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The Reaperbahn. The biggest redlight and nightlife area and Europe. The guidebooks may advise you against. But why deny the joy of...
Neon to the point of blindness.
Prostitutes in flesh-coloured dance tights, leggings and trainers (revealing but practical).
A 'men only' street, where cups of bodily fluids are kept on hand by all the working girls, to throw at non-working girls who try to get in (although why would they?)
The biggest sex shop in Europe. (Entry ticket is a condom, 1euro)
Constant Eurotrashdancemusik.
A fairground with rollercoasters and hogroasters.
Germans from all over the area, here on a night out, many wearing less clothing than the prostitutes - much less.
In amongst this glorious chaos, there is a jewel in Hamburg's crown. In the main platz, people spill out of bars like blood from wounds. The crush is immense. Getting a drink from the bar seems like an impossibility. But we (my guides, Micha and Tim, and I) spot a bar that seems quieter than the rest. We go in. I am reminded of the scene in police academy - the 'taches, the mullets, the tattoos, the skull and crossbones headscarves. The intense stares. But there is space at the bar, so we order mexicanas (like a bloody mary but with added spices and added tequila). As we eavesdrop on conversations, it transpires that this is no place to cruise. These men have wives (at home). They just came to dance, and dance they do - mainly to michael jackson (no more europop!).
In the corner, an immaculately dressed elderly man with elegant hair surveys the scene. He sings along to MJ with emotion (and some gentle swaying). He has a pipe, we give him a light. A camaraderie is established. A moment later a large, mulleted man offers me a seat. There are smiles. Micha and I dance to Thriller. Fear not. The men of the Goldenen Handschuh didn't come to fight, they just came to party.
In amongst this glorious chaos, there is a jewel in Hamburg's crown. In the main platz, people spill out of bars like blood from wounds. The crush is immense. Getting a drink from the bar seems like an impossibility. But we (my guides, Micha and Tim, and I) spot a bar that seems quieter than the rest. We go in. I am reminded of the scene in police academy - the 'taches, the mullets, the tattoos, the skull and crossbones headscarves. The intense stares. But there is space at the bar, so we order mexicanas (like a bloody mary but with added spices and added tequila). As we eavesdrop on conversations, it transpires that this is no place to cruise. These men have wives (at home). They just came to dance, and dance they do - mainly to michael jackson (no more europop!).
In the corner, an immaculately dressed elderly man with elegant hair surveys the scene. He sings along to MJ with emotion (and some gentle swaying). He has a pipe, we give him a light. A camaraderie is established. A moment later a large, mulleted man offers me a seat. There are smiles. Micha and I dance to Thriller. Fear not. The men of the Goldenen Handschuh didn't come to fight, they just came to party.
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