Seasons in the Abyss-Paros '06

After the disaster that ruined my stay in Spain, my father decided to help me sae part of my holidays. He proposed that instead of staying alone in Athens in the midst of August, I should follow him to the island of Paros, to get a glimpse of good clean family fun once in a while. I had visited Paros after my graduation, 10 years earlier, and I had very fond memories of the whole debauchery that occurred there. Plus I remember the island as a place full of pleasure and opportunities for easy sex, with easygoing locals. And the travelling beast in me was arguing that it would be better to jump on the next ferry than stay in town
Apparently all this had changed radically in the passing years. And there I was crashing in this 65 euro-a-night room to let, which was obviously a bit too much in my eyes. The food was ranging from nice to awful, the alcohol was going quickly down the drain, the music was a bad combination of mainstream hits. Bleh! Suddenly, by the beginning of the first night, I was at a loss. I was missing something. Instead of the hippyish adventurous crowd I met in my travels to Spain, I came across something completely different. Most of the crowd was among the kind of the social climbers. Most of the youth looked like Mykonos wash-outs, trendy kids and socialites that can’t afford Santorini.All of a sudden I had sunk in a different kind of swamp. Barcelona might be a city of vice, but Paros and all these wee islands in the vicinity of Athens are a totally different animal.
Within the last few years, aros had emerged into a must for all semi-well-to-do summer escapees from Athens, catering for the needs of a crowd that needed to sow off. Hence, the island is dominated by overpriced services aimed at rich Europeans and Greeks that have some extra money to spend. At the time a week in Paros cost as much as three weeks of roaming around Spain. Do the math. The truth is that Paros turned out as a place not meant for budget holidaymakers. The contrary. In the Cyclades, at the time, the term value-for-money was unknown. Even though some terms of traditional beuty survived (like the winemakers in Naousa, the architecture), the evil truth is that the island has surrendered to capitalism altogether. Most beaches with easy access are full of umbrellas and seats for rent (as much as five euros an hour-do the math), and the golden sands of the island are full people. In some of the most crowded beaches, finding space is unpossible by all means.
The night activities wre different in a similar fashion. There was no bar whatsoever that was playing any decent music at all. Even the idea of organising a botellon , seemed like something different altogether.The idea of going out here, certainly differs from the idea present in other parts of the world. Fashionable clubs with spiked drinks are all the way. And I could not even think of searching for any drugs, this would definitely be beyond my wallet.
Within that week I had travelled clockwise around the island, and I had found one-all-evident truth. Paros was definately not the island Greek poets were talking about, no more.. But then again, I was in a bitter mood after the end of my travels in Spain, and I was probably unfair to the place… I would visit it in some niche period, a few months later.

Barcelona again (chasing ghosts of voyages past)

By sundown I had reached the Estacion Franca, and was in the process of searching for the hostel. Once again I was lost. The hours past and I was becoming more and more disoriented. Yet Barcelona still mistyfied me. I was still looking for a way to join in the decadant and vibrant atmosphere of the town. Barcelona still sinks to a mindboggling beat. After seemingly hours of searching, I found some metro station and started following directions to the hostel. Upon my arrival another problem appeared. I had booked a bed, but from the next day and on. Finaly I managed to get a bed for the night, and left my belongings in there. I was just into my clean clothes and looking for something to eat, when one of the German students staying in the hostel barged in through the reception and said something about a nude guy appearing in the deli nextdoor. I went in and watched the commotion. In reality nobody was reacting. This is Barcelona, anyway. Someone can get into an establishment of any sort, butt-naked, without anyone even blinking an eye. Locals tend to be very open about a lot of things.

I wrote about Barcelona’s unique architectural style in previous posts. But in fact, I had not seen even half of the city’s monuments. I had to do the rounds once more. After all this was my reason for being in town, Barcelona was not a pit stop this time. It was something more. And while I was still chasing away memories of my previous stay there, I had my mind set on visiting whatever I had missed out previously.
So the first place to visit that was in the stay’s orders, was Park Guel. One of Antoni Gaudi’s masterpieces. Comissioned by wealthy count Eusebi Guell, the park is divided in two sections. The botanic section, wich is the biggest one and offers a splendid view of the city and a quiet walk for people who want to wind up, and the monument section, which is the focus point for all tourist groups. Inspired by the Garden City movement, Lewis Carol’s “Alice in Wonderland”, and the sea, full of cave-like arks and recycled elements from an older housing estates. And all these seem strange if one takes into consideration the fact that Gaudi himself was very religious. His house, is a simple structure, the only decoration of wich, is a portrait of the pope opposite to Gaudi’s bed.
The exploration of the Park, continued for the best part of my day. At some part of the walk around I saw a very familiar scene. An anarchist squat. The anarchist movement has a great tradition in the Peninsula and especially around Catalunya, since the beginning of the 20th century. I will not comment on the history of the anarchist movement, but I saw a banner that got me thinking. “Tourists Go Home” , it wrote. I think this is very contradictory. How can one wjo envisages a world with no borders and free mobility of people, tell some foreigner (even a tourist) to go? Is this for real? On the other hand this seems to reflect on the attitude of some of the locals. La Rambla is full of tourists, thieves,dirt,drugs. Only the sea of neon lights could be missing. But then again, this is Barcelona, and all this can still be overlooked. In the mean time, the night of Sant Joan is approaching, and I hear homemade fireworks everywhere.
The night is a big party that concludes with the burning of the huge statue of Sant Joan somewhere near Barceloneta. Before that, the statue is being moved through the city streets, accompanied by runners, cyclists and marching bands. The night is long and uneventful.

The next day was dedicated to sports. Sort of. I had decided to pay a visit to the hills. Montjouik the hill of Jews in ancient Catalan. The area houses the biggest park in the metropolitan area of Barcelona, a 17th century castle overseeing the port, a big part of the 1992 Olympic Complex, the Miro Museum and the Palau Nacional. Probably it is the perfect example of Barcelona’s mix and match architectural style. The architecture of the castle (wich was a prison for political prisoners including the infamous Salvador Puig Antich, during Franco’s rule), is combined with the Belle Epoque Styled Palau Nacional, and Santiago Calatrava’s Olympic ring are all situated within a 3 mile radius. The castle can be reached via monorail (the Funicular) or, if you are into walking-cycling, through the local streets (which used to be the Montjuic Street Circuit, until the mid seventies). It took me 15 minutes to reach the castle with the funicular, and some 20 minutes downhill to reach the Miro Museum wich was close to the start of the Funicular. I gave about twenty euros to what seemed to me the most lifeless and boring museum ever, wich gave me no feeling of the era when Miro operated, even though the collection was a really good assortment of his work, wich expanded from architecture to painting and modern sculpture. Miro was one of Barcelona’s profilic architects, though overshadowed by the mighty Gaudi, and certainly one of its grandest painters. Mind you though, the museum doesn’t serve him right.
The following night I followed a lone Quaker to a local pub. He was good company and turned out to be a good conversationalist for a 19 year old American. Looks like Quakers can be very liberal. By the end of the night I was kinda wasted, and falling a victim of the mugger patrol. Thank god I found out fast enough and chased the thief’s away screaming things about chopping their heads of in Spanish and various nice things I would do to their families if they did not leave my wallet. In the end I was just some thirty five euros short, and they had left my wallet and cashcards there. The end of the night had come. And the end of my last day in town. I had spent some nights in Barcelona, and emerged unharmed and able to continue my quest. Gosts chased away, and nightmares run over, I was ready to move to Valencia.

Things to do in Barcelona when you're broke

hBeing tired and weary I was roaming the streets of Barcelona looking for a cheap way to eat and contact my parents. And as I was sitting in front of a computer screen at the local Subway trying to email my father for more cash, my wallet disappeared. Somebody had managed to pull it away from my eyesight within a few seconds. So I sent a second email with instructions for my father to send me money via Western Union. Bad choice, since WU is a ripoff, but I could not choose anything better than that. And I was very lucky, because I had stashed my passport and plane ticket at another pocket.
So, in a few words, there I was stranded, tired, weary and broke in Barcelona, trying to find my way around things. The situation looked grimm, and the probabilities of me having to return home early due to lack of cash, where really high, and I had no attention of turning back. In the meantime I was sitting at a sports bar, charging my phone and waiting for confirmation that everything was in its right place, and hoping to find my wallet, with my cashcard. Evil, evil town Barcelona. Petty crime and prostitution are rife. Barcelona is slowly sinking to the beat of moral decay, and enjoying the ride. But this ride is really rough when it comes to the poor of the city.
Local and federal police are gentle when they deal with tourists, but this is not the case with immigrants, prostitutes and junkies. Police violence and arrests are a common sight in La Rambla. Pickpockets are the most common criminals here, especially in parts of La Rambla where there is some traffic and congestion, but also around coffeeshops and restaurants in the area.
Meanwhile the call has come in, and I am stocked with money for the remainder of the week. So I head to a hostal (something like a cheap rooms to let thing, not to be confused with hostels), and spend my last five days in Spain, trying to find the wallet and keep up my hopes concerning my stay in Spain. I spend my days wandering around Barri Gottik, pacing around La Rambla sidestreets trying to find my wallet (which is not in any police lost and found) , and spending my evenings around the areas of the Barceloneta.
The Barceloneta has been fully refurbished into an artificial beach, and the city’s meat packing district. There you will find an interesting mix of characters, from dealers trying to sell you a fix, to street musicians, to undercover police officers, to political activists, and action-thirsty American tourists. Barcelona is a haven for all these guys, since a great deal of everything, from every sort of alternative scene happens there. Reggae, ska, punk and hip hop top the bill, with Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra headlining a gig at the Palau Musica, to local heroes Ojos de Brujo playing for free at a street party in their Barrio.
Money of course was scarce. So whatever I could do apart from walking around was very limited. Buying “stuff” was out of the question, I could not afford that. Food was coming from supermarkets and street vendors. A few beers from the kiosk or the Chinese guys had to do the drinking job, and street artists where the only entertainment. Anyway, whatever works, so be it. Come the fifth day, and I was becoming accustomed to the idea of returning to Greece. Oblivious to what was happening in the UK, I was getting ready to board the train to Madrid.

Ουτρέχτη 03:28

Η ταπετσαρία στον τοίχο που είχα προσέξει από το πρωί πως πάει να ξεφλουδιστεί, ξετυλίγεται τώρα προς το μέρος μου, στην αρχή απειλητικά και μετά σαν φιλόξενο σεντόνι που με αγκαλιάζει ενώ περιστρέφομαι. Μόλις είχα γυρίσει από τη μεγάλη βόλτα και είχα νιώσει το πεζοδρόμιο να λιώνει κάτω από τα πόδια μου, τις άπειρες δυνατότητες κίνησης μέσα στο χώρο και τα αόριστα χάχανα των περαστικών που ανεβοκατεβαίνουν σαν σε ράγες τον κεντρικό δρόμο. 

Από το διπλανό δωμάτιο ακούγεται ένας υγρός ρυθμός, στακάτος που με αφήνει να χαθώ μέσα του, ενώ στο ταβάνι έχουν ήδη αρχίσει να διαγράφονται τα σχήματα αυτού του ταξιδιού. Μία σειρά ρόμβων που εγκιβωτίζονται, κάποιες κουβέντες από εφηβικούς έρωτες και διάθεση απογείωσης.

Οι σταγόνες στο νεροχύτη έχουν γίνει κρότοι και με καλούν. 

Αύριο θα δω ξανά την πόλη. 

Exit France-Enter Spain

Finally my boarding time had arrived. I was due on the old TGV for Montpellier, where I would board the Talgo to Barcelona Estacion Franca. The quick trip to Montpellier was a beautiful experience. Though the trip lasts only a little more than an hour, the terrain is varied. The train goes past agricultural farms, villages and bridges. It is one of the most beautiful scenic train routes in Europe, only compared to the routes between Athens and Thessaloniki, Miranda del Evro and Bilbao, Leon and A Coruna, Rome and Bologna, most of the Scottish Rail Highlands routes, and the ride between Narbonne and Barcelona. Montpellier itself is a beautiful small town, very traditional in its looks, but also modern. I only wish I could stay longer, but unfortunately I had to make a 15 minute dash to the ticket counters and back toward the lines, to buy the ticket and catch the connecting train to Barcelona. In the end I arrived at my seat with a sigh of relief. It was not as movie-like as my connection in Milan, but hell it was frantic.. Once I had boarded the train, it started to move. I was at the nick of time! I was rolling again towards Barcelona. Again I was looking around with awe. The scenery of the south-western coast of France can be breathtaking. As the sun was striking noon, we were passing through sandy beahes, lakes , marinas and coastal towns. The water looked crystal clear. Near the afternoon we had finally reached Narbonne, and I was reliving the my past trip. Now the train was drifting into the mainland, getting ready to start crossing the Pyrinees. Soon we where into Perpignan, in the French part of Catalunya. I was listening to Fermin Muguruza, the illegalised Basque singer yelling Maputxe , when we had finally arrived at the border crossing of Portbou. As the train was slowly progressing toward the Spanish part of the station and a border patrol was checking us, I watched a group of Morrocan, Senegalese and Mauritanian immigrants where sitting at the blazing sun, handcuffed, desperate and scared. Fortress Europe on the rise, that is. Instead of what is written on the Statue of Liberty, what European governments are saying is, “I do not care what happens to them, as long as they do not step on my soil”. And, Southern Europe being the frontier, this is what one can see on it’s borderline. Houndreds of hopefulls, in a desperate dream of finding a way out for their future. People who are almost doomed in their homelands, trying to make it for a breakthrough. And in the process, some of them being caught by authorities and thus facing an uncertain future. Meanwhile the train has been handed over to RENFE, and we are now crossing through the Catalan landscape towards Barcelona. I see familiar names and places passing by. Girona, Figueras.... Amparanoia are playing Buen Rollito through my earphones, and I am reaching Barcelona, to chase away the ghosts of my last stay there…..

A very French overview, thank you!

As I was leaving France, Nicola Sharkozy was reaching yet another all-time low in opinion polls. Since then, Sharkozy has not reemerged, and he seems to be sinking further deep. While his popularity is still sinking, attacks left and right and unpopular decisions make him even more vulnerable to the public’s eyes. Then and now are virtually unchanged. The criticism remains virtually the same, with Sharkozy coming under attacks for racist politics, corruption, cohorting with African Despots and, of course, leading a provocative lifestyle while the public has to battle set-after-set of measures by means of spending and wages cuts and privatisations. Thank god that French Unions still maintain their fighting traditions. On the other hand the political figures of the Left, though maintaining a militant form of speech, they are usually turning into reformist proposals, and mild criticism of capitalism when ti come to publicly expressing their ideas or drafting a political program.
Yet, despite the fact that the popular right is at a loss, the far right doe not stand to gain. And that is because Sharkozy stole part of its audience by putting racist and nationalist ideas in the centre of his politics. Despite it all the ones that make gains are on the left. And while the left itself has significant gains to show, the most of them turn towards the centre left . And that does not have to do with the question of ideas. That has to do with proof of being the lesser evil, i.e. the Socialist Party. And this does not really go without consequences. Recent mistakes and the emergence of the NPA (New Anticapitalist Party) and Olivier Bezancenaut, made the Socialist lose some face in the polls. Yet, for the NPA to become the government, or a widely heard voice in France, there are bold decisions that have to be made. A carefull plan on alliances, a clear and steady political programme, and putting forward strong socialist ideas. This, however, remains to be made. It seems as if the politics of the major players in NPA, have to do more with communicational tricks than political substance. But activism without providing a political program does not constitute a political answer, some groups within the NPA argue. Yet the party elite seems oblivious to these voices and the party does not take steps to produce anything but appearances of its leader on strikes and demos. As if politics is only a matter of PR, and not of communicating your ideas to the public.
And with the economic crisis looming over France, noone knows what will happen next and how……

Rainshowers and Politics-This is Ghent

The view after leaving the St Peters station does not do Ghent any justice. In fact the first buildings you encounter look pretty dull, especially in the middle of the night. Nothing was moving in the streets, and, thank god there was Burt with his van, who was available. So we crossed the town to the place where the social meeting was taking place, in order to find the Greek and the Cypriot delegation. when we reached the place, they where already gone, and en route to the student halls where we were lodging in. Another jump on the van, and off to the halls. There, since I did not have any key whatsoever to the room, I had to wait for some more time, for my roomie and the rest of the group to arrive. While I was waiting near the tables, a group of Americans was partying on the floor. They offered me a drink and a way to come into their company, but I had to refuse politely. I was too tired from the two-day trip, and I needed a lot of sleep. After a few more minutes of waiting, the greeks had arrived, and I was sleeping next to my designated partner.
The morning came with a shower of rain. And , along with that, we had to walk a few kilometres into the center of Ghent, to reach the place where the conference was taking place. And, due to me being awfully late in waking up, we had missed breakfast. Bad bad bad. I had to endure about 15 people staring at me. We walked through the heavy showers, got lost on the way, but finally made it to the building, with a sigh of relief. That was the end of our troubles. We arrived just as the procedures where starting, and the other delegations where coming in. Among us we had a few of the “stars “ of the conference. Lucy Redler, a member of the local Parliament of Berlin, with SAV and WASG, Peter Taughee the Secretary of the Socialist Party in England and Wales, members of the SSP,people from Socialist Resistance in Kazakhstan, Shiri from Sri Lanka, and, last but not least, Joe Higgins, then TD representing the Socialist Party in Irish Parliament.. The conference was a good paradigm of the way the CWI behaves internationally. Open, democratic procedures, where all opinions are heard, and disagreements are taken into account, sometimes even answered when there is an answer to counter them, or adopted as proposals when they are solid. Splits are uncommon, since decisions are discussed extensively in branch meetings (in the beginning), and slowly move their way into the central committee, so that every angle can be discussed and covered, disagreements and problems can be solved. And this means few people living the organisations, and the danger of splits being minimal, since members take a decisive part in decision making, not just being “forced” to listen to directives from the top. In this conference , all important matters are discussed, but, more seriously, members from different countries share experiences from fighting the good fight, and methods of intervening in movements, workspaces and schools. The same goes with propositions and working around campaigns. What you see in this conference is the core of this international. People from various backgrounds who are taking up organizational tasks, or play a certain role in movements, trade unions and coalitions of parties and organizations. And this because back in their workspaces they are recognised as good fighters with solid ideas and good-working proposals.
All this conference work left me small amounts of time to cruise around town and get its feel. But, on the other hand, I think that I got a lot of its atmosphere. Ghenk may have a surreal weather (all four seasons appearing within the day, Vivaldi would go mad if he was living there), but is not, by any means , dim. Though it is a typical Flemmish place, the population is mixed. There are Germanic people, Italians, Arabs and Congolese living there. Plus it is the city with the biggest population of Turks in continental Europe, bar Germany. In one instance a group of Turkish men approached us with the intention of selling us contraband merchandice, but they where , almost instantly, leaving with a negative response. The food around is excellent, especially if you are fond of beer and French fries. Mind you, French fries are actually a Belgian trademark product, they are not French at all. As for the beer, Belgium has a tradition for Monastery-type brands, and a speciality for blended bears. Forbidden Fruit, Hoegarden, Duvell and Lucifer are the most recognised brand names around.

Nevertheless Ghent is picturesque, and its downtown area has no resemblance to the monstrosities around St.Peters. It is full of small-time bars and shops, that live off the students living there. Ghent and Leuven are famous for their Universities. Yet Ghent is also some sort of a stronghold for Flemmish Nationalism. Ethnic tensions in Belgium are on the rise. The French-speaking South is going into an economic crisis, while the neuvau-riche Flemmish North is very prosperous. And the Northerners want autonomy by way of a loose confederation between the three states (Wallonia, Flanders and Brussels), so that they do not have to pay for the newly poor South. It is the victor’s nationalism, a bourgeois us and them, like the type of nationalism Angela Merkel is trying to awaken now in Germany. We are cool, they are bums. This was shown when, one night after exiting a bar and moving towards our home, a Flemmish nationalist stomped on one of our comrades. Thank God the cops arrived in time, and Belgian police have a very strict policy on law and ordrer. whoever breaks it, be nationalist or anarchist, rich or poor, is arrested. Same thing happened when tensions between members of the cwi and a neofascist group rose one day later. Though they where having batons as part of their uniforms, they never got to use them. The Police arrived swiftly and apprehended them for carrying illegal weapons! Could one see that happening elsewhere? Furthermore this surprised all the Israelis, Greeks, Swedes, Cypriots and Russians within the group. If this was happening back home, the Police would surely turn a blind eye on them, if not openly support them. The police arresting them seemed to be too much of a far fetched scenario. Meanwhile even the Swedes where getting pissed of at the weather. I have not seen as much rain anywhere else, to speak the truth. The days passed, and I was starting to get tired and short-fused. Though I had fun, the weather was getting to me. I needed to return to Spain. So I decided, that the day after the end of the conference, I would jump on the first plane available going south. Spain, Italy, Southern France, Portugal, I don’t mind. On the last day we partied hard, I almost drunk like a bore. After that we left for our last night of sleep. At noon we left Ghent for Brussels, where I would leave the rest of the group and go my way into Spain again.