Risk/Reward: 2 Stories About Shady People in Shady Places

I would not label myself a risk-taker. My philosophy is if there’s a chance an activity will kill me, I’m out. No sky diving, no bungee jumping, no hiking on the edge of a cliff just to see a nesting bird of prey I didn’t know existed. I’m a bit of a wimp but I also don’t trust many people. If I’m traveling and I don’t know you I assume you are trying to take my credit card or kidney. Though this paranoia might seem excessive, it is rooted in real life experience.

Picture this: It’s 1998, NEXT has created a pop R and B song about boners on the dance floor and Backstreet was definitely back. I was 19, sitting on a Bourbon St  curb with my friend Ryan. We were watching the worst tourists stumble in and out of bars we were glad we were too young to enter. Packs of middle-aged white women in day-glo tops and white capris flirted with uninterested men. Clusters of cowboys and college bros implored and begged for anyone, anyone at all to please show them their tits.  It seemed like these groups would go great together but alas the women were East and the men were West and never the twain shall meet.

I should make it clear that it was not Mardi Gras nor was it Spring Break or Jazz Fest. This was a Wednesday in May. A regular ol’ weeknight and Bourbon St was packed and wreaked of piss.

I should also make it clear that Ryan was a good-looking dude. He was tall and artsy and rocked a mop top with frosted tips because it was the 90’s and that was how we rolled. He looked like the love child of Oasis and Sugar Ray.

Ryan and I were just 2 members of a group of 8. Our compatriots had wandered down in opposite directions. Some were sneaking peaks into strip clubs while others were smashing ice cream and waffles at the Clover Grill. We were biding our time when a couple large gentlemen approached us and began chatting us up.

These dudes looked like someone called central casting and ordered truck drivers. They were flannel and mesh hat clad. They clutched phallic, plastic Long Island Iced Tea cups. They weren’t staggering but their blood shot eyes betrayed their attempts to seem trustworthy or upstanding. The bearded one was the spokesman for the duo. With an accent that hovered somewhere around central Missouri, he peppered us with questions.

At first, it was typical stuff about the skateboards we were sitting on. Skateboards are asshole magnets. Drunk dudes always want you to do a trick for them or worse, they ask if they can do a trick. Lucky us, we had two of them. Women never approached us. Just dudes. Always dudes.

We were polite. We answered his questions in a way so we would neither sound like condescending assholes nor give them the vibe that we wanted to continue the conversation any further. This approach seemed to be working until he asked us one final, very ballsy question:

“Say, do the two of you want to go down to the docks with us and smoke a joint?”

That one sentence alone contained approximately 63 red flags. The travel shows I had watched and the travel journals I had read kept telling me things like, “Seek adventure in unexpected places” or, “Go off the beaten path” or “Hang out with the locals.” Luckily the crime dramas and gangster films I had also watched had taught me that absolutely nothing good happens down by the docks.

We declined the tempting offer. I wisely surmised that telling them I was straight edge and preaching to them the benefits of a drug free lifestyle was not the best reply. Again, we were polite. We explained that we were waiting for our friends and they would get worried if they couldn’t find us in this pre-cellphone era.

With a wry smile and a wave of the hands, Cavanaugh said not to worry about it. He also said that if we changed our minds, they’d be on Bourbon St. all night and they’d love to meet our friends. Cavanaugh shook our hands and told us to stay out of trouble with a wink.

At this point, you might be wondering how I knew his name was Cavanaugh. That’s a great question. Here’s how I know his name was Cavanaugh:

Cavanaugh and his silent partner turned away from us and looked as if they were about to get swept up in the endless stream of wandering assholes. Just as we began to relax, Cavanaugh stopped cold. It was like watching a mannequin challenge with only one participant. Then his head spun around Exorcist-style and he was staring at me dead in the eyes. A switch had been flipped and his jovial demeanor was replaced with that of a man who had caught up with the killer of his childhood puppy. Before I could think of a next step, he was bolting towards me with the speed of a much younger, healthier man. He grabbed a handful of my shirt and thrust his head next to mine as I cowered from who I assumed was my murderer. The scraggle of his beard scraped the side of my face and I could feel his toxic breath replace the Louisiana humidity. Then with the whisper of a serial killer he demanded, “Next time you’re getting a piece of ass, just before you bust a nut, yell ‘Cavanaugh’!”

With that, he let go, walked backwards, did a “Pow Pow” thing with finger pistols, and slipped back into his holly jolly, drunk ass self as he proceeded to repatriate himself into the Bourbon St festivities.

Maybe they just wanted to party. Maybe Cavanaugh was a secret millionaire with a private yacht waiting for us to take us to the Bahamas. To me, it was a realization that travel was dangerous, adventurous, and I better watch my back.

Fast forward to 2011. By this time I am much more travel savvy and awesome than my shitty 19-year-old self. I was in Hamburg, Germany to perform at the 2011 German National Poetry Slam with my poetry ensemble. We were staying in the Reeperbahn which is the red light district. When I say we were staying in the red light district I mean we had to practically walk through a Hustler store to get to our hostel.

Amsterdam’s red light district might get all the glory but Hamburg’s is no joke. They even have a street of brothels that is fenced off so women know not to go down there lest they get a bucket of piss tossed on them by the prostitutes. It is also a part of the St Pauli neighborhood, home of the legendary soccer team FC St Pauli.

FC St Pauli was playing that night and I wanted to go badly. I had never been to soccer game in Europe and I was sure the experience would make going to a MLS game seem like going to see my 10 year old nephew’s AYSO team. Alas, it was not meant to be. Part of the deal for us coming over was that we perform at a club for American ex-pats and that show was at the same time as the game.

Part of me was relieved. Having never experienced a game first hand, I had to rely on stories and YouTube videos of jacked up hooligans tearing shit up and beating down unwitting outsiders. There were also the opposing fans in our hostel. While waiting for the rest of the ensemble in the lobby, I found myself surrounded by a massive contingent of Fortuna Dusseldorf fans. They chanted and swayed in unison. They twirled their red scarves like they were cranking up an old timey Victrola. There was a menace about them. They ceased being individuals capable of rational thinking and instead had formed a mob.

Once done whipping themselves into frenzy, they exited en masse into the Reeperbahn and marched to the stadium. I stared at them as they marched brazenly out of sight. I imagined a Warriors scenario in which they would be beset on all sides by roving packs of elaborately uniformed street gangs as they bopped their way back to the hostel.

With the mob exited and the ensemble assembled we made our way to the show. Our show was a couple train stops away in the ultra modern and porn shop-free Hafencity area. The show was small and filled with older, well-dressed ex-pats who politely tolerated our performance.

With our financial obligations completed, we headed back towards St. Pauli. We climbed the stairs from the subway station and heard the distant roar of the soccer game, which was in its final minutes. The late evening sky was aglow with the stadium lights as we dipped into an Italian restaurant.

Some of our crew went back to the hostel for an early night. The rest of us, being fortified with ravioli and marinara sauce, opted to carry on. Up to this point, our friend Lars who organized the entire trip had mapped our schedule. Lars got us on trains, got us to venues, and acted as our de facto tour guide. But now Lars was on a train to Berlin and we were left with Nico.

I’m not sure why Nico was there. He had been around ever since we arrived in Hamburg. He wasn’t a poet and he wasn’t a promoter. I was never officially introduced to him. Nico seemed okay but he surrounded himself with some shady characters. For instance, back at the restaurant one dude was eyeballing me hard. Not like “Hey, you’re looking good.” It was more like “Hey, I wonder what your body would look like with your arms forcibly removed from their sockets.”

When we left the restaurant, this dude casually reached his hand into an unsuspecting bowl of fettuccine alfredo, stuffed a handful into his coat pocket, and wiped his hand on curtain as he exited. I was more uncomfortable with the casual nature of the deed than the deed itself. It was like watching a hit man stroll past his victim, give him a couple plugs with a silenced revolver, and walk on like he did this shit every day. My “Cavanaugh” senses were tingling.

Nico had appointed himself our tour guide for the duration of the evening. Together with his merry band of pasta thieves, Nico took us on a walking tour of St. Pauli culminating at a bar called Zum Silbersack. Nico explained that this was a bar for supporters of FC St. Pauli. However, when they lose the opposing supporters invade the bar and take over. FC St. Pauli lost that night so that means we were walking into a bar filled with rowdy Fortuna Dusseldorf fans in direct conflict with St. Pauli fans. This was a horrible idea. Everyone else in our group thought this was a fantastic idea.

This is a really, really great picture

The walk to the bar was filled with the excited getting-to-know-you chitchat typical when poets mingle with ne’er do wells. The only conversation I was having was an internal debate about whether or not to bounce out of there. On one hand, I only had a couple nights in Hamburg so I should embrace the chance to party with the locals. On the other hand, I didn’t want to get my teeth smashed out of my face by soccer hooligans.

I had mostly talked myself into following Nico. Nico was not Cavanaugh. Nico was a good spirit looking to show some visitors the “real Hamburg”. Then we showed up to the bar.

The cobblestone street in front of the bar was glistening with shards of shattered beer bottles. A couple dozen very muscular, heavily tattooed dudes were hanging out front sipping on soon to be shattered beers. It was dark but I think each of them was about 8 feet tall.

One by one our party crossed the threshold into the bar whose floor I imagined was covered in blood and broken teeth. I imagined my son growing up and asking about his father to which one would reply, “He was a good man until a giant German used him as a human bowling ball.”

I was the last one standing outside. I could have dipped and no one would have noticed. I could’ve gone back to the hostel and gotten a good night sleep before I flew back the next day. Like with Cavanaugh, I had gotten a glimpse of what could happen if I accepted the invite. Still conflicted, I sucked it up and entered.

 The bar was loud. The bar was rowdy. I noticed a young man avoid the crowded main floor by using occupied tables as stepping-stones. Opposing supporters were chanting back and forth in German, which instantly scared the shit out of me. We were safely ensconced in a corner booth when I finally got a good look around.

Yes it was rowdy but there was no malice. The Dusseldorf fans weren’t being the best sports but the St Pauli fans were tolerant. After all, St Pauli fans get to stay in Hamburg and the Dusseldorf fans have to go to Dusseldorf. It’s like a Phoenix Suns fan talking shit to a Chicago Bulls fan. They might have won the game but yo, fuck Phoenix. The chanting was borderline playful, kinda like a mosh pit. Yes it was a little agro and sweaty but no nothing to lose teeth over.

I slowly discarded my red flags and eased into the relaxed chatter of my comrades. I felt a little guilty equating Nico to Cavanaugh. Where as Cavanaugh acted like a nice guy because he wanted to get you to do unspeakable shit by the docks, Nico acted like a nice guy because he was a nice fucking guy. He saw a bunch of clueless Americans and decided to be our shepherd.  Then after closing he took us to a lookout spot to watch the barges because travel can be magic.

Look, I’m not trying to say I’m an expert. I still forget my toothbrush every other trip. What I’m saying is that paranoia is not always a bad thing. Has being overly cautious kept me from experiencing rad stuff? Probably. Do I still have fun when I travel? Definitely. You’ll meet Nicos and Cavanaughs wherever you go so listen to your gut. Or just chill in your hotel room and watch cable because that’s rad too.