If you saw our last post, featuring pictures from our recent trip to Hamburg , you know the visit concluded with me accidentally talking to a prostitute in St. My wife had been showing me around Reeperbahn street, where we looked at all the neon lights and checked out the storefronts featuring heart-shaped signs and wacky dildos. I was very determined to document real, true, no-doubt-about-it evidence of prostitution, because prostitution is mostly illegal in the United States except you, Nevada, you big silly.
Most Americans grow up and live their entire lives associating prostitution with shady dealings of a dangerous and unclean sort. And while not everyone in Germany particularly likes prostitution, it is legal here, and people tend not to brand it with the same sort of stigma we do in the States.
Hence my fascination. Right off the Reeperbahn, my wife showed me a side street with a wooden barrier and a sign prohibiting women and men under 18 from entering. She politely requested that I stop being a pussy, and urged me to take a picture on the other side of the wall β where taking pictures is strictly prohibited. I nodded in agreement and stepped through the barrier.
I found myself on an inconspicuous street, and I was the only person there⦠or so I thought. It was freakishly quiet and the sun was setting, so I assumed the naughty business had yet to get rolling. My mind erupted with questions like a sexy volcano: Do the ladies slink into work right when it gets dark , or do they just show up at the office whenever the hell they feel like it? Do they get health insurance in this line of work?
There were half timbered houses running down both sides of the street, ending in a T. There was a car parked on this street, and I instantly knew that car had seen some shit.
