One Night in Hamburg

Sorry as we were to put Berlin behind us, knowing we could not top our night in Pankow led us to the next stop on our itinerary: Hamburg. Here are some facts about the city: it has more miles of canals than either Amsterdam or Venice. It connects Germany, via rivers, to both the North and Baltic Seas, which made it, historically, a most diverse German city, with mariners from Russia, Finland, Thailand and the world over coming here for business, which they still do. It's where the Beatles honed their skills as young British rockers, playing all-night sets at the Star Club on the Reeperbahn, a street named for ropemakers, who were important to the seafaring trade, of course.

Max and I had originally routed our travels through here because there was a big music festival happening nearby. But even as the dollar rose against the Euro while we traveled northwest through the continent (or glorified penninsula, to which I recently heard it referred), our funds depleted at a quicker paces than we had hoped, and to remedy the situation we ditched the 80-Euro concert ticket and booked an overnight bus from Hamburg to Amsterdam, saving one night's hostel fee.

But the Reeperbahn remained as a draw, both for its Beatles nostalgia and for its current reputation as a world center for sin. As it turns out, the Beatles are remembered here basically in billboard form. The true nature of this ropemakers street would soon become apparent.

Passing sex shops, strip clubs, and even the occasional legitimate theater venue, with each block I became more amazed at just how many businesses could survive in a one-mile stretch sheerly on the exploitation of testosterone. Neon signs promised all kinds of unspeakable performances, and if we lingered to read them, heavily trussed and made up girls tried to lure us into some seedy venue or another. We stopped occasionally at a market to pick up a drink for sipping as we strolled, and as we reached the end of the street took note of just how light it was for 10PM; being this far north around the summer solstice has its perks.

But all the better to constrast the still-blue sky with the immensely thick, black clouds approaching rapidly. Before we had a chance to deduce that stable cover was in order, lightning struck, and heavy sheets of rain dropped on the debauched street, as if to cleanse or, more likely, rebuke it. We ducked into the nearest bar that didn't have nudie pictures on the front, shook ourselves of the raindrops and prepared ourselves for just about anything. Still, we were shocked, and not for the last time this night.

We found ourselves in the middle of what I would have called a traditional German sailor bar, complete with booths shaped like rowboats and guides to the various seafaring knots one can accomplish with a single string of rope. I stop short of calling it any kind of typical experience, though, because on the stage an MC tinkered with a synthisizer, playing bizare, dancey, bass-heavy renditions of popular showtunes like "Que Sera," singing along into a microphone whenever he at least thought he knew the words.

It was such a stark contrast to the neon gluttony outside the door that we almost forgot where we were, and if the drinks hadn't been so expensiive we might have stayed for a second round. But we discovered upon exit that the rain had passed as quickly as it had blitzed - it was dark and dry, and the streets were packed with people, mostly men, from all over.

We bustled our way through the crowds, picked out another tame looking bar, and had more to drink. Eventually we talked ourselves into experiencing this unforeseen niche of Europe, for experience's sake. We found a club advertising a striptease, paid a 5 Euro cover and found ourselves in a very old building, with old-timey player-paino music and a very vintage burlesque show taking place. As a woman, complete with archaic coif, danced with fans and feathers, we accepted the waitress's offer to bring over beer.

"That will be 25 Euro. Each."

Quaint as it may have been, forty dollars for a bit of nostalgic titillation wasn't going to cut it, and when she told us we had to buy the most expensive beer the world has ever known or get out, we opted for the latter. Shocked anew at how pricey things could be on this street where just about every human dignity was for sale, we were lured across the alley to another club - another strip show. Assured it was just 10 Euro, and no funny business with overpriced cocktails, we paid the fee and entered what seemed to be a normal, slightly glitzy bar. Then we turned a corner, and in the blink of an eye unturned that corner. Our testimony of just what we witnessed varies in the subtle details. Let's just say Max and I differ on just how many performers were involved in that show. As we made our way hastily back to the street, the doorman tried to stop us. "Big show about to start. You don't want to miss it."

"What show?" we asked, perhaps naively.

"Right there," he said, pointing to a stage deocrated only by a giant motorcycle. "Huge show."

I'll let your imagination run with that, as we did, high-tailing it back to the suddenly very modest street. Suffice to say, we finished the night at your typical, wholesome alcohol and dancing venue: The Funky Pussy Club. Honestly, when you got past the name it was just like any place in any town anywhere, and the drinks were reasonable. We danced awhile, got tired, ate a wurst of some kind, and grabbed a taxi back to our hotel, which, being just two blocks from the bus station, was seedy in its own charming way.

I should point out that much of Hamburg seems to be rather upscale. Since just about every product that passes into Germany comes through here, it houses a phenomenal number of shops featuring just about every internationally known brand, from luxury to low end, and an impossibly huge chunk of the city center is actually a giant, open air shopping mall. Pretty boring, really, which is exactly why I led with the scummy stuff. After a decent night's sleep, we milled about until we found an internet cafe and waited for the bus, with high hopes for Holland ahead.