What follows is not a pretty tale. It is a true story however, sprinkled with a smattering of artistic license. A tale with tail so to speak. A story of sex, drugs and rock and roll…with vomit…and more sex. To sprechen in plain Deutsch, it’s a night on the Reeperbahn. So if par chance you are easily offended, or you are blind to the lifestyle to which I refer or you don’t like this type of story…that is to say, if it’s not your cup of tea, brand of digestive biscuit or type of lemon tart, then… piss off and don’t read it. Seriously, I mean, don’t get half way into the third paragraph, see the hookers, smell the vodka, and then realize it’s filled with the things that offend you. I’m telling you in advance…piss off now you silly git.
Just before I start to recount any story about Hamburg, there is a pause, a smile, as I am momentarily lost in my own reminiscence. We were destined for love, Hamburg and I. Long before I ever stepped foot off the train, I knew she would be the girl for me. I thought of Hamburg as a seedy tart, a wild and sinful city, full of reckless abandon. Sex and drugs and rock and roll! Debauchery at its finest, at its most pure, and I was right (Danke Gott). But I was to learn she was so much more. So very, very much more. Hamburg isn’t a tart…she’s a lady.