This post is from Roads & Kingdoms' Five O'Clock Somewhere series: daily dispatches at cocktail hour from around the world. Find more food and travel storytelling at Roads & Kingdoms.
By James Fixter
Astra in Hamburg
It's
not so much an optional activity as a hallowed tradition when my
colleagues convene for a Friday afternoon beer. It's time to put into
practice what may as well be Hamburg's official motto: work hard, then
play harder. And so we find ourselves standing before one of the
colossal concrete flak bunkers that still loom over the city. An unusual
choice of venue, but one that certainly provides plenty of food for
thought over a beer.
The entrance is uninviting. The path meanders
through clammy corridors that once echoed with rushed footsteps as air
raid sirens howled across the city, and the cold light of electric bulbs
on bare concrete walls quickly induces claustrophobia. We stepped in
from a chilly October afternoon, yet it actually seems to be colder
inside as we crowd into the elevator.
We emerge on the top floor,
surprised to find a sleek rooftop bar that now stands where the massive
anti-aircraft guns once did. We seem to have beaten the Friday rush and
have an unbeatable view of the city to ourselves as the waitress plants
chilled glasses of Astra on the table in front of us. The name of this
cult lager can be found everywhere here, whether stacked in stubby
bottles on supermarket shelves, atop a sticky counter in a seedy bar on
the Reeperbahn, or in the neon glare of a sign hanging off a pub wall.
If any beer can be said to represent Hamburg, then this is surely it.

The
venue for today's session is more remarkable than our brew of choice,
however. If Astra epitomizes the spirit of Hamburg, then so, too, does
the old bunker in which we are now enthusiastically swilling it. Once
used to repel Allied bombers in the World War II, it was later left
standing as a crumbling and overgrown ruin after a botched demolition.
Sixty years later, developers embarked on an ambitious project to
transform it into a solar-power station and renamed it the
Energiebunker. Photovoltaic panels now cascade down the southern wall
and the stripped-out interior has been filled with machinery to harness
the green energy.
"This kind of pragmatism is typical of Hamburg,"
one colleague tells me with more than a hint of local pride. In fact,
there is a track record of taking a pragmatic approach to the bunkers in
Hamburg, where these unlikely contenders for beloved landmarks have
found a new lease on life as apartments, restaurants, bars, music
studios, and outdoor climbing centers. There are even plans to construct
a modern interpretation of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon on top of the
other remaining flak bunker in order to "alienate" it from its original
purpose and create more valuable green space.
Civic initiatives
have transformed these wartime relics into symbols of a thriving
contemporary culture. Where else but Hamburg can you go to a poetry slam
in a flak bunker or eat Portuguese food in a converted air raid
shelter? Taking the leftovers of a reviled regime and putting them to
good use makes a clear statement about the liberal Germany of today. It
isn't possible to rewrite painful history, but Hamburg can certainly
teach us about coming to terms with it.
As I sit -- beer in hand -- I feel that this is something worth drinking to.
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