Hamburg: Annals and Canals

1301Trampled marriage proposals, shredded firework casings and broken glass are pushed into the gutter by the time I wake up. The cold tip toes around my neck, trying to find a passage to my chest. I haven’t seen the sun in days and the first day of the New Year is just like those before it: foggy and full of possibilities.

At the harbor, I enjoy a provencial hamburger. The heat irritates the lining of my mouth. Somehow I bit into my cheek last night. Perhaps while I was being Heimliched in my sleep for snoring.

Casinos: where rich people go in Europe to get away from poor people
— The Dude

An incoherent sailor of seventy shouts what are surely harsh orders. The Commander orders a round of gluwein and we glide across the smooth waters of the Elbe into the shadows of mercantile giants. Dreams of firm ground reinforce my decision of not going to the Naval Academy; beneath the dark waters my ribs are crushed by giant tentacles, my leg pulled, grasped and I can feel my life rush past my ears as the world turns into a pinhead of blue, distant light and then nothing.

The Reperbahn
Within one street, the hypocrisy of women’s rights is captured: Herbertstrasse, also known as The Red Light District of Hamburg. Women are not allowed beyond the red partitions that cordons off this alley. Most feminists believe that legalizing prostitution was a civil rights victory in Germany. So, being the humanitarians we are, The Piz, The Science Officer and I set out to window shop.

1379Nothing quite prepares you for how blunt the business is. When they’re not lounging in lingerie in the window, the street-dwelling women wear recognizable puffy jackets and fanny packs. It is their informal uniform. Once eye contact is made, someone speaks out and the others flock. “Hey you red devil! Where are you going?” Small talk is quickly brushed aside. One moment, I’m waxing poetic about Spanish holidays, bullfights and sherry, and then, with no segue, she locks her eyes onto mine and unflinchingly says, “50 for a blow job. 150 for sex. Want to come with me?” And then a smile. They all pitch this to us at the same time, like a cavalcade of cannons firing into the bow of another ship.

We huddle up and run for the American Embassy: McDonalds; the sign stating “XX million served” is aptly missing. A man in a puffy, blue jacket walks past me. Laughter and snickering follows; he is not a prostitute, just unfortunately dressed.

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