Reykjavík Grapevine - 10.05.2013, Síða 12

Sam Knight is a freelance journalist living in Washington D.C. He
has been interested in Iceland since the Pots and Pans Revolution.
Kolabrautin is on 4th floor Harpa
Order a table in phone 519 9700
info@kolabrautin.is
www.kolabrautin.is
Whether you experience our surprising neo–Nordic influenced cuisine, or have a drink at
our renowned cocktail bar while enjoying one of the best panoramic views in Reykjavík,
an evening at Kolabrautin is truly a feast for all the senses.
ICELANDIC PRODUCE
MEDITERRANEAN TRADITIONS.
Two weekends ago, I couldn't have been happier to be
in Reykjavík, thousands of miles from home— even
more pleased than I normally would have been to par-
ticipate in typically depraved Saturday night revelry in
101 Reykjavík.
Washington D.C., where I was born, raised, and cur-
rently live, was playing host to the White House Corre-
spondents Dinner—a corrupt cesspool swimming with
access journalists, actual celebrities, and the guys who
control the nuclear arsenal. Someday, in a very thorough
article about the decline in living standards for the vast
majority of Americans, there will be an entire chapter
dedicated to this circus—most infamous, perhaps, for
being the gala where George W. Bush made a joke about
not finding WMDs in Iraq under a White House sofa,
while Iraqi women and children and American kids
were being blown into unidentifiable smithereens.
But I was blissfully nowhere near the wank-a-thon
and its related parties because I was doing what felt like
the polar opposite—covering The Pirate Party's elec-
tion night celebration at Kaffi Reykjavík, watching an
improbable group of rag-tag internet freedom fighters
nervously play a game of wait-and-see.
THE JUNGLES OF CHIAPAS
It felt, in a way, like being in the jungles of Chiapas on
New Year’s Day in 1994—or at least a non-violent, way-
less-bad ass version of the Zapatista uprising. Either
way there was free beer. The Pirates were staying true
to their inclusionary manifesto as far as I could tell, even
if the free of charge stuff did run out rather quickly, and
the line at the bar proved that microeconomic theories
about price mechanisms aren’t all bullshit.
Beer waiting time aside, there was a whiff of history
in the air. In a few hours, we fully expected, based on
polls, to see a handful of them become the first Pirate
Party candidates in history to be elected to a national
legislature. And there was a feeling that the results
would have outsized influence typical of a country
with the most non-British Premier League footballers,
WikiLeaks producers, Miss Worlds, and Sigur Róses
per capita.
The Pirates' agenda—direct democracy, open gov-
ernment, and civil rights—had attracted people, such as
myself, from all over the world. I noticed a French radio
journalist snapping up interviews with random patrons.
Laurie Penny—who, for all the right reasons, is a mas-
sive deal in the Anglophone left-o-sphere—was there.
That Pirate candidates and strategists had been spied on
and harassed by my government for helping WikiLeaks
expose its murderous, corporate water-carrying ways
made being there on that night all the sweeter, for me.
FLIRTING HARD
WITH DISASTER
Until, that is, the results started coming in. Although
the Pirates had polled as high as 7.5 percent three
days before the vote, all night voters threatened to
ruin the election party. The tension was magnified
by the fact that the Pirates' numbers were the last to
be announced when local officials rattled off what
results they could. Polite applause followed the less-
than optimal numbers.
Musical performances distracted partygoers
and supporters from the drama—as did an unruly,
drum banging lush who was given the heave-ho by
the cafe's staff. And I stopped jokingly asking Pirate
candidates like Helgi Hrafn Gunnarsson and Smári
McCarthy if they were Prime Minister yet. Not be-
cause my “Haha, I'm The Ignorant American” jokes
became less comical with each repetition, in my
opinion, but because the possibility of the Pirates fin-
ishing with less than five percent of the vote seemed
increasingly realistic as the hours ticked away (as any
casual observer of Icelandic Parliamentary politics
knows, a party needs at least five percent to win any
seats in Parliament).
While hopes remained high, the party was hover-
ing at around 4.9 percent around midnight, flirting
hard with disaster. The country was still waiting for
results to pour in from the capital area—the Pirates'
bedrock of support, a fact that caused many to be
relaxed in the face of a possible cataclysm. But MP
Birgitta Jónsdóttir told me that she wouldn't take
anything for granted, exuding a level-headedness re-
quired for long slogs she has fought with varying de-
grees of success in recent years. Either way, it seemed
very possible that politicians seeking to marshal the
power of horizontalist 21st century ideology would
be, no pun intended, flattened.
DANCING THEIR
WORRIES AWAY
So I left the joint around 1:30 AM. Nervousness,
helplessness, or cautious optimism—either way, the
party wasn't exactly your typical 101 bender, and
people I was chatting with wanted to check out The
Progressive Party at Hotel Borg. I'd have been a shit-
ty journalist if I didn't try to drink their beer. Given
their history of looking out for moneyed interests, we
thought they'd be taking care of the people celebrat-
ing Sigmundur Davíð's assent at the swanky joint.
But there was no such luck. Nine hundred ISK for a
beer. A guy wearing a Mitt Romney shirt stumbling
into the party was all I needed to know about the
Douche Caucus without being plied with free alco-
hol. A motion was put forth to trudge up Laugavegur
in search of higher quality debauchery. It passed with
unanimous consent.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the Pirates—
even a nice sloppy makeout sesh couldn't keep my
mind off politics. What would become of the good
ship Jolly Roger? My new friend and I formed a
splinter cell in search of the remnants of the Pirate
Party party. But Kaffi Reykjavík had shut. We found
some Pirate candidates and supporters standing out-
side. A debate ensued about whether to join their
comrades who were trying to salvage something of
a Saturday night at the bar Harlem, or to set out in
search of an apartment where we could watch the fi-
nal results trickle in. For me, and some of the others,
Harlem was the obvious choice. Pirate supporters—
an identity I took on as the night wore on—sipped
and danced their worries away.
A sobering reality had sunk in, however, after the
last call and long walk home—out to the apartment
on Háaleitisbraut where I was staying. I flipped on
the computer and checked the results on RÚV: Ice-
landers had not only given a majority of seats to the
two parties responsible for handing the country over
to larcenists over the last decades, but the Pirates
were still polling just below five percent.
“Go home, Iceland. You're drunk,” I tweeted at
around 5:30 AM—a throwaway remark that was
retweeted by internet freedom activists from around
the world.
THE PIRATES PULL THROUGH
But when I awoke, rather groggily, I heard the good
news from—appropriately—the internets, social me-
dia to be specific. Smári had updated his Facebook
status to the delight of 43 or so of his friends—I didn't
need Google translate to tell me the news was good.
Three Pirates—Birgitta, Helgi and Jón Þór Ólafs-
son—would be representing Icelanders in the next
session of Parliament.
And if they can manage to open up the govern-
ment and pass direct democratic initiatives—the
former is more likely than the latter—perhaps it will
provide a model for those around the world who
thrive on information. Something more dignified and
less corrupted than kneeling at the altar of power and
sipping from Rome's poisoned chalice to get infor-
mation to the public.
Partying With The Pirates
12The Reykjavík Grapevine Issue 5 — 2013