I'm revisiting one of my all time favorite authors, Bill Bryson. Here's an excerpt from his book Neither Here nor There, about his trip to Hamburg, Germany
I walked a few hundred yards inland and uphill to the Reeperbahn, that famed mile-long avenue of sin. It looked disappointingly unlusty. Of course, sinful places never look their best in daylight. I remember thinking in Las Vegas that it looked rather endearingly pathetic when viewed over a cup of coffee and a doughnut. All that noise and electric energy that is loosed at dusk vanishes with the desert sun and everything suddenly seems as thin and one­dimensional as a film set. But even allowing for this, the Reeperbahn looked tame stuff, especially after Amsterdam. I had envisioned a narrow pedestrian street packed on both sides with bars, sex shops, peep shows, strip clubs, and all the other things a sailor needs to revive a salty dick, but this was almost a normal city street, busy with traffic flowing between the western suburbs and the downtown. There was a fair sprinkling of seamy joints, but also a lot of more or less normal establishments-restaurants, coffee shops, sou­venir stores, jeans stores, even a furniture store and a theater showing the inescapable Cats. Almost the only thing that told you this was a neighborhood of dim repute was the hard look on people's faces. They all had that gaunt, washed-out look of people who run fun-fair stalls.
The really seedy attractions were on the side streets, like Grosse Freiheit, which I turned up now. I walked as far as the Kaiserkeller at number 36, where the Beatles used to play. Most of the other businesses along the street were given over to live sex shows, and I was interested to note that the photos of the artistes on display outside were unusually-and perhaps a little unwisely-candid. In my experience, places such as these usually show pictures of famously beautiful women like Christie Brinkley and Raquel Welch, which I daresay even the most inexperienced sailor from Tristan da Cunha must realize is not what he's likely to encounter inside, but at least they leave you wondering what you are going to find. These pho­tographs, however, showed gyrating women of frightfully advanced years-women with maroon hair and thighs that put me in mind of flowing lava. These ladies must have been past their best when the Beatles were playing. They weren't just over the hill; they were pinpricks on the horizon.
The sex shops, too, were as nothing compared with those of Amsterdam, though they did do a nice line in inflatable dolls, which I studied closely, never having seen one outside of a Benny Hill sketch. I was particularly taken with an inflatable companion called the Aphrodite, which sold for 129 marks. The photograph on the box was of a delectably attractive brunette in a transparent negligee. Either this was cruelly misleading or they had made more progress with vinyl in recent years then I had realized.
In large, lurid letters, the box listed Aphrodite's many features: "LIFE-SIZE!" "SOFT FLESHLIKE SKIN!" "INVITING ANUS!" (Beg pardon?) "MOVABLE EYES!" (Ugh!) "LUSCIOUS VAGINA!" and, for those who missed it the first time around, "LUSCIOUS VAGINA THAT VIBRATES AT YOUR COMMAND!"
"Yeah, but can she cook?" I thought.
There was another one called a Chinese Love Doll 980. "FOR A LONG-LASTING RELATIONSHIP," it promised sincerely and in bolder letters added: "EXTRA-THICK VINYL RUBBER." This was clearly a model for the more practical types. On the other hand, it also had a "VIBRATING VAGINA AND ANUS" and "TITS THAT GET HOT!!" Below this it promised: "SMELLS LIKE A REAL WOMAN."
All these claims were given in a variety of languages. It was in­teresting to see that the German versions all sounded coarse and bestial: "LebengroBe," "Volle Junge Bruste," "Liebender Mund." The same words in Spanish sounded curiously delicate and romantic: "Ano Tentador," "Deliciosa Vagina que Vibra a Tu Orden," "Labios Amorosos."
I was fascinated. Who buys these things? Presumably the manufacturers wouldn't include a vibrating anus or tits that get hot if the demand wasn't there. How does anyone bring himself to make the purchase? Do you tell the person behind the counter you're getting it for a friend? Can you imagine taking the doll home on the tram and worrying all the way that the bag will split and that the doll will flop out or self-inflate or, worse still, that you'll be killed in a crash and all the next week the papers will be full of headlines like POLICE IDENTIFY RUBBER-DOLL MAN above a smiling picture of you from your high school yearbook? I couldn't handle the tension. Imagine having friends drop in when you were just about to pop the champagne cork and settle down for a romantic evening with your vinyl companion and having to shove her up the chimney and worry that you've left the box on the bed or some other giveaway clue lying around. ("By the way, who's the other place setting for, Bill?")
Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps these people aren't the least embar­rassed about their abnormal infatuations. Perhaps they talk about it freely with their friends, sit around bars saying: "Did I tell you I just traded up to an Arabian Nights Model 280? The eyes don't move, but the anus gives good action." Maybe they even bring them along. "Helmut, I'd like you to meet my new 440. Careful of her tits. They get hot."
I walked a few hundred yards inland and uphill to the Reeperbahn, that famed mile-long avenue of sin. It looked disappointingly unlusty. Of course, sinful places never look their best in daylight. I remember thinking in Las Vegas that it looked rather endearingly pathetic when viewed over a cup of coffee and a doughnut. All that noise and electric energy that is loosed at dusk vanishes with the desert sun and everything suddenly seems as thin and one­dimensional as a film set. But even allowing for this, the Reeperbahn looked tame stuff, especially after Amsterdam. I had envisioned a narrow pedestrian street packed on both sides with bars, sex shops, peep shows, strip clubs, and all the other things a sailor needs to revive a salty dick, but this was almost a normal city street, busy with traffic flowing between the western suburbs and the downtown. There was a fair sprinkling of seamy joints, but also a lot of more or less normal establishments-restaurants, coffee shops, sou­venir stores, jeans stores, even a furniture store and a theater showing the inescapable Cats. Almost the only thing that told you this was a neighborhood of dim repute was the hard look on people's faces. They all had that gaunt, washed-out look of people who run fun-fair stalls.
The really seedy attractions were on the side streets, like Grosse Freiheit, which I turned up now. I walked as far as the Kaiserkeller at number 36, where the Beatles used to play. Most of the other businesses along the street were given over to live sex shows, and I was interested to note that the photos of the artistes on display outside were unusually-and perhaps a little unwisely-candid. In my experience, places such as these usually show pictures of famously beautiful women like Christie Brinkley and Raquel Welch, which I daresay even the most inexperienced sailor from Tristan da Cunha must realize is not what he's likely to encounter inside, but at least they leave you wondering what you are going to find. These pho­tographs, however, showed gyrating women of frightfully advanced years-women with maroon hair and thighs that put me in mind of flowing lava. These ladies must have been past their best when the Beatles were playing. They weren't just over the hill; they were pinpricks on the horizon.
The sex shops, too, were as nothing compared with those of Amsterdam, though they did do a nice line in inflatable dolls, which I studied closely, never having seen one outside of a Benny Hill sketch. I was particularly taken with an inflatable companion called the Aphrodite, which sold for 129 marks. The photograph on the box was of a delectably attractive brunette in a transparent negligee. Either this was cruelly misleading or they had made more progress with vinyl in recent years then I had realized.
In large, lurid letters, the box listed Aphrodite's many features: "LIFE-SIZE!" "SOFT FLESHLIKE SKIN!" "INVITING ANUS!" (Beg pardon?) "MOVABLE EYES!" (Ugh!) "LUSCIOUS VAGINA!" and, for those who missed it the first time around, "LUSCIOUS VAGINA THAT VIBRATES AT YOUR COMMAND!"
"Yeah, but can she cook?" I thought.
There was another one called a Chinese Love Doll 980. "FOR A LONG-LASTING RELATIONSHIP," it promised sincerely and in bolder letters added: "EXTRA-THICK VINYL RUBBER." This was clearly a model for the more practical types. On the other hand, it also had a "VIBRATING VAGINA AND ANUS" and "TITS THAT GET HOT!!" Below this it promised: "SMELLS LIKE A REAL WOMAN."
All these claims were given in a variety of languages. It was in­teresting to see that the German versions all sounded coarse and bestial: "LebengroBe," "Volle Junge Bruste," "Liebender Mund." The same words in Spanish sounded curiously delicate and romantic: "Ano Tentador," "Deliciosa Vagina que Vibra a Tu Orden," "Labios Amorosos."
I was fascinated. Who buys these things? Presumably the manufacturers wouldn't include a vibrating anus or tits that get hot if the demand wasn't there. How does anyone bring himself to make the purchase? Do you tell the person behind the counter you're getting it for a friend? Can you imagine taking the doll home on the tram and worrying all the way that the bag will split and that the doll will flop out or self-inflate or, worse still, that you'll be killed in a crash and all the next week the papers will be full of headlines like POLICE IDENTIFY RUBBER-DOLL MAN above a smiling picture of you from your high school yearbook? I couldn't handle the tension. Imagine having friends drop in when you were just about to pop the champagne cork and settle down for a romantic evening with your vinyl companion and having to shove her up the chimney and worry that you've left the box on the bed or some other giveaway clue lying around. ("By the way, who's the other place setting for, Bill?")
Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps these people aren't the least embar­rassed about their abnormal infatuations. Perhaps they talk about it freely with their friends, sit around bars saying: "Did I tell you I just traded up to an Arabian Nights Model 280? The eyes don't move, but the anus gives good action." Maybe they even bring them along. "Helmut, I'd like you to meet my new 440. Careful of her tits. They get hot."
