of enforcement, shamelessness, nothing new. Restlessly, I searched for a number to call.

*

*

“…Yes, there are four cars parked on the coastline.”

“Hold the line, please.”

…

…

…

“Are they obstructing traffic?”, inquired the operator.

“They’re on the coastline. Unless you mean foot traffic.”

I explained the location again.

“Maybe they have a permit,” he replied.

“A permit? For parking on the coast?”

The operator paused for a few seconds. I could hear a distant voice speak to the operator.

"Could you call the community police?", he suggested.

An inner rage was about to culminate. The person he was liaising with was just as useless and disinterested as the grill-man.

"Community police? Listen, officer, I'm having a beer, could you kindly deal with this, or is it best to call LESA on the matter?".

"No need. We will call the local council,” he assured me.

"Surely, you don't think the local council will do anything in this regard. And nonetheless, it is a question of legality and irregularity. Isn't that within your remit?”, I inquired.

"Yes, but maybe they have a permit", he said in a firm voice, allowing no room for doubt.

"Officer, thank you. I will call LESA myself", I said, abruptly hanging up.

I searched for the general LESA contact number.

*
*

"Thank you for calling the Local Enforcement System Agency. For safety and training purposes, this call may be recorded".

"Grazzi talli ċempilt lill- Local Enforcement System Agency. Għal skopijiet ta' sigurtà u taħriġ, din it-telefonata tista' tiġi rrekordjata."

*...*

"Thank you for calling the Local Enforcement System Agency. Unfortunately, we are currently closed. We are open Monday to Saturday, between---".

I looked for another contact number. Short on ideas, searching 'Report illegalities Malta contact number' yielded phone numbers for reporting illegal construction works. The search feed continued to show pre-generated FAQs on how to report illegal construction work. Desperate, I considered resorting to the emergency helpline.

I ordered another beer before rejoining my friends. Ironically, The Police were playing one of their hit summer songs on the bar's speakers. A few beers later, we walked back to the coast.

Walking out, and as if orchestrated, a group of three police officers approached the gazebo. They had walked the same path the cars had, their hats just about peeking through the limestone surface. The gazebo people were already half done, folding away the steel structure in panic. The Police approached the vehicles one at a time. The presumed drivers of these cars, beers in hand, shirtless, nodded at the officers. Two of the drivers were noticeably larger than the policemen.

Observing the mannerisms of the exchange, the open arms and gentle head nodding assured me that they would be let off with no more than a warning. The Officers had not pulled out a notepad or taken a photo. A short moment later, they continued walking along the coast.

The car drivers took their time to pack up their setup. By the time they all left, The Police were still speaking to a group of people, presumed expats, gathered around a BBQ. Too far to hear, but long enough to assume something had been said.

I found myself watching closely at who was being addressed, and who wasn’t. Looking for patterns. For inconsistencies.

Eventually, one car drove off. Then another.

The coast began to clear.

How futile my efforts were, I thought, in designing for a people with no respect for their own land. A culture so obsessed with the car that such a scene proved to be more exhaustive for me than it was for the car driver.