In the central photo, Nysted, the old pier of Copenhagen where the fishing boats used to dock and unload their catch. Today it is the most touristic spot in the city. It's full of grocery stores.
Above, Famagusta in a berth in front of Admiral Hotel and the motor yacht "A" of a Russian oligarch in the background.
Very cold on the way from Germany to Copenhagen. Even in the summer, the Baltic Sea keeps its ... freshness!
COPENHAGEN
Hippies, Utopia, Country-Blues Nights and "Giamas Varoufakis!"
Copenhagen, as I already mentioned, has more than seven marinas for pleasure boats, which can offer boat safety in case of bad weather, safety of passengers and luggage in case of "land rats" raid and above all a quiet and "civilized" environment, which is the one in which most northern European crews mainly look forward to.
However, some Northern Europeans who are deranged by Greek and Mediterranean attitudes in general prefer, like me and my crew, the hustle and bustle of the unruly crowd, the rumble of trucks on the brick-built port roads and the nighttime quiet of the city, which is disturbed every now and then by either rowdy patrons of the corner Pub, who go out for a cigarette and a last beer on the street, or from groups of mixed ages who decide after the restaurant, the opera or the cinema to lounge in the harbor and be lulled by the majesty of the watery silence, the liquid everywhere in the world that connects this port with the next and that with the one below...
Port: This Poseidon Meeting Place of desires, searches, love, sadness and sometimes anger and resignation remained for us, the crew of Famagusta, the place of reference in every Voyage. Whenever there was a choice of port or marina, we chose the port and when it was mandatory for the pleasure boats to dock at the marina, we, under the pretext of the deep keel (we had a draft of 2.25m anyway) requested the berth in the port.
We were without a doubt in the eyes of our friends "a company of philosophic travelers," who liked to set their own course, to like sometimes dichotomy and sometimes the power of joint action, community, joint venture, while in the eyes of the envious us "a company of German-Turkish bekrites, captained by one Zorba - Varoufakis."
That's what a German "taxpayer" called us in a Pub in Heiligenhafen, a few days after the publication of the photo of Varoufakis in the German newspapers pointing the finger at the Troika and Kaiserina Angela. Such was the insult we received from the "taxman" that in every shot of rum we drank, instead of "Giamas re pedia" we turned it into "Giamas Varoufakis." With the left we raised the rum, with the right we pointed the finger at the "taxpayer" and with "Giamas Varoufakis" we hit white bottom.
The taxpayer escaped from the Pub within twenty hours, while throughout the rummy race the remaining three groups of Germans chanted with us the now legendary "Giamas Varoufakis." In fact, the taxpayer decided to leave furious at the exact moment when the DJ dedicated the song of Zorba to us, not as consolation for the insult, but as a sign of solidarity with the uniqueness of the Greek spirit and Greek entrepreneurship...
But to return to my point, these behind-the-bars marinas with afternoon teas, whiskeys at the Sailing Club, and whispering voices on the docks never suited our free-spirited, baritone, unformed and unprincipled nature. . We preferred the fishing port to talk to the fisherman and buy a couple of fried fish, the commercial port to chat with the sailors or the simple village port to watch the kids fishing with a rod, the passers-by going in and out of the local Mini-Market , the neighborhood teddy boy who gassed up a custom Mini Cooper or the kid who waited for our signal to bring us the next dozen beers.
That's how we learned about this and that, about the Russian submarine that washed up in Nakskov, about the shipyards of the surrounding islands that were destroyed during the "Yellow (Chinese) Fever" and about the last Danish shipwrights, the remaining ones gathered in a Nysted's pub and drank it without any more talk of the future. We were told that they were waiting for their time and gathered every afternoon before the Pub on the small hill facing the sea in the South and threw stones at the bass waves and woke up those who left first without even saying goodbye. The future, as the Mayor said, is Tourism and not Ships, it is Marinas and not Ports. Pubs where nanai will not be serving mince bites of salted cod with dark beer and rum, but strawberry tarts with decaffeinated tea and zero percent fat cloned cow's milk.
Is it time for us to leave too? If these younger Greeks understand that the authentic historical Greek is not the one who hunts eurothysaurs, but the one who marches to new lands with pennies, who travels to learn and teach, then these Young People will find themselves again through Travel and Search the new meaning and the new destination. And since this hope still remains doubtful, I suggest that this group of unbelieving ancient Hellenists continue to speak to the deaf. Someone Nobody will hear us...
CHRISTIANIA
THE OLD HIPPY PARADISE IN COPENHAGEN, WHICH THE SAILORS OF FAMAGUSTA BROUGHT HIM AROUND, PHILOSOPHIZED AND CHARACTERIZED AS "A GOOD SYNAPH OF SOLID UTOPISTS CUT OFF BY BECHAMEL."
THE MAIN IDEA: "Guys, leave the Solid Grass and go back to Liquid Red!"
It would not have been past noon when Moutsos Bjern returned to the boat from the neighborhood bakery with the rolls we ordered for Berger's evening meals. Cardassian Ayan needed them immediately because, as on the last Clinton-Copenhagen voyage, he would once again craft those Bergers that always drove the crew crazy. We wanted this first Copenhagen Cockpit Dinner to consist of his most successful recipe: Berger of fresh minced beef, campari cherry tomatoes, dried red onion rings and topped with fried bacon slices. As a green balancing note, the Bergers would contain hot rocket leaves.
Since the "Breakfast" had finished at twelve o'clock and it was now two o'clock, the first red wine had already been opened and distributed in the columned glass glasses of the crew, who were wondering in the conversation about where this "Christiania" was falling. the hippie neighborhood of Copenhagen.
"Welcome him and let him be late" I shouted to him as he jumped from the jetty onto the deck. "You lost the first round of Rioya and if you don't sit down quickly you will lose the second as well" I added. "But don't tell me, there are rolls in a bag. What does the other one have in it?” I asked again.
"Skipper, the grocer..."
"My boy, he's not a grocer, he's a baker..."
"Yes. Anyway, he… gave me this pitta to try. I loved it and bought the whole pan...”
"With your money, I hope..."
"No. With the ship's credit card...”
"Hey, you atheist..." intervened shouting "Steuerman (helmsman) Uwe" who performed in all sea voyages and Treasurer duties "...this card is the 'Common Fund of the Ship' in which you, of course, never you participate… Shouldn't you have asked first?”
"But you will all eat of the pitta... Why should I ask?"
"Judging by your wide, heavenly smile and red eyes, we certainly won't try..." Uwe replied. "Hashisopita, my boy, he sold you..." "But he told me it's made from barley..." "Yes, from weed, my boy, not from wheat..." "Well, well, and? It's a pie, it's not a cigarette...”
"Well, our little Bjorn, if you tell us how long it took you to find your way back to the boat, then we might as well try" he said laughing. “Captain, the man was very kind...”
"Then run and ask him where we should go drinking at night. Surely, as noble as he is, he will know the best parts. Tell him that we like Jazz and Country Blues... Ask him where they sell pure cigars, not heavenly..."
Sailor Bjorn left and never came back. At eight in the evening, Uwe's cell phone rang. The news was that the Sailor would send a Jamaican woman to pick us up from the boat and lead us hand in hand to an old warehouse in the "forbidden city" where they played experimental jazz music and country blues. He would explain why he didn't come back from the grocery store during the night's entertainment.
"THE FREE STATE"
Christiania, the self-proclaimed “Free State” of about 850 residents, was created in 1971 when squatters and hippies took over the former Bådsmandsstræde barracks in Copenhagen, Denmark, which includes some of the best surviving 17th-century defense works in the world. A short walk from Copenhagen's touristic Old Port, Christiania covers an area of 84 hectares and consists of a mix of workshops, art galleries, music venues, self-made houses and food shops.
Described as a "society within a society", the people of Christiania have developed their own set of rules, independent of the Danish government, banning theft, violence, guns, knives and hard drugs. Residents have clashed many times with both the Danish state and "peaceful citizens" over the decades, and there is a long history of resistance, riots, violence and even shooting attacks between drug dealers. One of the main attractions for some visitors is the community's main street, known as Pusher Street, where hashish and marijuana continue to be sold freely despite government efforts to ban their free trade.
We can't say we liked the depressing atmosphere in this part of Christiania with drug dealers standing on every corner and approaching you to sell their 'goods'. Certainly this trade contradicts the declared principles of the "Free State" which he hoped would create here a free and not a dependent Life. It was a Scandinavian summer day in July when we arrived and we saw young people smoking hashish and grinning on top of the old military bastions overlooking the Nemoland cafe and Woodstock Bar, while families with young children were enjoying a lunch at Grøntsagen, a famous vegetarian restaurant. Just down the street some groups sat in a circle, singing Bob Dylan songs with guitars in front of the community's "old school" grocery store.
Judging from this spectacle it would be easy to claim that the free spirit of the "Summer of Love" became a reality here and that Christiania Freetown succeeded in its efforts to create the "utopia" of the hippies. But the reality is different. Christiania became a victim of its own success. Mass tourism with its consequences has arrived here as well and some residents have chosen to leave the community after four decades of residence to escape the rising prices. Jorgen Jensen, an activist we met at the Jazz Club, has lived in Christiania since its inception, when the community was then a dirt road with abandoned buildings and some hippies who sprung from the Thylejren festival (the Woodstock of Denmark) in the summer of 1970. Jorgen was then only 17 years old. A visionary activist of the Environmental Protection Movement, who protested against the Vietnam War and the policies of the World Bank. But after living in Christiania for 48 years, Jensen left last June, citing financial problems from skyrocketing rent prices. The dream has become too expensive and the activists of the past are abandoning it one by one.
However, as an underground music scene and a free space for all kinds of artistic expression, Christiania continues to fuel the Dream and Hope for something Different. So we, the crew of the ocean liner Famagusta enjoyed our country blues night with no land grass but lots of Scotch whiskey and great music. Sailor Bjorn left at 3 o'clock in the morning with the Jamaican, after first making sure that his friend the "grocer," who accompanied us all night on the melodious whiskey, would return us safely to port.
