 
## Sin Cities

## An Alternative Exploration of Europe

Copyright © 2020. Aiden Rykat

Table of Contents

Foreword

Hamburg: The Reeper woman

Antwerp

Belgium: Centre of all kinds business

Berlin: City of....

Brussels, the return

Madrid

Brussels, and Ghent – at last!

Frankfurt

Cologne (Köln)

Stuttgart

Second chance at Paradise

Barcelona!

Hot in Dusseldorf!

Rotterdam & Amsterdam – finally!

Reflecting on...
Foreword

This is an honest account, there are no embellishments. Some of my actions and experiences are not ones I'm particularly proud of. On occasions I've experienced embarrassment, and even guilt, along with regret. Possibly shame – which is a tricky word, a loaded word that depends on how other people might judge. Although before all of that there was excitement, and drink-fuelled anticipation. There was pleasure in the most basic sense. There was, simply, some great sex! I like to think, also, there were the more enlightening moments amid my travels. But, reader, you may not be so interested in those. Certain _experiences_ are told in frank terms that are most definitely for adult reading only; though I'm sure some readers hoping to immerse themselves in page after page of detailed depictions or graphic descriptions of sex may just be disappointed.

Hamburg: The Reeper woman

It all began in Hamburg, Germany's second largest city, in late September 2014.

To say I was inexperienced with women would be an understatement. In fact, this was to be my first time. Yes, I do mean my _first_ time. One thing I won't reveal (at least at this point) is my age, but as far as I was concerned I'd left it _way_ too late – and was going to rectify that one glaring deficiency. I was going to get laid on that holiday!

The night I arrived I made the mistake of not using the metro to get right near the hotel, lacking the essential metro map. After a lot of train travel already that day, walking a couple of miles – even with a heavy rucksack – seemed the simplest idea. After all it was warm, if drizzly. But the phone navigation app let me down and I ended up getting caught in the town – that is the notorious Reeperbahn district. So it wasn't long before I was approached by some 'nice young women' who seemed very helpful. I'd told one of them "maybe tomorrow night."

Well, I had planned it for the second night. A night after a long day I tried to fill with a walk along the river. The weather was good – about 18°C with hazy sun. That part of Hamburg is not the best place for sight-seeing, but the river walk is well-pedestrianized for more miles/kilometres than most could cover in a day. In the daytime the town centre was packed with tourists and had a sense of urgency, like most urban areas, but there's something particular about Germany. Crossing roads can be chaotic and risky if you don't keep strictly to the pedestrian crossings. One thing noticeably different to the UK: people there take more care crossing roads. Not that I'm claiming German drivers are more reckless, I guess they're better at optimizing their journey times. One thing that can be unnerving is how some drivers regard the requirement to stop at a green crossing as discretionary; if they think there is no one crossing in their immediate path then why waste time waiting? Go figure! Not that Hamburg is by any stretch the worst for that; the dense network of roads in Düsseldorf can _really_ test your nerves.

A daytime jaunt felt like justification before the second objective: buying the booze. Well, that was a no-brainer. Vodka is the best for maximum intoxication with minimum consequences (in relative alcohol terms). It all seemed fairly straightforward. You start out with a fixed plan. But things often get complicated when the drink is involved even though, initially, back at the hotel, it seemed simple: get drunk, shower, go out on the town. The town contains The Reeperbahn – a notorious district for prostitution. But also – I didn't realise in my naivete – for crime. Or maybe, in fairness, I just got unlucky. I certainly got careless.

### First ever night of sex!

Well now it _was_ that following night. I'd drunk perhaps half of a 70cl bottle of vodka. A lot even by my standards, especially in such short time – less than two hours.

Night in the Reeperbahn district is something to behold. The sex is certainly there to behold and practically in your face. Stopping to take it in can become overwhelming: the bars with their neon displays of nude models offering much promise but even more expense. (Those travelling on a budget are advised to steer clear of them.) One of the less expensive-looking establishments was right next to McDonalds where, somewhat on a whim, I decided to buy a veggie burger, and somehow got two but ate them without dispute. Thought it was a good idea to text an old mate about that – another vegetarian; then also mentioned what my intentions were for that night. Suddenly: even more pressure. Now it has to happen because he'll be curious to know, I acknowledged. Think I made one trip back to the hotel for the toilet and possibly more vodka. At this point things were becoming hazy.

Finally back on the town with some (but it turned out not enough) euros in my back pocket. In a reasonably smart shirt I walked along a central Reeperbahn street. And it wasn't long before a woman approached me. She wasn't young – I would say well into middle age. She offered her services for 50 euros, which was the amount I carried. But there was no way she was going to be my first. Not just her age, there are plenty of women of similar maturity I'd happily go with; she looked, however, haggard – rough (as a brutal assessment). So I made my excuses and was then approached by someone in her mid to late 20s. I accepted her offer. Tall, blonde, wearing dark leggings, she had the type of looks that I found – even in my drunken state – a daunting yet enticing prospect. Probably the nearest comparison is Brittany Spears at her most curvaceous (though in my state perception can be impaired, and remembering such details is more reconstruction than replay). To say I was nervous would be an understatement – as she led me up to her hired room. I may have even owned up to being 'a bit nervous', but certainly remember my heart was racing as if I'd been sprinting and the flood of adrenaline throughout me. I even foolishly mentioned the woman who'd approached me before. _It occurred to me later that those two might have some association, if not arrangement._ The first time: you try not to to make a big deal of it, but there's no getting away from the momentousness of the occasion. And popping up in my mind, that flipping Jarvis Cocker tune: _Do you remember..._ A song so resonant with my generation, to somehow add to the magnitude of significance. Yes, no getting away from it, it's one if not _the_ biggest milestone.

So, _a lot_ of pressure. There will be those waiting with baited breath to find out just how less than perfectly it went, I reminded myself; those relying on my drinking enough to reveal the full embarrassing truth.

The room was dimly lit in red. Had a decent sound system with music on low. It had the obligatory couch with all the accoutrements: oils, liquid soap, box of tissues etc. She offered something rather enticing with her body. A formidable presence I would, sober, have surely found intimidating – she spoke perfect English and had that German air of confidence, with an intelligence to make me feel like the desperate fool I surely was. It was as if the decades had been peeled away with my clothes. Well, there was no escaping the fact I was grossly inexperienced.

For 50euros she offered to bring me off with her breasts. On reflection, I wish I had taken that offer. On reflection it seemed like a good offer. Not that I am particularly keen on fake boobs, which hers appeared to be. Anyway, I had only one objective that night and told her plainly. Well, it turned out, €50 was nowhere _near_ going to cover it – she wanted at least 'double' that. So, and here reader I can only excuse myself for being drunk and desperate, she said I could use my card. The card-reader she brought out even to _me_ looked odd: a smartphone with some kind of card-reader attachment. She asked me to input my PIN, which I did, but then something at the back of my mind told me I should not press enter. But she did it anyway. She told me she'd go and get me a receipt, then returned about five minutes later with my card and announced: "It does not appear to be accepting payment. Have you used up your limit?"

"No," I replied.

Girl: "It could be something to do with this area."

Now, it seemed I would not be getting what I wanted. That was my primary concern at the time. Then something occurred to me: I did have twenty British pounds (or it may have been £30 – my memory there is hazy). So I offered her that plus the 50euros. She accepted.

Before we got going she asked me if it was my first time (rather worryingly, given my age, despite looking younger). At first I denied it. What was she sensing – my body language? Then (can't remember if it was before or after) I admitted it. She also informed me it was not going to be quite like in all the porn I'd surely been watching in preparation.

Finally she got started. After some careful work with her fingers, she announced: "He's up!" _He?_

The sex itself ended disappointingly quick. And far less erotic than I'd hoped. She mounted me facing away. (I think it's called the reverse cowgirl, but there is the original Karma Sutra term I can't remember.) Not that it wasn't pleasurable; but I wasn't at all relaxed. She pumped away vigorously, somehow keeping her bottom suspended just above me. I remember the warm slippery sensation. Not an intense experience, surprisingly subtle, and yet curiously powerful – if only because of the occasion; completely beyond my control to prevent the inevitable. Her well-practiced efficiency. I've certainly had much better since (which I will describe later on).

I stumbled out onto the street, with her _kindly_ escorting me and somehow made it back to my hotel. Once there the effect of the drink subsided and I began to get worried. Using the number on the back of my visa card I phoned the special emergency line. Well, I tried to but could not get through. Something about those +44 numbers that I seem to have trouble with.

Eventually I did get through and asked to check my account, but was then confronted with a series of security questions. For some reason I kept failing to pass them. But eventually they did give me my balance, and it was clear that hundreds had been withdrawn, presumably from ATMs. (At least back then in Germany they didn't require the chip so a cloned card can be used.) So I got them to freeze the card, but it was already too late. It couldn't have been much more than two hours but in that time she – or her associates – had gotten around to however many ATMs and maxed out the card. Back then I wasn't even aware I had such a credit limit on that card since never needing to use it.

So the next and last full day there I was left with less than €30. That day I visited a local bank to ask them how it was possible someone could have cloned my card and used it fraudulently – in these days of chip & PIN. Really it was a waste of time – and might've put me under suspicion. I wasn't particularly expecting an helpful response. But I had a lot time to fill. Another long walk along the river, where I just so happened to find a podcast of Richard Bacon regaling listeners on how he had made reckless decisions after too many drinks. I listened to that twice.

Finally back to the hotel I drank another quarter of my vodka bottle, lay on the bed listening to Go Go Penguin and London Grammar. Melancholic was one way to describe my mood.

My first time. Why with her? I did it with a criminal! Was taken advantage of. The sex I'm sure was easy for her. It would have meant nothing, just something to get over and done with. And yet this was supposed to be the most important sexual experience I will ever have. Sure, the first time for many is a disappointment, is regrettable. But having left it so late. Well, I could have at least picked someone decent. _But_ , I hear you say, _she was a hooker, a prostitute; a sex worker._ I'd respond by saying: _In Germany it is legal, it is an accepted way of life. Some of them are decent, kind people. I know that now from subsequent encounters._ I like to comfort myself by thinking she was just someone who got caught up in the criminal underworld; there was no malevolence, it was nothing personal. I just happened to be caught up in the process – admittedly as a result of my own stupidity. And yet, despite all that, my troubled mind sometimes tells me I would like to go with her again. Dangerous sex – with a _criminal?_

That night I had a curious dream. It seemed as if I was offered the chance of something I'd wished for many years ago: a meaningful, loving encounter. And this was not with some fantasy glamour-model-type woman, she didn't seem like my ideal type at all, but that didn't make the dream experience anything less than welcome.

Hamburg's Reeperbahn district is undoubtedly the most notorious for unlimited opportunities for easy sex, the place of many a stag do. But it can feel almost too much – at least it did on that first night while sober. It is hugely commercialized, which is fine if you can resist being drawn into some of the seedier clubs that will try to exploit the inebriated punter for their money. My regret was in not simply visiting one of the official brothels instead of allowing myself to be picked up on the street. Reeperbahn may be a district where exploitation of the unwary is rife, but it's also a place where you can feel free of inhibitions – and have fun.

Long may it continue.

The next day was my flight back. The weather was fine. It had been consistently. For late September that was one thing that seemed fortunate. It could have been quite a pleasant relaxing holiday. As it was I felt troubled for the entire journey back, only ameliorated by the remainder of my vodka. Tried to enjoy the flight. It took off to a low golden sun, remained clear until the landing. Southern England looked beautiful as the easyjet cleared the downs and banked in towards fields with their sparsely scattered farmsteads.

After a few troubled weeks I finally got my money reimbursed by the bank. Still, I did feel partly to blame, stupidly careless. So tried to do something useful by emailing the local Hamburg police, giving a description of the Reepberbahn woman. The problem is, although it seems what she did was an obvious scam, I cannot be one hundred percent certain. It's just possible there was someone crooked at the hotel (which would explain why my card was maxed out). The girl that I went with used an apartment that seemed well equipped; that area I imagine is policed. And as they work legally they'd have to pay tax. It seems more risky in a legal profession to get involved with crime, giving returns, that once divided amongst members of the network would surely not be a huge amount. Maybe the police are as under-resourced in that area just as they are in the UK.

After that holiday I resolved not to visit any more ladies of negotiable affection (prostitutes) at least abroad. But that resolve dissolved after a few months.

Antwerp

The hotel seemed like good value, but it was a bit out of the way. It was near the port – the second largest in Europe (a fact I wasn't aware of at the time or perhaps care about any more than you do, dear reader). Getting to it was not a simple matter, but I won't bore you about the failing phone, problems with public transport and the the unexpected long walk.

The hotel was a budget version of the chain I often stay at. So it should have been the simplest task to get into reception. But somehow I struggled, expecting the door to open automatically – but certainly not to open outwards! What happens if you're carrying a heavy amount of luggage? Anyway, there were some people sat round a table nearby to helpfully laugh at me as bumbled my way through. When you're tired, you want predictability, you want people to be genuinely helpful. At least the receptionist didn't make things complicated and indeed was helpful, so I easily got to my sterile little room with its many plastic fittings. But such was the relief to be there the décor mattered not a jot.

Next day I went to the town centre. It rained intermittently. I looked for somewhere to sit for lunch. There was some kind of live event: a DJ playing house music, a lot of which I didn't recognize – having a Euro flavour that perhaps most of us Brits find a bit cheesy. Yes I accept we Brits can seem a little snobbish about our music, regarding our taste as more refined. It's not uncommon in the UK for a forty-something to listen to radio stations intended for the under-30s – as much as it may well displease the producers and younger listeners. Still, here I might have been falling into the mindset common to those of my age and older: neophobia. An uncritical distaste for something new or unfamiliar is a sure sign of the ageing mind. But this area was just making me feel uncomfortable. Maybe in better weather I would have enjoyed it; or likewise drunk.

Eventually I found a park that was less noisy and damp, and finished lunch. It was a chance to search out a suitable place on my offline navigator app – to buy the essential bottle of vodka. Somehow though I just ended up in a small convenience shop in which the keeper seemed very reluctant to sell me said vodka. Well, I heavily got the impression of his disapproval. Maybe it was a cultural-religious thing, or just the fact that I'm British and was purchasing it with the intention of debauchery. Or maybe it only my imagination/paranoia.

That day after the long walk from the station I decided not to make the journey back into town for its illicit delights. Anyway, there was still the next day – the next night.

That morning it rained heavily. Had to get out early to be out the way of the maid/cleaner. I wonder why room cleaning service is not presented as an option you can refuse with a 'do not disturb' type card on the door. After a couple of miles (a few ks) walking to the nearest supermarket I got back, slept a bit, exercised, ate and drank copious amounts of the vodka.

In early evening the Autumn sun held on strangely high above the horizon. I've never understood why Europe sets their time an hour forward than the UK. So off I went, fully inebriated towards the station, listening to trance EDM, or at least something with an uplifting feel, and remember enjoying the sun's gentle warmth. Ah yes, the sweet release of the drink, when all those hang-ups fall away. The trains seem to run at un-frequent random times. But what did I care – I felt great. So by the time I got to the town centre it was completely dark. It took a while for me to find the area. Before that I needed more cash; asked for the nearest ATM in a pub – useful for a quick cider and use of the toilet.

Finally there at about 10pm, where, even in my state of inebriation, I found it daunting. Far more so than Brussels. Rows of windowed ground-floor apartments, more like shop fronts. Along the boulevard a few men sauntered shiftily, others were in negotiations with the sex-workers. The girls themselves were mostly only in underwear, some standing. Most of them looked young, no older than 25 (but all over 18). Seedy hardly described it, yet this is a highly managed area. This was only for the brave – or the really desperate. I'd only put myself in the second category. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through, and assured myself this was all part of the thrill. But I just could not work up the courage to go right up to them. It was only at the end of the row where one of them spoke to me, emerging from the muted red within to the near darkness of night. Dark brown skin, maybe considered to be black, though with fairly European features; tall; more toned than curvy although with reasonably large breasts. Physically not my ideal type. Still, it was getting late and I was, admittedly, feeling desperate at this point. Unfortunately it turned out she was a he – a pre-op who though had clearly been taking the hormones, hadn't for some reason gone through the final transition. But still it seemed my eyes and ears had initially let me down. Yes the light was poor and I could claim to be blind drunk. I heard what I believed to be a female voice, or maybe it was some racial stereotype of black women having deeper voices.

I'll spare you, reader any description of the moment I became aware. They surely provide a useful service for men who are confused or in denial about their sexuality (although there was a Chan4 programme featuring men who like to visit pre-op trans people yet are adamant in their straightness). Anyway, I declined and went with someone who I can only describe as a retired porn actress: she was large, and looked well into her forties – not that I have a problem with either of those facts. I'd feel more at ease going with someone clearly over forty than a girl that may be younger than twenty. And far less likely to feel ashamed the next day. Embarrassed perhaps. Here I was properly inebriated, and asking for sex from someone who wasn't exactly my type (not that I'm sure what my type is. But back then I had expectations of going with a certain type). Before she got started she ask me something that's puzzled me for some time: "Are you married?" The question seemed odd. I've never considered myself to look like let alone be the marrying kind. Maybe I seemed uncomfortable, ashamed – as well as being very drunk. It wouldn't surprise me if most of her clients were married, looking for something different. What you get with most of these women is a distortion of anything that passes for normal sex. Sadly, I'd been looking for a substitute for the absence of normal.

The situation did become like a rather cheap porn movie – or more like a clip. To get me prepared she pleasured me using her hand and mouth, vigorously. Then, perhaps not convinced I was sufficiently aroused, she presented her rather extraordinary breasts for my enjoyment whilst resuming the work with her hand. It never got to the stage of full sex. She probably made sure that it ended quickly with her expertly swift actions. Still, that wasn't so bad. For some reason I would like to visit her again.

Afterwards, at Antwerp central station, I felt mostly relieved to have not missed the last train (that I hadn't bothered to check the time of). In fact there was 10 minutes or so to spare.

I thought about why she asked me if I was married. If I told her I was, I guess she would reassure me that it was not like having an affair – it would mean nothing. So I wondered: if I was not single would I still be tempted? I prefer to think not, but who knows how morally corrupting these experiences have been.

Unexpectedly a woman started speaking to me. She was probably about my age. I vaguely remember her asking where I was from, but not much else. Later I wondered if she was interested in me. Maybe she was lonely or just bored. Even drunk I'd be reluctant to find out. She was OK looking; it must have been obvious I was single, in fairly smart casual trousers and shirt – the one I'd usually wear in my local city pubs. Other than not wearing a ring I probably exude my singleton-ness. Perhaps she could sense I was harmless; clearly the prospect of sex wasn't the first thing on my mind at that point. Always wonder if at those times it's obvious what I've been up to. The smell.

Maybe those missed opportunities is the story of my life. Brief encounters. They happen a lot in stations and trains. Surely people who aren't returning from a night shift generally don't travel alone at that time if they're in a relationship.

Next day, the day I was due to get back to the airport, I had time to wander around the city. This day the town centre had a chaotic feel, in moments overwhelming. Perhaps the effects of being hungover. I needed to a place to stop away from the crowds. With still some vodka over I drank a few shots worth in a few minutes. Curiously I was feeling, well, horny. The temptation of that area was too much to resist. Even in early afternoon the girls were working. One, no older than twenty, stood in her tiny underwear. She hardly looked real, more like a CGI generated fantasy. She was, though, engaged in negotiations with a middle-aged man. For some reason it saddened me that the man was not pot-bellied balding or some businessman in a poorly fitting suit but instead was slim and wearing fashionable shorts. It struck me that I could be that man in ten years. Perhaps I was seeing a future echo of myself. Nevertheless, I continued on, seriously considering using up my spare euros for whatever I could get, wondering if they could lower their prices at that time of day. Some of the sex-workers were clearly over 35, and one or two not so clearly female. At that point, if I was not 100percent sure then I'd not approach. There were a few other men wandering past, perhaps like me considering it but without that final bit of motivation (not sure it'd be right to call it courage) to actually go right up to a doorway. In the daytime, even after a bit to drink, things seem starkly different. Even though there is no threat to anonymity, only the night-time provides the illusion of being unidentifiable.

Eventually I decided I could not go through with it, and headed for the station, feeling agitated and sweaty as the last remnants of vodka wore off. This is the come-down. The rest of the journey was mostly filled with troubled and uncomfortable thoughts interspersed with boredom.

There were, though, more exciting adventures ahead.

Antwerp part II

I made a return visit to Antwerp in early March 2018, this time staying in the city centre at a reasonably priced 3star hotel. The journey should have been straightforward and relatively stress-free, but it seemed I got distracted, missed my stop. (I'm still not sure how I managed that, but I had been trying to rely on my off-line navigation app – which was giving me false info – to check the train's progress. Also made a careless assumption that the Antwerp Central train terminated there). I ended up a mysterious station called Heide– that had no obvious way to cross to the next platform, at least in the dark. I like to think I would have found the right platform by my own initiative, but as I crossed the level a car pulled up. A young woman called out: "You want to go to Antwerpen Central?" Was I not the first to accidentally end up at this strange station?

She directed me to the correct platform, saying something about when the next one was due. I thanked her, probably not profusely enough. I can't imagine someone from Britain – or from any other country – stopping in that way, to help me,

There were others waiting at that platform. It was still early evening. I should have reassured myself that little things go wrong, small errors can seem to be magnified in their significance. But I didn't. For example, it bothered me that Brussels Midi station toilet automated exit door would not open as I reached its side partitions, instead trying to push some override button, all the while a supervisor stood on the other side (probably looking at me despairingly). She beckoned me through eventually, and I said, "bloody hell!" in exasperation as the door opened. How could that have befuddled me? I wondered. When using that paid WC again – on the final return day – it became obvious there was something not quite right with the sensor, having to maneuver right up to it to open; but at the time my mind was telling me I was being utterly stupid, and surely the only person challenged by something so simple. I guess putting too much faith in technology is not uncommon. The device, the computer, works on the principle of logic – following a set of rules that cannot be broken. Whereas human reasoning relies on interpretations based on memories that can get distorted by emotion, that are not formed as objective knowledge. I think also we can fall into a kind of laziness; the temptation of taking the easy option, letting some device do the hard work. Nothing modern about that, I guess. All animals have evolved to do just enough to survive. And I could surely survive without a smartphone.

However...

My stress had finally peaked. After reaching the hotel my phone died and I realised I'd not taken my charge adapter. Also forgot any toiletries, including shaver and comb – something which should be easy to buy ... but no, apparently not.

Out of bed by 6 (my mind spinning with the should-have-dones too much to sleep more). By 9 I was out in the morning sun, and soon reached the local Lidl for toothpaste, brush, shaving stuff ... but no comb, nor one I could find at a local pharmacy. Managed in the end to use a toothbrush (of a 2pack) as a comb, since my hair was short. Went into another pharmacy to buy ibuprofen (which is a lot more hassle than in the UK where you can pick them up from most supermarkets – at a fraction of the cost, though only the 200mg version. I can't imagine any need for the double strength versions unless you are in so much agony as to need hospital care – or thinking of ending it all).

My burgeoning headache and sleep deprivation may have affected my awareness, when deep within the labyrinthine streets a cyclist nearly collided with me. Never saw him, before or after, only an "Oi!" from behind as I crossed the road. "F***!" I shouted, in annoyance with myself. It was a stupid, careless mistake I'd resolved never to repeat some time ago. Things were not going well that day.

Buying my usual vodka was not so easy. Went back to Lidl, only to find they sold nothing so purely alcoholic. Eventually ended up at small convenience store, but their prices were at least a high as the UK. It seemed that either the shop had inflated the price or local government has slapped a huge amount of tax on spirits. I still bought a 20cl bottle – hardly enough to get drunk on. So later that day I called in a shop at the station, and got the only wine with a screw top (Pino Grigo) which also happened to be the most expensive. Still, it was 13%, so with the small vodka – easily enough for my intended level of inebriation.

It was, I don't mind admitting, a huge relief to finally get stuck into the drink, which seemed like the best wine I'd ever tasted. And despite being thin, I enjoy the pleasure of food – healthy or not. Being back in the hotel by 4pm gave me enough time to let my phone properly slow-charge connected to the TV. Once the ibuprofen and the booze had taken affect (not a combination I'd advocate – there may be medical consequences) I started to appreciate just how good this hotel was. Antwerp is usually expensive but in March there are still good deals to be had, even so near to its main station.

Properly drunk I headed out, with schlipperstraat marked on my phone nav. Once there I didn't spend much time passing perusing. The girl came to the door as I approached. Curvaceous, tanned skin. The best comparison from my drunken recollection, would be to a certain reality TV star. Typically the lighting was a dim red, so you're seeing in low res. She told me she was 28; I had no reason not to believe her. She, for some reason, asked me my age. I'm fairly sure it was not because she interested in me in any romantic sense.

The sex was really good. I've got into the habit of letting them take more control, though I imagined it may've been a challenge for her, considering how drunk I was. Nevertheless she got me hard in no time, and it lasted for a few minutes (which seemed about the right duration in that situation). Afterward my mind it seemed had just turned to mush. I even went to pick up her underwear thinking it was mine, well it was probably the same colour (black). Then I found exiting difficult, nearly stumbling on the step. It was fair to say I was the worse for wear. Even with technological assistance the walk back seemed a challenge.

The last day the weather had turned for the worse. It never stopped raining, but with time to kill I took train back out from Brus Midi to Ghent. It was somewhere to be inside other than the station. The problem was there is a question over whether you can use a from any station to St Pancras ticket in an outward direction. I did manage to argue to the guard that you could – that it covers any station in Belgium on that date regardless of the train's direction. And in any case he seemed more concerned that I might have merely got confused about how to get back (though even for me that would have been a curious error). There is no small print I've seen on that, or even whether it only applies to second class (there's really not much difference between 1st and 2nd so I'd opt for 2nd to save any questioning.) He tried to scan the ticket, though probably the QR rather than barcode. Well, I more or less admitted I was just doing this journey to kill time.

Nothing significant about the journey home. But one thing seems to reoccur (which I mention in later accounts). A lot of time to kill at Brussels Midi. I used up most of my remaining euros on a vended bag of crisps; eating them was something to do whilst standing outside in the damp air. Then this time I spotted her before she had reached me – the beggar woman. Or so I imagined. Since the previous time I might have become paranoid, but I'm sure I saw a look of disgust on her face as I hurriedly re-entered the station, clutching my half full crisp bag. Not paying my sin dues. Maybe I will pay in some other way.

Belgium: Centre of all kinds business

Google Earth must be responsible for an increase in business for the oldest profession. Just as that profession must have been in decline, here was a way to seek out exactly the right areas in the safety of one's own home. Then plan it meticulously, see yourself walking along the street, approaching the buildings – the glass fronts with the nonchalant, somewhat haughty-looking young women in the obligatory short skirts perched on high stalls. Daring to stop to bask in the power of their sexuality radiating through the glass. Your gaze, their gaze.

As humans we plan obsessively, run through scenarios in our mind's eye. We live so much in the future – and so little in the present.

Brussels Nord (North) spring 2016 was a _revelation_. It was packed with seedy promise. How could I not try it out?

I often get a feeling of unreality when setting off on that first foreign holiday of the year. My mind lags in adjusting to the shock of leaving the familiar. _Or just a difficulty in adjusting to the holiday I have planned – the one that seemed perfectly OK on a drunken Saturday night._ Otherwise it's the usual worry about having forgotten to do or pack something. Whichever, there's zero possibility of being able to focus attention on anything as demanding as a novel to pass the hours waiting for the next connection, and even most podcasts are a struggle to take in. Music, then, is another option. But that – if its what I've saved rather than just radio – surely deserves my undivided.

Perhaps I've highlighted one downside of travelling alone.

I got to my hotel by six on the first evening. It felt like it had been a relatively stress-free journey by Eurostar. To have such a smooth hiccup-free journey to a foreign country is unusual for me. The hotel was one of the cheapest with on-suite: Brussels prices are far more competitive than the other cities such as Ghent or Antwerp just because of the sheer number of them. So off season there's always a good deal.

After about half an hour I felt restless but decided to stay local as the time crept past eight, so instead went to an off-licence just round the block. I thought I had picked out a standard size bottle of vodka but it turned out to be something quite different. My long sight is not so great but I was too embarrassed to admit to making a mistake. Even when the shopkeeper had put it on the counter I wasn't sure what it was. There was no clear pricing on it; he must have said an amount and I'd miss-heard, much to his chagrin handing him too little in euros. With little change from €15 turned out to be the most expensive bottle of – well, it wasn't quite vodka or gin but some sort of hybrid – booze I had ever purchased in mainland Europe. A litre of 40 percent proof! Still, the prices are much lower than the UK owing to so little duty. Tomorrow, I thought, was going to be some night. Resisted drinking it that night. Always get a curious sense of virtue from such delayed gratification.

I did explore the sights of Brussels. The town centre on a chilly March day didn't fill me with anything except unease. At the time there was quite a heavy military presence, and a feeling of being under observation. Also felt the cold stares of locals. When it's way off any tourist season there's tendency to feel exposed as an interloper.

The day really dragged as I clocked up the miles on foot, trying to ignore the odd disdainful look from the more appropriately attired locals and tourists (they became an interchangeable mass to me). A misjudgement to wear a khaki denim-style jacket even though it was over a couple of thick layers. But I prefer to keep a separation from day and night clothes, which included a padded jacket, as if there is day me and night me – and never the twain shall meet.

As the day slowly wore on all I could think about was getting back to the hotel and making a start on that drink. I arrived back to the welcome warmth of the hotel by 4pm. Before showering I exercised my upper body best as a hotel room allows, propping my legs on the bed for sit-ups. You may wonder why I bother to keep in shape if I'm not making any attempt to find a partner, or pick someone up at a bar (if that kind of thing still happens. Modern dating seems so controlled, regulated by apps if not social and work circles). Well even the women _I_ visit appreciate someone who has made an effort – I tell myself. Clearly they care about their client's personal hygiene, but beyond that I think I'd rather they were not repulsed by the site of me. One girl even complimented me on how well I'd shaved (and she was not referring to my face). Maybe seeming obviously too obsessed with body image is a sign of insecurity if not something more serious. But to be clear, I'm no hunk or Adonis: definitely on the slim slide, of smallish build – at least by western standards. I've always striven for a more masculine appearance, at least from the neck downwards, but never satisfactorily achieved. I imagine if I didn't work out my body would resemble the archetypal Grey alien shape. Suffice to say, body confidence is not something I have in abundance – despite learning to hide my shortcomings.

That night, predictably drunk, I got the train the Brussels Nord (north). There are a parade of what could be described as shop windows where the girls sit facing out in nothing much more than underwear. _Even as I write this I can feel the adrenaline seeping though to my finger-tips, and my heart racing. At the time alcohol would have dampened down that response – but not by much._

I vaguely remember wandering into a pub and buying a cider (as if I needed more booze) just to get my bearings. Then steeled myself to walk along that infamous street, to go up to them. I can't remember how many I surveyed but the girl/woman I approached warmly welcomed me through into her boudoir. The preparation was a curiously clinical affair, even the way she manipulated me into an aroused state. On reflection I was wondering why she should even needed to, erm, get me ready. After all she looked to me, in my drunken state, _gorgeous._ But in some curious way just _too_ perfect; in fact she hardly looked real but more like a Playboy digitally enhanced photo – no hair down there. Maybe it _was_ the drink, or maybe knowing she was more interested in the money than the sex – someone so clearly out of my league was never going to want me. I certainly didn't sense any mutual attraction. Anyway I must have been obviously drunk, which can't be attractive to most women. The sex itself was OK. But she didn't seem comfortable, apparently worried that I'd break the condom or that it would slip off. Well, that kinda killed the mood a bit, and of course the amount of alcohol in my system had a considerable numbing effect. She couldn't wait for me to finish, and there were an awkward few minutes to get my clothes back on before a hasty exit.

It must have been clumsy drunken sex, certainly not something I could ever be proud of, but it had been better than Hamburg and considerably less expensive. So rather than disappointment I felt relief.

The next day was an uneventful journey home, after my usual encounter with the middle-aged woman beggar at Brussels Midi station, to whom I capitulated by handing over a couple of euros. I think she senses someone who has travelled there for illicit pleasures, and to give her money is an act of penitence.
Berlin: City of....

An evening flight. But in early May it was still just light enough to see Germany's capital. Its nascent city lights still a distant promise, typically only landing near the outskirts of suburbia.

I never seem to navigate well through foreign airports, especially after arrival: always feel a disorientation and a wooziness that has little bearing on my previous tiredness. Maybe it has something to do with the lack of oxygen in the plane (pressurized to equivalent of 7,000ft), or perhaps the motions and muted noise of the flight. Always remember having to take time to sit in the airport and gather my orientation, look at a phone map. Needed to get to the train station, finally asked someone: had to walk through a tunnel traversing the parking zone. Surely, reader, you don't want me to get into a rant about the lack of signage here (or certain other airports) – that could be grumpy old man territory? But it's tempting!

Missed the last train – or the one that could connect me to the one that would eventually take me about a mile or so (a few ks) from my hotel. Somehow I hadn't properly checked, thinking they must run till at least midnight in the capital. From the connecting station I desperately tried to find some form of transport that wasn't a taxi, like a metro – that someone unhelpfully told me would run late. Headed back to the station where I met a young woman who, in such perfect English she might've been from Britain, said she happened to be on her way there. Other people waited for the few trains there were. It was now past eleven-thirty. Even she was not sure what train she should get. The same could be said for another Brit, who, well-bearded, somehow looked like a veteran German traveller, perhaps a regular frequenter of the Munich beer festival, (though he might have only been a few years older than me), who seemed to have a weary – even nonchalant – acceptance of this reality. Seemed to be a lot of lost people, or at least those without an itinerary. Eventually, if only out of hope, a train arrived that should take me to Berlin central – the main connecting station. There was one memory I've been questioning. As I was about to get on the train the girl I'd met voiced her doubts that I should go. Maybe I'd imagined that, on trying to remember, and that it was wishful thinking she wanted me to stay with her. Anyway, by the time I'd reached the main connecting station it was too late. Had a lot of time to kill. Nearly four hours before the first morning train. Wondered if one action different and I could have avoided this; one crucial mistake setting off a series of others. There's no point dwelling on it – I should have convinced myself. Sometimes mistakes lead to opportunities, to meeting someone special. At that point my abiding thought was the time to wait; hadn't even considered the problems to come with the hotel. At least it was a warm night. Brought out a newspaper I'd bought as part of an airport drinks deal, and read about a renowned psychiatrist's theory on why having lots intimate relationships as a young person is not necessarily a healthy thing. Hmm. That shrink was prosecuted for plagiarism; maybe he felt pressured to come up with entirely original research. Or maybe that was just a theory. Or maybe I'd mis-remembered that article.

The walk to the hotel in the early morning light had a surreal quality about it. Rather lovely. Maybe because I hadn't slept in a while. I'll have to own up here to being stupidly ill-prepared, not even knowing the check-in time. This seemed to be the only affordable hotel with on-suite, and my only concern was getting there. So I got there. Discovering no way in by the front, the back door was by chance unlocked. There was still a staff member – a caterer perhaps – who didn't speak a word of English. But anyway I showed her the reservation. It seemed she didn't have access to the door keys, so there was no option but to wait a few hours before I could phone the manager – who then told me to wait for the maid/cleaner.

In short, I slept for a few hours. That day I got a train to the city centre. Feeling sleep-deprived the city seemed somewhat bewildering – a big terraced square surrounded by modern architecture. And bustle. And sun-filled warmth. Walked through woods to a park, stopping to clumsily have lunch. At least the weather seemed just right.

Visited a local Lidl for my bottle of usual. Then got back to the hotel before six. It might have been five. Well, better make up for all that time I missed waiting in the hotel lobby.

The next day was very warm for early May, 25c by midday. Friedrichstrasse is the main tourist street that intersects remnants of the Berlin wall. It was heaving with people of all nationalities, most of them young. The sun, heat, and the beautiful young women wearing only the bare minimum; it was a heady combination. It gets the mind racing. If there is such a thing as the human mating season then I was right in the midst of it. Almost a type of insanity, at least a feeling of being on the brink of such a madness. There was no question, I had to search out where to satisfy my desire.

I knew of several areas where they operate – at least after a certain time. But these were just streets in the daytime.

Got back to my room at around 4pm. Checked on google Earth. Ah, yes, that particular street – a notorious area. Tonight had to be the night, no ifs no buts. After going through my usual routines, I got stuck into the drink. Learned by then to eat more healthily – for if you are drinking over 35cl of vodka in less than two hours, it really helps!

Setting off for the train, I was buzzing with anticipation. It was still light and the heat of the day lingered as a pleasant warmth. The scent that time of year, bluebells and rising sap, only adding to my intoxication.

### That Night!

The first train took me to one supposedly notorious area where they ply their trade. On the way, on a crowded train, a woman (probably in her mid twenties) sat opposite me. She wore what could only be described as professional attire: stockings and suspenders beneath a skirt that only just covered her bottom. She looked, to put no finer point on it, amazing, a fantasy in the flesh. In my drunken state I so wanted to ask her if she was ... working that night, or: 'are you busy?' Except, I let the moment slip by. However, she got off the same stop as me – that notorious area. But somehow she'd disappeared into the shadows. And then as I headed for the station exit, a flicker of a thought struck me that she may have only ever been a figment of my imagination, so blisteringly drunk was I.

Regardless, I pressed on. Walked along a street I knew had to be the right one. Someone had blogged, or may some comment about it online. So I had to be in the right area. I did see girls hanging around together who looked like they may be sex workers. I even passed close by. Yet they looked a bit on the young side; perhaps they were only out for the evening warmth. Perhaps the genuine ones were all occupied. Perhaps if it had been March or October there'd be plenty available, desperate for clients. Maybe there really was something in the air that made people want it, and search it out in whatever way. Something was intoxicating beyond the drink. This late spring really could be when the human mating season gets underway. In the air, affecting us like any other animal: pheromones?

So, I wasn't to be deterred. It had to happen tonight, I again assured myself. But now passed ten, and I was not sure what train I should get. Yet somehow I did get the nearest train to another district near Friedrichtrasse. There was a metro that might have taken me right near, if only I'd thought to check; if only I'd prepared more. Nevertheless, I had the street saved on my off-line navigation app – a weary-sounding sloaney woman telling me which turnings I should take. What if she really knew, I thought; would she sound even more weary? In any event, it took me a long time to get there, almost as if navigation lady was deliberately sending me in the wrong direction. Well, the app is designed more for drivers, and was favouring main roads. And after ending up in a wooded cycle path I went on line. On PAYG enabling data is a risky last resort – deciding to update about a hundred apps if you're not careful.

When eventually I did make it to 'the street' I still had a surprising amount of energy. There were few working girls ... working. It must have been around midnight. The first one I approached seemed suspiciously non-female. So I headed away, with a creeping sense of despair. Then, with my impaired vision, I saw someone I definitely knew to be female, right at the end of the street. When I reached her I don't remember what I said – I think it was something rather direct. She seemed a bit young for my taste, dark skin, and many men would describe as a cutie. Problem was, she didn't speak a word of English. Yet at that point it didn't seem much of a hindrance to communication. I wanted sex and she wanted money; these facts hardly needing words, not at that place. Instead she led me to what perhaps was a bar. And there we waited for a room to be vacated. I had to pay €10 for being there. As it turned out a long wait, in which I attempted to communicate with her in German using a translation app, all the while she gripped my hand firmly. Stuck in this curiously intimate situation, the sexual tension only heightened. Anyway, she managed to tell me she was Turkish, setting off thoughts of exploited illegal working in the black economy. Women there do sex work legitimately and pay taxes. Perhaps this girl did pay her taxes, but I somehow doubt it.

Once finally inside the room, she demanded 100 euros. I told her I only had €60 but she wouldn't believe me, searching through my pockets quite aggressively. Eventually she had to accept she would only get what I had left. And so we got undressed, the only thing she kept on was her bra. There wasn't the usual dim red light; this was more like a cheap hotel room. I remember staring at her extraordinary body as she leaned over the bed. I was already getting aroused. But as result of the drink it was mostly manifest in my mind. It was at this point, laying the couch, I felt exposed in this harsh light more than any of the other times. Normally they will apply the condom with deft efficiency. This time, however, she began squeezing and pushing downwards in a way that got to the point of pain. It was like porn movie version of a medical examination. I wondered if she was deliberately trying to hurt me, expressing her disdain for mankind – or just those who had exploited her for her body. Maybe I deserved it. She unrolled the condom on me with a slow precision. Yet afterwards she continued vigorously using her hands and her mouth, which very soon brought me to the point of no return. When that happened she laughed – laughed as she shook out the last of my orgasm. How silly, she may have thought, that I should be so exited and aroused by her; no self-control, like a teenager having his first sexual experience. Or maybe it was merely out of relief that she wouldn't have to put me inside her. But I'm glad it never went the whole way. She was probably no older than twenty. Just how young I'd rather not speculate. Had I been humiliated? If so, maybe I deserved it. I can imagine, though, there are some men who'd happy pay what I had for that kind of humiliation.

Only just made it for the late tube and train. It was 1am and yet they were packed; people probably guessed what I'd been up to. Was still too drunk to care very much. Am often surprised I can manage the right train connections probably more easily than sober!

The walk home from the station was a long one. The warmth of night remained; stars pierced the ink-dark sky away from distracting light. Utterly quiet in this higher middle-class suburban area; feels so removed from the town. A little country trail leading to a residential area. I passed a kindergarten, and felt a sudden welling up of emotion – a combination of melancholy and, yes, shame. Perhaps it was something to do with the pure innocence of the building with its children's pictures. Of course, I couldn't see those at night but more the memory of having passed it on the way, and not really paying much attention, caught up in the booze-fuelled reverie of early evening. Now here I walked through an area where families slept before their purposeful busy day.

I alone was the tourist.

Got back hungry and badly in need of a shower. I thought the physical tiredness alone would ensure a long night's sleep, but I woke at around five. Almost sober, the night came back to me – along with something that may have been shame, may have been guilt. Or somewhere between the two.

From morning's perspective, the flight back seemed comfortably late. It would be early evening so essentially I had most of the day in town. Time to kill. That can be a dangerous thing, especially when I have some booze left to finish.

Friedrichtrasse seemed the best place. I used a metro to the end of the district. Stopped off at a small local run shop, which rather than the discount supermarkets, sold what appeared to be healthy snack foods – something seed-based. Not that I was eating relatively healthy to feel virtuous; nothing was going to make me feel that, it felt too late for virtue. No, I'd simply had enough of eating junk, which is always more convenient if you don't intend to go to restaurants. Well then perhaps a nod towards virtue – as distant and unattainable as it may be.

The park square was crowded and lively. I started on the remnants of my vodka. Now, in the warm scented air, my hungover tiredness melted away. I was feeling mildly intoxicated. It is difficult to truly put yourself back in the scenario, so removed by circumstance, distance and time. It really seems like another reality. But there I was, surrounded by the young and beautiful, and their joy to be alive in that place and time. In 24hours I'd be back in Britain and it would all seem like a dream. In the meantime, I still wanted some enjoyment. There was a metro train leading to near to that notorious road, but I could not remember which one or had the info saved (something I'm more careful about nowadays). Of course I could have walked, but it seemed an unnecessary distance with my luggage. Besides, I had a ticket to explore the entire network.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I ended up on the wrong train and completely in the wrong district. Well, my only excuse was being hungover and tired. There was no plan for that day before that day. And now I had to start seriously thinking of getting back to the airport. This would be a series of trains.

At Berlin Central, the next airport train would be at least twenty minutes. Had I allowed myself enough time? Two hours until my flight. It was time to start worrying. Others waiting for the same train seemed perfectly calm, surely none were scheduled for the same flight. Stress takes over when you know you are dependent on everything going smoothly: the train not being any further delayed, no problems getting through the airport procedures, but mostly when you feel powerless to stop those delays. Partly there was the boredom. I started noticing the others standing on the platform. A young woman approached me. I wondered if she was going to say something; she walked around me close by. I wanted to say some; but it would only be the obvious about the time the train was taking to arrive, my fears about missing my flight. She circled me once more. Was she interested, or just so bored that clearly-single me might offer a solution? Perhaps the heat of Berlin was still having its affect, making people consider things they would not normally consider. Certainly if she saw me out locally, she would not give me a second glance. But here the unreality of the holiday. I'm sure if I ever get old, Berlin will be the holiday where I think so much could have happened if only I'd had the courage. It would be the holiday of missed opportunities; the last time before I become middle-aged and supposedly sensible. Though if middle age begins at 45 then there is still time. It's said that most commonly people regret the things they had a chance of doing but did not, rather than the reverse. It will always be about a lack of courage, even when I thought I had taken plenty of risks.

The train journey to the airport felt painfully slow. This was certainly no express train. It felt ridiculous that I had no idea how long this train would take; it was not information that until now seemed remotely relevant. Uncertainty gave rise to panic. And self-admonishment: all that time I'd wasted half drunk on metros that should have been spent heading back. Just one train earlier and there never would have been this worry.

Now, finally at the airport, I am running. Adrenaline on over-drive. I've never before missed a flight; wonder what it must be like, that utter despairing feeling when you know you could, you should have made it but for one or two mistakes. Could've, should've, would've: how how often do those words spin round after failure? Mistakes happen when you get careless. Over-confidence, or merely poor judgement in my case. But maybe it wasn't too late. So I ran, sprinted through the long tunnel from station to terminal with my back-pack tucked under my arm to stop it swinging.

Made it to the terminal with about forty minutes to go. It then occurred to me: my shorts had little metal studs on them. And so no surprise when the detector alarm activated. I explained and that seemed acceptable. At least Berlin international does not have the same kind of stringent security checks as Düsseldorf (where I got thoroughly frisked) or Stuttgart (where you are forced to stand in a particular line for the body scanner, then my passport was checked no less than three times – once by someone who approached each person in the queue). Those reasonable (in my view) levels of security have now changed of course. Germans are nothing if not thorough.

Anyway relief I had just made it as the gate was about to close. I flew back by Easyjet, and they were hospitable as usual. But I still hadn't got my head around the concept of speedy boarding.

Brussels, the return

The Eurostar trip was just about cheaper than by plane, especially when you include unlimited luggage. Couldn't turn down their discount offer. And even though plane journeys have improved considerably in their environmental impact over the decades, trains are still way better (got to find virtue where I can). Found myself even getting to like Brussels Midi station. Even when there's security staff patrolling, they somehow seem less intimidating or aggressive than the British equivalents just by their presence. Of course their presence is a necessity given the previous incidents in the town. I never like mentioning the T-word, it always feels it will trigger some kind of alert.

I had to get a connecting train to Bruges: an historic and picturesque Belgium town. In June it was hot, about 28°C. And with the humidity it becomes unpleasant. At least this was not my first time staying at the station Ibis hotel. Expected the check-in to be routine, but the receptionist demanded I fill in an ID form. "Don't you already have my details?" I wondered, still sweating. She told me something to the effect of it being necessary for keeping a record in case of a police check. Did they have me down as a potential trouble-maker? I may have been drinking one night for my last stay, but I'm more of a quiet drunk. Anyway, I ended up letting her fill in much of it. In 2016 it seemed oddly anachronistic having to fill out a paper form.

Went down to the near-by shop to buy some supplies, including a large bottle of vodka. Should have been straightforward after finding enough that's veggie and nutritious ... and not bitter-tasting. But somehow I got the money mixed up, handing over a €50 note I thought was a €20. Something that would have seemed so obvious in my hotel room just flummoxed me standing at the counter, already feeling mildly embarrassed as the next person in line waited patiently.

I'd been thinking everything should go fine this time. It's a familiar area. But as you get older you allow yourself fewer mistakes; at least up to a certain point where decrepitude begins – and I'm certainly a long way from that! At my age, on the cusp of middle-age, it seems like I'm supposed to have the wisdom to get through certainly the basic things with equanimity, if not without the occasional brushed off error. It does seem like I have witnessed such composure from other men in their 30s and 40s. Yet statistics don't really back up this perception. To not put too dark a point on it, the suicide (you may not agree this a precise term) rate peaks at about 44 for men. Of course we're talking mid-life crisis territory here. But I wonder if psychologists have coined a term such as The projected infallibility illusion, where it appears that most other contemporaries are sailing through life with confidence and competence. This is particularly a male thing, having that stolid and resilient exterior.

Back in my hotel, and still smarting a bit from my shopping experience, I got stuck into the vodka. This night I planned to use my any Belgium train ticket (included with Eurostar) to visit Ghent – another town abundant in classical architecture. Not that I had any particular interest in the buildings themselves. More an arcade, the renowned Glazen.

Can't recall how much I had to drink but it was quite a lot. This might explain why I just missed the train. It wasn't even night yet, so there'd be plenty more. The next one seemed much slower – in that it stopped in many more stops than the previous. So I made what turned out to be one of the most important decisions of my life: I got off at Brussels Nord (got off being the operative phase). Wandered round, feeling predictably nervous despite my drunkenness. Also predictability, the men who would approach them then back off. Perhaps rather than doubting the attractiveness of these women, the men either lost their nerve or gained some pang of conscience, remembering their significant other. Or both. I'd wager they were less drunk than me.

The girl (here meaning someone under the age of 35) I happened to find greeted me warmly. (Sometimes it can be a random thing because half the time they choose me – in as much as one of them will walk up to the doorway as I look through the window). I don't even remember what she was wearing but vaguely recall she looked like a younger version of the TV presenter Susanna Reid, although that may have been in retrospect after watching breakfast telly. I could probably visit her again and not recognise her. The only time to be concerned is when they recognise me. Anyway she looked terrific to my drunken eyes. She was friendly too, not just in that superficial way you'd expect; she asked me where I was from, whether I was on holiday. Maybe that was just to get me to relax.

I told I didn't mind what she did. It was somehow a reflection of my mood from earlier. Perhaps embarrassingly, I also told her it shouldn't take long. Never really knowing if saying that is taken by them as a compliment, but I am sure it's in their interest for it to be over quickly. After all it was only 40euros! (The price is doubtless discretionary and will have increased by the time you read this.) I'm actually uncomfortable with paying below that, as it can seem exploitative; making me wonder how desperate she must be. Cheaper is not always better even regardless of her attractiveness, or even if like me you are on a tight budget.

She took the initiative and got astride. Perhaps it was because of the drink, or my general tiredness, that I felt unusually relaxed as she began. I remember feeling her breasts, more spontaneous than planned, then gently keeping hold of her sliding bottom, and gradually becoming aware that I was having some pretty great sex; although it was probably over in no more than a few minutes.

Afterwards I remember finding it difficult to speak, coming out with some nonsense about the train home. She might have been used to that. On the return journey I do remember a feeling of relief – just that none of it had gone wrong. Yet it was so much more than that – I had never felt so satisfied in my life. And that night I truly appreciated these things: Great sex is not always about the orgasm (well I may have had better on my own, although it was still very good); it is not all about how aesthetically attractive the other person is (her perfect body can only make me feel below her standard). What was important is that she made me feel at ease. And it could have been she was just damn good at it. I really want to believe that what matters is the person and not the body. I've heard the truism: the most important sexual organ is the brain. And undoubtedly it has been amazing in those rare dreams – unless I consider the following: A trip into some other dimension, a different simulation. Can it be proved that life is anything other?

As I lay in my bed that night, I remember thinking it may never be any better than than with the last. Yet I felt strangely empty, not an emptiness for the lack of something; I wanted nothing. I even had the thought that dying that night would be OK. There was a curious sense of having had the life sucked out of me.

I slept.

The next day was a long day. I still, despite that wonderful night, had not achieved my objective of visiting the Glazen in Ghent. But that day I was tired and hung over. The return fare seemed a bit excessive. After narrowly (it seemed) avoiding a collision with a motorbike. (It's usually cyclists that speed round corners – and get annoyed that you, a mere pedestrian, crossed their path; in Belgium you have to assume there'll likely be one.) I decided I wasn't really up to wandering any town after dark, so just spent the evening in my hotel room listening to music, and drinking a bit more vodka.

Felt well-recovered on my return day. Had enough time to go exploring Ghent. Still had in mind the Glazen. Only this was early afternoon, and it really did seem a bit early so I found a park estate somewhere off an unpleasantly busy road, made a point of walking the short trails lugging my suddenly uncomfortably heavy rucksack. Doing the normal tourist thing; wanted to feel like a normal tourist. Failed at that. But anyway found a picnic bench. A hundred or so metres away some kids with trail bikes congregated around another bench. I would normally have pangs of discomfort at this, would if it was the UK. Or maybe was just feeling more chilled on this warm sunny day. Besides I still had some vodka left over to go with my lunch. The kids eventually moved on. I stayed a while longer. Listened to Boards of Canada, and felt spaced and quite euphoric. The parked looked lovely.

This oneness with the world – the universe – it could never really last. As I was walking towards the park exit, a couple of kids narrowly avoided me on their bikes. Felt like I was in their way, had nearly taken the exit path as they carried on towards the centre. Bad timing is the story of my life. Just as well I don't do comedy!

The vodka was properly wearing off now, along with the good feeling. Passed some local young person who gave me a derisory look, and he made the appropriate curt 'huh' sound to go with it.

Vaguely remember trying to find some museum. Or was it a memorial? Still had time to kill. Still trying to do the tourist thing. I'd given up on visiting the Glazen. So instead became obsessed with finding this tourist attraction. There was the odd sign that trying to follow its direction only seemed to lead to another street. A subsequent search on google Earth revealed nothing of interest. Can't think why I became fixated on it. Finding obscure places has become my obsession, though they're usually hidden for a reason: to preserve the respectable image of a town. Ghent has managed it beautifully: the infamous glazen arcade has become something of a quaint fixture of this old town. One time a few years earlier I passed through the arcade; one woman from inside the one of it glass-fronted rooms began to approach me after accidentally catching her attention. But I got nervous and walked briskly away. That following night was supposed to be The Night, but my extreme inebriation stopped me from getting there. I even slipped on a curb and injured my hand. In the days before my first smartphone it was a challenge to get back to the hotel. Navigation apps have been so liberating, they replace the need for a chaperone; they become a sensible addendum to my booze-addled brain.

Returning to Brus Midi station should have been as straightforward as from Brighton to London. But I hadn't the patience to wait half hour for the next train to the connecting station, so ended up on one that took me to a remote station, where I waited a long time. Still got back to Brussels in plenty of time for my encounter with the beggar woman – who again was doubtless disappointed at getting not much more than a euro in whatever spare change I had.

Madrid

October 3, the early evening flight was in darkness. I stepped off the plane into the welcoming Spanish heat. Warm even for Madrid. So far so good. But there was a complicated journey ahead.

Madrid airport is humongous! All I needed to do was find the train station. But it turned out I was in the wrong terminal. How you get to the right one I had no idea at that time: it didn't seemed possible to traverse by foot. Maybe I could have asked someone. But instead I followed the signs for the metro, which in itself took over 15mins. At the barriers I asked one of the staff if any took me to the main connecting station. He said no. But at this stage I cut my losses and got a ticket to the nearest. Once there, a long wait for a connecting train to the main connecting station. Well, I could wait. After my bumbling fail in Berlin I had a network map saved, so things couldn't possibly go wrong, could they? And once finally at the last connecting station.

Now it was getting late – after eleven. Someone asked me what train I wanted to get; I told him the name of the area. Now, he said 'you should get the train after the next.' I nodded. The next train I knew to be to that town but it was the industrialized part of it – about extra ten minutes walk if I could find the right way. I made a snap decision and jumped on that train rather than wait the ten or so minutes for the correct one. Once on it I began to wonder at my impulsive decision and thought about getting off at the next stop for the right train. Yet within seconds who approached be but none other than the guy at the station. Before he even said a word, I said: "I know you told me to get the next train, but I'd had enough of waiting." (or it could have been because I hadn't trusted his advice, when there was no e-board info to back it up). But he said, "No problem, you can get a metro two stops along."

I agreed, and felt a bit foolish.

Well, anyway when I'd got to my correct destination it should have been a simple five minute walk to the hotel. But somehow I struggled to get there. My phone's off-line navigation app seemed to be malfunctioning: no compass and only telling me to use the main roads. But hey, I couldn't have been far, must surely get my bearings soon. Asked a few people, got told a set of directions that somehow didn't lead me there. Maybe it was because I was starting to panic. Certainly I had not been in a calm state of mind, was still troubled over boarding the wrong train. Dwelling on a mistake can affect your judgement, cause you to lose focus. Then one mistake leads to another, and so starts a negative cycle. Any reasonable sports psychologist can tell you that (and a really good one can tell you how to overcome it). A few local kids gathered on an underpass started to show a bit of hostile interest in this obvious tourist. At that time of night you can begin to feel like prey. But I forged on, hoping my downloaded map would become clear.

After crossing the same bridge twice I conceded to using google maps – with data – using live GPS instead of relying on the compass. And suddenly it became clearer. The hotel was one amid a cluster of others and some shops. I got there sweaty and uncomfortable. Mentioned it was difficult to find, pointlessly, to the receptionist. This was one of those budget hotels (a popular chain) where you get all the basic mod-cons – private bathroom etc, but don't expect the receptionist to go out of their way to show sympathy for a difficult journey. Although, actually, that was fine by me. What matters is the lack of hassle from the check-in process, and knowing which floor.

The room was clean with the obligatory array of plastic fittings and fixtures. It was hot. The air-con did little in the way of conditioning but it made staying there tolerable. Until I got into bed: the duvet was too warm, though that is almost always the case – even on a cold autumn night. Would always avoid Spain in summer, where the attraction of it seems difficult to comprehend. But this night was more like a Spanish summer, remaining above 20c. Inevitably I slept badly.

Next morning I had to get out by 10:30 (or 9:30 UK) for the room to be cleaned. It really didn't need cleaning, or any towels changing. But I'm British so I just accept the protocol. Got a suspicion they just wanted me out; maybe to check the room, to check I'm not in there – alive or dead. I'd already heard the busying sounds of other rooms being cleaned, anticipating a knock on my door at any moment. No surprise then, on my way out I had a slightly awkward encounter with the girl as she was pulling all her cleaning paraphernalia out of a room. I always feel lazy and mildly embarrassed in not having vacated my room before their arrival on the floor. In Hamburg that embarrassment was intensified by the mere fact of my being there.

In the local supermarket I felt again like the conspicuous tourist, struggling to find what I needed (anything vegetarian and nutritious). Too early for buying the vodka (which would have been conspicuous!) or for lugging it about, as I'd not be going back to the hotel for a while.

I went for a walk into the hot dusty scrub-land beyond the city's suburb. Actually there was a park near the stadium, swathes of lovely violet flowers. The sun and heat can make a lot of unexceptional things beautiful. Few people about too – and I consider that a good thing, unless I'm in the city. Here you can play spot the single lady. Only that involves no more than a furtive glance. In the city such an activity brings with it connotations of a structured mate selection with all its parameters. What I mean is you are more bound by the well-established rules of the urban environment. There is no idle glance in a shopping precinct; less so on a train. It is simply more intense, more significant, perhaps because it's more likely to be observed by others. Here, where few pass my path, I am probably more acutely aware of being alone. Even though they say you can feel more lonely in a crowd, I think that's only true if you visit the busy places you used to with others. As traveller in a tourist hub, I don't allow myself the chance to feel lonely, despite being alone. There is far too much sensory information, coupled with one's own thoughts about where to go and what to do in the next few seconds. Ah, yes, the constant planning. I hardly ever structure my day in a new city beyond finding a place to eat lunch, find the right shop to buy that bottle of vodka.

So really I only ended up on this walk, occasionally glancing at my phone map. With so much time, you can allow yourself to become lost. Well, I ended up leaving the park trail after it became increasingly desolate and found myself on a main road near an industrial estate. Still way too early to think about heading back, I eventually found a safe place to cross over and headed towards the station I considered alighting from the previous night. This may sound silly but I wanted to prove to myself that it wouldn't have been so bad if I had, that I could've walked from there to the hotel with ease (allowing for the extra weight in luggage). And it was a relatively easy journey. But of course it was daylight, I had plenty of time, with no heavy load on my back.

My memory of that evening is patchy and probably not worth recalling. Suffice to say, I bought the obligatory 70cl bottle of vodka, drank about a third of it, and stayed in my room.

The next morning I awoke early after a sleep-deprived night. The heat perhaps. Still tonight was going to be The Night regardless of how tired I felt, as it would be the last. I ventured onto the train to Principe Pio. A bewildering, bustling town to my tired and slightly hungover eyes. Not just me feeling disorientated: got asked for directions for which I was, unsurprisingly, no help.

There were vast walking trails through Casa de Campo. Needed to cross some busy roads to get to it.

First: lunch. A public garden – the vast grounds of a palace. I sat facing a large fountain surrounded by vivid floral colours. Very few people about. Perfect.

Afterwards I looked for a way out that was nearest the de Campo walk. Going back through the way I entered meant a circuitous route. My map showed what looked like an exit. So I made for that end of the grounds. Unfortunately the only exit gate was locked. So back to the main entrance. And there stood what I would describe as local security personnel. The guy called me over. He spoke in Spanish, gesturing towards my bag – a flimsy little rucksack. I played incredulous, which didn't take much acting. He jabbed at my bag still on my shoulder. Me: genuinely astonished. And making that clear. The language barrier didn't matter now that his suspicions were made obvious. But if he really wanted to see what was in my bag but not speak English he'd have to be really explicit about it. OK, so I was tired and a bit cranky now. This security guy was becoming especially miffed, as I was voicing my astonishment that he could believe I could possibly be concealing something that would be harmful to – well, I had to give this some careful thought, as I was not (nor had any intention) of entering the central building but was heading for the exit. Had there been a report of my suspicious behaviour. Anyway, as his sign language became exaggerated to the absurd, I finally opened my bag to reveal what bit of lunch I'd saved for later and a bottle and a half (I think) of drinks. What I carried clearly wasn't heavy or bulky. I was quite angry by this point, and he gestured for me to calm down. But that was not going to happened. It seemed as if I'd been suspected of carry explosives. And so as he led me out, his colleague arrived, who also didn't speak a word of English. Imagine the number of English-speaking visitors to the capital of Spain, and those employed to deal with them... The British have, perhaps rightly, garnered a reputation for bad behaviour on Mediterranean holidays. Then what would be topping the list of abilities an applicant needs for the job of protecting important tourist sites? OK, so I'm labouring the point. But I was annoyed. Of course terrorists come in all shapes, sizes and colours. And maybe I do look young for my age, or I dress more as a young person. But it was odd to feel discriminated, and singled out as a suspect. Fine to be subject to that in an airport, or even upon entering a museum. You'd normally grin and bear it, right?

After explaining (pointlessly) I only wanted to get to Casa de Campo, that's where I headed. I entered via a car park, and couldn't seem to find an easy way to get to its tourist centre so ended up sliding down an embankment. My near-white shorts slightly tarnished, I reached the visitor centre. It was everything most people would expect: a sprinkling of cafés, fast food stands, all surrounding a large lake. Very warm, bordering on hot, there was an air of serenity. It was a separate thing from what I currently felt: still wound up, a quiet anger bubbling away. Perhaps I had been feeling somewhat keyed-up if not stressed, keeping in mind what I planned for that night. Of course there was no reason I had to have that as a plan, but it became an obsession – the thing that had to be got out of my system. Well, I guess most people have an itinerary on holiday; they set themselves a list of activities, which, if any are not achieved results in a sense of failure. Holidays have a way of making people uniquely miserable because of this. They arrive with their expectations of enhanced pleasure, where even the familiar activities – eating, going for a walk, sunbathing – have to be better there on holiday (especially anywhere more exotic than the UK, some fantasy of an idyll. Then it just takes one thing to go wrong. None such hell as paradise tainted – didn't some wise traveller once say?). For many, so much depends on those few days, or however long; it is the escape from the banality of normal life. For me there is one unfamiliar activity that becomes the focus. And if it goes badly then I carry with me the failure until the next chance – which is often months.

After sitting facing the lake, eating the remainder of my lunch I headed out on one of the walking trails, but as I approached a sign to a metro station it seemed the sensible thing to make my way back.

I was, after all, tired. And there'd likely be plenty more walking that night.

Back at the hotel I tried to sleep. Needed to sleep. But sleep would not come. Maybe I hadn't shed the residual anger from earlier, or some kind of apprehension about my intention for the night. Or simply the heat.

Finally after about two hours of no sleep, I resolved to go through my exercise routine, and then eat and start on the vodka.

### Night of Sex

Showered last thing, before I headed off to the station, feeling considerably better and calmer. And very drunk. This may not have boded well for the difficult journey. I needed to reach Gran Via, but for some reason it was not featured on any rail map. At the main connecting station I asked a ticket vendor (in his office) and he seemed to be deliberately unhelpful, telling me the trains were disrupted and that there may only be metros. Still I bought a ticket and got to what I thought was the correct platform. Asked around, without shame (as I was drunk). Only finally did someone give me any useful info – a young woman. Was surprised at how happy she seemed to tell me. After all Gran Via is a notorious area for prostitution. I wonder if the authorities are trying to discourage it by not providing clear information. Well, sorry, authorities.

Anyway, I made it. And within a few minutes I was approached. I accepted her offer (perhaps a bit too readily). She seemed young, perhaps mid twenties at the most. I got the impression she was eastern European. We went to some room she had hired. My memory is none too clear. But I do remember being on top of her and getting completely caught up in the moment. I began (during the act) kissing parts of her body: her shoulders up to her neck. I was not even thinking of doing this as something to please her. It just somehow seemed instinctive. Animalistic. But she after less than a minute began to object, telling me no. Somehow I had crossed a line. Of course I'm fully aware that kissing is forbidden, but that's usually on the mouth. She wanted the sex to be perfunctory and quick – and I don't blame her, considering how little she charged me. For them it is work; pleasure – for most – is not a factor, discomfort is. Intimacy is the last thing they want. For what I had from her I was grateful. She, it seemed, was relieved when I'd finished. That is, she relieved herself in a basin as I got dressed. Even drunk, I felt a little embarrassed. But why should she care?

I was happy that night, or more a kind of drunken and sleep-deprived deliriousness. Somehow managed to get the right train back. Wasn't certain and asked someone on the train. She was quite young and on her own, it seemed somehow inappropriate to start a conversation with her, so after a few words I moved to the other end of the carriage. She looked like the type that men (drunken men) would target. She was attractive and friendly. But clearly I would not have been capable of much had I even the intention. But perhaps she sensed that. Or if not and I told her what I'd been up to... I wouldn't even try to anticipate the reaction. Maybe some people just want to talk because they're alone. I have, perhaps like most, a perception of a typical lonely person as middle-age or elderly – those that either become almost invisible, or are shunned because they seem odd. I wouldn't be surprised if I eventually became the latter. Given the number of times I travel alone there may well have been opportunities to meet someone special. Travelling – taking a booked train or plane – loads the dice of fate. If that seems a bit wo wo consider if you're travelling for leisure. So are many others you encounter. People there are more receptive to new experiences (and new people, as opposed to commute journeys). The journey and who was on it could have been determined weeks in advance; you are more likely to share common interests with your fellow travellers than any normal commute. So this may well be pointing out the obvious. But the planned journey brings disparate people into a space they would usually avoid given the freedom to do so. It's usually a different matter when I'm actually at the destination; venturing out for a walk I'll go out of my way to avoid people by avoiding the main trail, where there's an alternative. Though have you noticed during the holiday season others do the same? So we both end up on the path less travelled, emerging to the vast empty expanse of the main path running parallel.

I guess if such as thing as fate exists there is no way to game it. Others will claim everything is predictable with enough information. I can see the logic in the latter. But I'd say to them: "Quantum uncertainty?"

Well, that night I was too far gone with the drink for any of those more esoteric considerations. It felt more like I had stumbled into whatever fate or happenstance happened to present.

Next morning I set out into the dry heat, staring at the map on my phone, trying to find that park near the stadium. How could I not remember, much less fail to find it?. The main roads seemed a daunting prospect to cross when tired, hungover and carrying heavy luggage. But here was a simple case of having lost confidence. I could not be sure which turning to take to find that park, so instead followed a circular route which nearly took me back to the hotel. And sat in a green that just about qualified as a park, trying to get my bearings. Becoming uncomfortably hot in my charcoal cargo trousers. Barely noon and already pushing 26°C. I should have considered this a good thing for October. After all, this was the Madrid people imagine, but in my state thoughts tend towards the negative. There was some vodka still left, decanted discretely into a plastic Oasis bottle with the original drink. That would see me through if or when things got too much. Had about five hours till the flight.

The next couple of hours consisted of sitting in a public square; passing through the outskirts of the town, trying yet failing to adequately capture footage of low flying vintage planes (somehow emblematic of so many missed opportunities). I ended up in an area I can only describe as a series of paths running along desiccated scrub-land with a bridge overhanging a rail track. Approaching the bridge I listened to a tune on my phone I've been desperate trying to remember the name of, which I'd downloaded for free after hearing it on radio1. It had an ethereal beauty to it I perhaps would not have appreciated in most normal states of mind. It got to me. Surely it could not have been created for someone hungover like me, after a night of... Well, I actually felt unworthy of it's transcendence.

Back to reality, I found a bench, ate the rest of my lunch, as the occasional jogger ran by – careful to ignore my unusual presence. The burgeoning feeling of desolation was not entirely bad. Stayed for half an hour then headed for the station. Got a ticket for the airport, acutely aware of being the only British person. This was not a central station but a train towards it. After all the time I was wondering how to pass, I noticed my flight was in less than three hours. Time in the Spanish heat has a way slipping through your fingers unawares.

On the train I listened to some techno I'd recorded off the radio back home to perk myself up. At Madrid central, it was surely a simple matter of getting to the airport express train. The next one would be half an hour.

Got to the airport thinking there'd be plenty of time to get through all the checks. But this is Madrid: one of largest and most complicated airport's in Europe. After making sure there was no feasible way to reach my terminal by foot, I eventually – after asking a member of staff, rather than relying on any signs (don't get me started on the inadequacy of their airport signs) – I boarded a bus. The journey seemed to take about twenty minutes (though it might've been 15mins, but when panic sets in time expands). I was not the only anxious passenger; it was comforting to see others worrying about when it would reach the end terminal.

In the right terminal, there really wasn't much time. Still, I got through security without the kind of hassle you'd get at a German airport. But where was my gate? Just kept following the signs. But it seemed I was being diverted round a corner, through another long corridor. I'm a fast walker, and don't mind running. But this felt like an extraordinary distance. My gate was due to close in less than a minute, it didn't seem I was going to make it. I got to the gate past the closing time, expecting to see everyone lined up to go through. But there was no one there. Panic! I cast around as I stood at the boarding gate, then approached the first person nearby. "Is there a member of staff I can speak to." She seemed nonplussed, perhaps no English-speaking. Then a middle-age man walked towards the display board I hadn't even bothered to check. He, to my great relief, indicated the flight was delayed by twenty minutes. Suddenly I felt ridiculous for having panicked and not checked the update. Had there been an announcement? Not as far as I was aware. As I looked round to the departure lounge seats there were a few people sitting, and more arriving in their unhurried, leisurely way. I sat meekly on one of seats feeling embarrassed. Really I had not travelled enough to experience delays; Gatwick flights always seemed to be dead on time – everyone lined up to board at least fifteen minutes before departure. Later came the confusion of which line to be in. I've never explored the option of speedy boarding, how much extra it would cost, and what is even the point of it when everyone has a booked seat. It just makes going through the gate-check more of a hassle for anyone with a normal ticket. Yet everyone seemed to take being shuffled about in their stride.

Finally on the plane the fatigue caught up with me. I'd been running on adrenaline and cortisol for so much of the day. Now it had all flooded away, and I was feeling quite spaced out; still some residual alcohol in my system. The ascent revealed the barren beauty of the capital's rural region: yellow-brown mountains, desert-like – it felt more sub-Saharan than European. Was this climate change? I always offset my carbon when given the option, but I wonder if investing a few quid in a tree is no more than a gimmick to make the traveller feel better – and profit for the tree-project group that accepts it. Anyway, the scenery looked stunning in its extreme foreignness.

I'd like to do that flight again sometime.
Brussels, and Ghent – at last!

There's no two ways about it. I certainly was not going for the scenery. Been there done that. But I'd taken the opportunity of cheap Eurostar fares (at the time, about the same as a flight but always the better option for so many reasons. Now – 2018 – there is no affordable flight option).

Always having worked out the precise route I felt confident of making it to the hotel. But before then a necessary stop-off at a local Lidl. Or was it Aldi – I tend to get those two mixed up. What could be simpler? That main road running up from the midi station is horrendously busy so I only cross it at the lights. The smaller branching road can be tricky when vehicles suddenly pull out or turn in. With my large camping rucksack I felt less at ease – it's like being elderly except not expecting drivers to show the extra consideration (though many do in Britain but this is post-Brexit, and somehow I felt conspicuously British).

I found the shop with not too much difficulty. Bought all the food for this evening and possibly the next day. Also got my requisite bottle of vodka. Some generic make. Not that it's ever expensive in Europe since they don't slap at least 67 percent duty on it as in England. Not that I mind paying the added tax in my own country; at least some proportion of it will go towards the NHS – a service I may well need some day if only as a consequence of my binge drinking.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly so far as I passed through the checkout. But then as I was approaching the exit one of the security stepped out in front of me, said something in French but it was clear he was interested in what I had in my rucksack. The fact of my being specifically English I felt immediately put me at a disadvantage. But anyway I showed him the receipt after he looked at the things I'd packed. "So I must have set off some alarm," I said light-heartedly. "Maybe it was my phone that caused it."

He might have said something, but anyway nodded and waved me on. Well, I thought, Just one of those things. Nothing to get annoyed about. Nevertheless it soured my mood somewhat, wondered if I'd been targeted right from when I'd entered. Certainly I took way too long searching for anything palatable and vegetarian.

The walk to the hotel took longer than it appeared on the map. For some reason I'd thought I might have passed the hotel, not having marked it precisely on the map. I got there after thinking it should've been such an easy journey, feeling agitated that it hadn't gone well. I showed my irritation when the receptionist gave the price – having increased in euros. Still with this idea I'd fixed the price in sterling when I reserved it I question the amount. Couldn't even remember whether I should pay in pounds or euros. She said, "Most pay in their own currency." But in fact I should have paid in euros to avoid it being converted. Note to hotel staff: if you give advice that disadvantages the guest, you risk a bad review.

That night I got reasonably drunk on the vodka and headed out to Brussels Nord. It shouldn't have been more than a couple of miles, but somehow I struggled to find the location where they parade their wears; could not remember which side of the station I needed to be. On reaching the street, many cars were passing slowing by. I wasn't sure if it was some strict speed restriction or the drivers just wanted to gawp at the young scantily-clad women. A number of men were, I can only describe as window shopping. Even as drunk as a I was it took me a while to pluck up enough courage to approach one of the window fronts. There was brunette seated at the far end from the entrance, looking sullen but sexy in her short skirt. She gave me no more than a dismissive look. Instead, another girl approached the door in what I could only describe as a leotard, and greeted me warmly. She looked a bit young for my liking and too thin. Still being English and polite I accepted her invitation. Of course, the irony here is that she was most likely not attracted to me and was only concerned about the money. Anyway, we got down to business. But something was wrong. She kept going for maybe ten minutes (time is very difficult to measure in these situations) but I couldn't finish. On top, she did pretend to be enjoying herself, groaning etc. Yet I could not come. So eventually she used her hand. Perhaps, I consoled myself, some clients would have considered that good value for money. But something was later to happened which made me think otherwise.

Next day, the weather was not great. A typical March temperature. It rained persistently, with the occasional respite for drizzle. As a tourist in Brussels you might have been interested in visiting the EU parliament, or any of the state landmarks. I was not. I had no plan other than for the evening. Just time to fill, really. Still, had to make an effort and see something touristy. The rain had eased up, along with the discomfort from wearing a hood-less jacket, though over a hooded top. Now there was no excuse to merely find shelter.

I don't even remember if I planned to end up at this Museum of the Orient. An array of ancient buildings within a cordoned off area, partly under renovation. There is undeniably an architectural beauty in these ornate edifices, that really I should have been more appreciative of. Although, at least from that rain-soaked viewpoint, it would've be tempting to be cynical, pointing out some artifice or pretension – an urbane nod to an ancient culture. Here was alternative Brussels, the curators of this centre were trying to tell me. But I already had my idea of alternative Brussels – and architecturally it involved lots of glass-fronted open style rooms, lit at night in red or pink. Nevertheless, I tried to take a picture. But my camera would not work. Possibly too much moisture.

I headed back. The rain was light. I followed a path which along side ran a cycle lane. Plenty of space for most of it, except for one small section, where I had to walk along the cycle lane. So what were the chances? Just on that one section, for no more 30 seconds a cyclist passed me from behind. There were no other cyclists for the entire path. Was thinking, if I'd been that cyclist I most likely would have slowed until the pedestrian had cleared it. But there is something in the psyche of young men in particular where they are set on a course and will not waver. I've seen the same in joggers: after a long walk I'd stopped to eat lunch on a bench facing a sea defence near Bournemouth; only a narrow path passing between me and the fence, and a few other paths behind on the cliff top, all very similar leading to the same place. The jogger was on that track in front, where I had to tuck my legs in for him to pass (without a word). Clearly to have diverted by all of ten metres to the parallel track would have been a diversion from his usual route – if not a compromise, never mind that they all branched from one trail, in eye-shot. But at the time I viewed him passing me at such a close proximity as a mildly aggressive act. In Belgium certain cyclists have this sense of doggedness.

Rant over.

My mood was generally souring now as I trudged along busy main road after busy main road. My phone was telling me I should be getting near a way point. Yes I vaguely remember the road leading off from there. Should be within twenty minutes of my hotel. Now the rain was heavy, and the phone difficult to use. Somehow I'd taken a wrong turning, and now my phone was getting low on charge. Full charge before I'd left, but the battery (I later realised) was rubbish even by smartphone standards. I ended up in a shopping precinct – the main commercial area of Brussels I'd never had any interest in visiting so hadn't checked its location before. And now I was sheltering under an awning of a cinema, my phone had just given up the ghost. Surely though it could not be all that bad. Indeed, I always carry a spare phone in case of such emergencies, albeit an early generation LG smartphone with a 3.5 inch screen. Had an off-line map of Belgium, only I could not find the hotel listed. But I must not be more than a twenty minute walk away, no need to resort to the dreaded enabling of data. So braving the persistently heavy rain I trudged on through the busy highstreet, not even sure in what direction I was or should be going. Darted under another shelter to see if my phone map was giving any clues. It did not. The fact is, I was tired, hungry, and still hungover. I took a chance down a road that looked familiar. All I needed to know was the location of the station. So I asked someone who was unloading a car outside his place: "Le Gare Midi?" He only looked at me blankly, so I did a never mind gesture and continued out to the main road. The main road I'd been along before. I could see the train line. Still I asked someone the direction of the station just to be sure, and he told me to continue on, probably wondering how I could not have known. Then a little way along I halted. What was the point of getting back to the station only to have to do an about turn and walk back another km or so to find the my hotel road? I considered this for a few seconds and decided the safe option was to go back to at least the base of the road leading from the station. From there I crossed onto an adjacent shopping square and did what felt like an act of defeat: I enabled data. This road heading up was most likely the correct one, but in this heavy rain I wanted to be exactly sure where I needed to turn off. Google maps confirmed it and told me the road to the hotel (the name of which I couldn't even remember!). I wondered how I'd have managed with only a paper map – in this rain – having to ask someone directions to a fairly obscure hotel. It made me realise how dependent on technology I'd become. Without it I was literally lost.

Back in the hotel, soaking wet, I started getting undressed. Just as I'd taken off my trousers there was a knock on my door. "Just a second," I called out, whilst struggling to put my trousers back on.

I opened the door to a young woman offering, well only a towel. I was surprised as it was 4pm, and I imagined a lot of guests would've headed back earlier than usual. Had she seen me return? I accepted the towel with a thank you. Normally if this were to happen my mind would be wondering, or especially when I got started on the drinks. But at that moment I was feeling only misery. Over the years I've had all kinds of awkward if not embarrassing encounters with hotel cleaning staff (can they still be referred to as maids). They are usually young women – in their mid twenties. But one time in Dusseldorf the woman called at around 10am (which to me still felt like an hour earlier). I don't remember what she said or what I said exactly, but I do remember she was well into middle-age – somewhere around fifty, well built and buxom in the way some German women can be. Well at the time it just seemed like another case of my oversleeping, though she seemed to have called quite early. Maybe she was wanting to check up on me; the check-in the previous evening had not gone well: there was none, but instead I had to let myself in, open an envelope with my key and find my room. A procedure for a cheap hotel in Germany that might have been fairly standard, but the minute before I'd arrived I was nearly hit by an irate frauline on a bike. Of course I should have checked before crossing, only there were so few passing along that lane; I was more overtaken by the relief of having found my hotel just across the road. So I'd got there in a troubled and distracted state – which must have been obvious over the intercom as I baulked at the set of instructions. Anyway, if it seemed I was building up to something involving me and this large middle-age German, I'm afraid to disappoint. Only when returned to my room (after curiously my door-lock was jammed (meaning I could only enter via a balcony with the help of the receptionist) I noticed my room had been cleaned, everything neat. Nothing unusual there, but also my air pillow had been fully inflated. I always use one because, frankly, most hotel pillows aren't up to much – they tend to sink down with not enough support. It's ideal though to have mine only about a third full. So what was I to make of it: her mouth on the teat of my air pillow? Was it a sign of something sexual? I sometimes wonder when I stay at hotels on my own if I'm seen as clearly being there for the taking. And perhaps I am; after all if causal sex is offered for free and she happens to be single – well, I'm probably less fussy than most people would expect. But – let me be honest – as exciting as spontaneity can be, the big advantage of paying for it is getting it at the time you want it.

Back to Brussels. With still a considerable amount of vodka left I decided I was going to have a good time that night. This would involve going to the place I had longed to visit since 2013.

At Brussels Midi the ticket machine would not accept my cash, only card. I wasn't keen on sticking my card in that machine. The train to Ghent was soon due so I thought I'd chance it and not pay. It seemed I wasn't the first to do this. After being told I shouldn't be in 1st class (I only then noticed the difference by the 1 on the door rather than it being any more refined than second). Later on the guard walked through asking to check tickets; she was accompanied by a male assistant. Perhaps, I wondered, there had been some trouble with passengers paying. Well, no wonder. Rather than being asked for the fare you'd pay at the station, as is normal on UK trains I got asked for an extra €7 on top. (Until recently passengers would get an additional fine if the station had a ticket machine. Perhaps the guards/inspectors got fed up arguing with passengers, who'd claim they simply didn't have time or the machine was malfunctioning.) Well, I accepted and paid in cash only after voicing my surprise. It seemed anyone going from Brussels to Ghent is unlikely to be poor, but it made me think how good value the all inclusive Any Belgium Station Eurostar ticket is. This might seem like boring stuff if money's not your concern, if you don't travel on a budget. But consider this: a single fare I paid from Brussels to Ghent was almost half of that all inclusive ticket from St Pancras.

Anyway. I was out to have a good time; I could get more money out, no problem. In my drunken state, listening to house music (good for re-energizing) the hour's journey went quickly. As I write this, in my utterly sober state, I do struggle to imagine just how it feels to be inebriated to the the extent of – if it's at all possible to recall – about 15 shots or units of vodka. This is enough to make most people dangerously on the brink of calamity. Well, it hardly needs spelling out. Somehow on my drunken nights out I've avoided any incidents crossing busy roads (which is not something I can claim whilst in a sober state. Maybe drivers make more of an allowance at night). But from years of binge-drinking I've developed a certain tolerance. Nothing like a serious alcoholic's. There are the tales of hardened drinkers downing a litre of spirits a day; but that kind of drinking is an overtly loud knocking on death's door. My kind of drinking is more taken on a cost-benefit analysis; though the older I get the greater the cost. The greater the regret, too, if I've been out with friends and known I have drunk too much. Always the next day the regret: why did have that last double vodka and coke? Why did I say that? Of all the things I could have talked about. Only once did I drink so much as to not remember a single thing after a certain time; blackouts are a truly scary phenomena, too frightened to even ask what I might have said or done – in fact I was adamant I did not want to be told. For me it is never about taking the edges off (as I type off the predictive text off-licence appears), it's about getting to a state of not being hindered by moral qualms, if not quite being left with no sense of morality. There's no avoiding the reality that most of these women – attractive and intelligent as many are – probably don't consider what they do their ideal job. Some will surely be shouting "Understatement, or what!" And if going with me is easier than with most others, then I am pleased. The night before, she had her work cut out – and I regret that. This night I was hoping for it to be easier.

Ghent feels like more of a tourist town than Brussels; hotels are fewer though, but as a consequence more expensive. It feels more upmarket in the daytime. At night there is an atmosphere of transgression more subtle than Brussels (or certainly the big German cities) – no sex shops or shady clubs that promise much ... for a price, and whatever it is they deliver I have no intention of finding out. In this town all the locals know there is just that one place to get it. And I had in my mind it would be expensive.

I had my route worked out in detail, with a waypoint marked. This was to be my third time here; both previous times I had failed to find my destination. In mitigation I was variously inebriated on both previous visits, with no phone navigation.

I found what looked like a reasonably safe bank – as in one that gives you your card back before dispensing the money, as well as being inside the building. I never take much out of foreign banks partly because of the interest or commission they charge. I carry cash but that does feel risky, especially on the first night. Never a big spender though, avoiding restaurants and coffee shops, seeking out the discount supermarkets. Can you blame me? Now in 2018 the pitifully low value of the Pound against the Euro. Even then, back in March 2017, there seemed fewer Brits than in previous years. Suddenly in Europe I'm seen as someone of means! Now I still had less than 100euros.

Finding the one place I wanted to find – het Glazen straatje, as you will find it on Google Earth, which took me a while to locate – I found surprisingly easily. A highly secluded arcade. There seems to be only that one area in Ghent where they do business. In the days before navigation apps finding it was truly a challenge; you have to think where would be the likely place; not near a shopping centre or a church, only small shops and a bar. Plenty of people seem to walk through it in the daytime – as I did once and to my embarrassment recoiled at the approach of one lady from behind the glass front. Now I was here at about 9pm, about the ideal time for me. I must have still felt nervous, there's never any getting over that unless so drunk as to be incapable. I had already sobered up somewhat in the two and a half hours since drinking. As I entered the Glazen arcade, in front of me sauntered a few twenty-something men; none of them approached the women in the first few apartments. But as I did, one of them came to the door to greet me. She was without exception very physically attractive, scantily clad. In short: way out of my league. This shouldn't have mattered I tell myself now – not her physical dimensions. It's better to have someone to be comfortable with, who can put me at ease. The amount she quoted 50euros I could hardly believe – expecting her to charge quite a bit more, even asking her to repeat it. Ghent is refined, and surely so are the women. The price must have something to do with the season and how busy they happen to be.

Even drunk I still get nervous. Sometimes I assure them (whilst staring at their body) it should be over quickly, which I may have done this time. That's not just for their benefit but to help me relax. And after we got started I do remember eventually relaxing quite a bit. All that tension, that adrenaline, drained away.

I let her use her hand and her mouth for a long as she wanted. They do this, of course, to hasten the end – before I got on on top. In my desperation for more intimacy I pressed myself down too hard on her. Not realising how tense my chest muscles were, pushing on her chest. She told me it wasn't comfortable, so I suggested she be on top. I resolved from then onwards that that's how it should be, unless the next one insists otherwise. But in that moment the eroticism of the experience had all but gone. And for the second time I could not come. Eventually she gave up, and used her hand, though even that took a while. I admitted to her I'd been drinking quite a lot of vodka. "With coke?" she wondered. Now I knew immediately she wasn't referring to the soft drink. Cocaine is known to be good for endurance, perhaps for its numbing effect but it also works as a stimulant. I'm not sure if combining vodka with an energy drink can have a similar effect, but I'd certainly recommend that as a cheaper legal alternative.

Afterwards I told her I was very grateful. I imagine she'd have been grateful if it had been over in a fraction of the time. Even I wouldn't have minded a premature end. Funny how my concern had become the exact opposite from just a year before. Thinking back, that night seemed like a far cry from Berlin or Madrid – and certainly the second time in Brussels Nord. Perhaps the last experience perfectly goes to show how much really is about being in the right frame of mind; being with someone you like if not love. I visited Ghent Glazen because it was something I felt I ought to do, having already failed on two occasions, it certainly was not about being desperate for sex. I can get the urge at all kinds of random times for various people. Once a rather plump middle-aged woman pressed herself against me (albeit discretely) on a crowded train on the way back from another holiday. I became aroused at the thought of her, but it was not because she was 10+ years older than me and large. Believe me I have no particular preference for that type. Rather that she was interested in having me. There was also a curious juxtaposition about her that only added to the effect: a typically (what would be thought of as respectable-looking) middle-class lady in her sensible summer dress. At the time I couldn't be sure if she was with a man of similar age who'd got on board with her and stood nearby. Thoughts ran through my mind of a woman in a stale marriage, with a husband who'd long lost interest in trying to satisfy her – and now she was desperately searching elsewhere. And there was me, quite obviously single. I'd never think I could fulfil such a role, let alone advocate it. Anyway, it seemed they didn't know each other after all. The problem is there never seems to be the right or opportune moment, or if there is I'd be sure to let it slip by. Perhaps if I'd not been on my way home. Perhaps, perhaps. Still, there's always the refuge of dreams, where the perfect opportunity presents itself unfailingly. It's curious that the types of women I often dream about are not the ones I imagine I'm attracted to; it's as if my unconscious mind has a different notion of attraction to the conscious (and here I'm not just talking of the basic physical). Which one is the purveyor of truth? Which one should I follow?

I've toyed with this curious notion: that out there are these single women, so desperate to get together with someone that by an unknown quirk of reality they've found a way to connect through dreams to single men. Or maybe I'm the one making the initial connection. Those dreams seemed as real as any genuine experience.

That night, I conceded, I was tired and just in need of sleep. But sleep would be a long way off. Just missed a train, it seemed. Almost an hour till next to Brussels! But I was not the only one with a long wait. Two young people: a Pakistani man and a Turkish (as far as I recall) young woman. We got talking, but I can't remember much beyond commenting on the lack of trains; they didn't seem to bothered about the long wait, and were full of enthusiasm and optimism for their futures. I felt no longer young and increasingly that I'd overstayed in their company. Fortunately there was announcement to swap platforms, which broke up our group discussions – as we ended up mingling with others. There was an American (there's usually an American, given the strong dollar at the time) waxing lyrical about his adventures. I don't remember what he told but wondered if he omitted mentioning a visit to the Glazen.

Eventually on the train. But unfortunately a ticket inspector had also boarded. I, to my shame now, feigned ignorance – that I believed I'd bought a return when in fact it was a single (in the UK a same day return hardly can cost any more than a single). It turned out I had just the exact amount of cash on me to pay for that ticket. It was then, having no euros to keep for the next holiday, that I resolved not to travel abroad until the following autumn. That was in March, a vow I had not broken as I originally wrote this in August'17. Though, admittedly, the lack of euros was just part of the reason, because I was troubled by that last sexual encounter. Was it a sign that I should give it up, that my conscience had finally gotten the better of me?

The return journey the next day was not entirely predictable. With the obligatory hangover, I tiredly waited in the Brussels Midi soundproof lunge, which is more just a room made from thickened glass filled with relatively comfortable metal chairs. I used to wait outside when the weather was OK but would always be approached by the same beggar woman. It wasn't that I objected to giving her (and her small child) money, it was just I sensed that the amount I gave her was too small – that she suspected I had more. So as I sat in this quiet area reading an Adam Roberts novel on my phone, a voice suddenly pierced the silence. Not the usual intermittent train announcement but the unspecific eastern European accent of a woman around the age of fifty, asking for any spare change. Now I really can't remember whether I said "Ah, you've found me again!" verbally or just in my mind. She had the obligatory small child with her; can't remember if it was the same one. With at least a sound of acknowledgement I rummaged around in my pockets for what piddling amounts of spare cents I hadn't used in a vending machine, and was met with typical scepticism, before she moved on. I'm not sure if she went round to all the others seated or left the room, since I returned my attention to the SF novel (or tried to). But a thought did occur to me a few minutes later: had she really approached me, or was she merely a figment of my imagination? Was she there for me to absolve my conscience? Was this a woman who once sold her body but now, rejected by society, can only depend on the kindness of strangers? Would one of those young women I had gone with one day become a beggar?

When you're tired and hungover all kinds of strange ideas can pop up. It's also not unusual (for me at least) to become confused when something is not quite how it should be. The usual passenger entrance for the Eurotunnel was cordoned off for reconstruction work. But adjacent to that was the transnational train (as far as I recall) ticket terminal. I'll ask there, I thought. When finally I got to speak to someone who was not busy he told me to follow the signs. Well, what could be simpler. But somehow my peripheral vision (which was never that great) particularly failed me this time. So I kept wandering around trying to find some sign. Until eventually, just as I was considering asking another member of staff: it was there right in front of me in orange! Great big posters on the large support beams. For some reason I'd been looking for isolated overhanging signs, or just ones that stick out rather than stuck on as part of the building structure. But it's not unusual for me to miss the obvious.

The actual Eurotunnel entrance was some way off. Brux Midi is a large station!

It's unusual to get encounter friendly security staff, though occasionally British boarder control police can be. She was even asking me about my holiday. I even somehow said something mildly witty that made her laugh! Can't remember what it was.

It's always a relief to be back on the Eurostar train, watching the countryside flow by at 220 km/h. A relatively comfy window seat for the next two hours. Most other travellers are businessman, or generally not the type of the people who will give you any hassle, i.e. try to strike up a conversation with someone who is obviously not in the most sociable of moods.

I'd returned thinking the holiday hadn't gone too badly after all. But something happened soon after that that made me suspect I had been the foolish victim of a crime.

The shock came when I checked my bank statement. I was minus more than £400, an overdraft I would never allow by intention. There came a cold sinking sense of dread that I was about to discover something was very wrong.

And so it proved when I checked at the bank. A purchase had been made for car insurance – twice over. I don't even own a car. How those were able to pass through the checks I'll never know. There was even a hotel booked, so I phoned them after the card company gave me the hotel branch. The hotel confirmed the booking, and said it would be flagged. Whether the crook who tried to check in ever did and was ever caught I will probably never know. It was clearly fraud so I got my money refunded. But what concerned me was how all my card details (including CVV number) could have been obtained. Online fraud is so common; I was a victim of it in 2011. I like to think online security is better now. Of course it's possible a worker at one of the companies divulged a password for their database. Yet I have this sneaking suspicion there is just the possibility that my card details were taken in one of those Belgium establishments. How? Well, here's just a theory: whilst I was otherwise engaged with one of the girls, her associate (perhaps another who had been present) sneaked into the room, took my wallet out of my jacket pocket then took a photo of my card, both sides. They could be well-practiced in this so the client is unlikely to notice. I tell myself: surely I would have noticed another enter: the light would've changed – the private rooms have very low red light. What about the light from the camera? The idea of committing such an audacious crime seems risky – the chance of being found out. So maybe I'm merely being paranoid after my Hamburg experience. You might wonder why – if its details were taken abroad – the card was used only for purchases in the UK. Perhaps any foreign purchase would be flagged by the bank's AI monitor. I'm guessing a note would accompany the card details after they were put online to be sold. In my view whoever bought them off whatever dark-web sight is equally culpable as whoever stole them in the first place. Well, let's be honest, prostitution and crime have historically been associated. There are crimes of opportunity, where clients put themselves in a vulnerable situation – as well as the girls who end up in that type of work. But I want to believe that the vast majority are honest, and the best way to ensure that is for prostitution – and all that's associated with it – to be entirely legal. There are countries such as Spain where it's not entirely but the law is not enforced, Belgium has tolerance zones that are more like brothels.

I would still like to go back to those places, funnily enough more than ever, if only to convince myself that I could not have been unaware of my card info being stolen right before me only a few metres away. But what I would do is tightly wrap my card up in paper – maybe with tape, so it presents an extra challenge, so I at least should know. Some older person – a veteran of those places – might tell me (with a gruff sigh and a nod), "Well, you just need to keep you wits about you. They'll take you for a ride in whatever way, given the chance." I hope never to encounter that wise old man. I hope never to become so cynical, and just believe: there will always be a few criminals amongst those who are mainly decent people just trying to make a living.

As I write this I am looking forward to my trip to Frankfurt. But having revealed so much, having used my experiences as a way to ultimately make money, it feels oddly like I have become involved in the business of exploitation. I am already in the business of making – or at least aspiring to make – money from writing. Not that you will be able to find anything else by the name I've used. My other writing is fictional.

My immediate concern is that in writing this account I have somehow jinxed my next holiday. Of course it is totally irrational. It just feels that my attempt here at profiting from previous travels is just one level beneath the immorality (albeit perceived) of the actual experience. And if there is any truth in the notion of karma, then perhaps this will backfire on me. Perhaps something catastrophic will happen to ensure this book never reaches publication. But then, I tell myself, nobody is likely to be hurt by its publication.

No catastrophe has happened so far in 2018, as I write this much-delayed final draft. But thought it might be of interest to leave that final paragraph...

Frankfurt

Frankfurt, the financial capital of Germany – if not Europe – was bound to cater for those who also like to play hard. So much money to be made and money to be taken. I was expecting to spend a lot. There is one particular area not far from the main station that really is easy to find. Well, more importantly, one building.

The flight was delayed by over an hour. Normally that wouldn't matter, but I already was not due to get to the hotel till around midnight. I notified them about nine weeks in advance. Still, as I waited in the departure area, I had no idea how I would gain entrance to the hotel. Maybe I should have phoned them. But, only when I'd finally stood in line, had I noticed my phone (my old one with my old number I can memorize) ring. It rang again. I answered. One of the staff was telling me the combination code to release the key, both a man and a woman spoke to me in reasonably understandable English. From them I was clear of the numbers. But the man said: "And one more." At least I think that was what he said; the line was bad and there were constant announcements. I had in my mind one of those manual rotary dial locks with four numbers, since that was the last type of box I had to unlock. Me on a budget. So I had the numbers. Yet there was something I hadn't understood. And they must have known it because they phoned me back. Eventually I said: "Can you send me a text... an SMS – or email with all the info." I thought they (I can't remember if it was the man or the woman I spoke to again) understood, and knew this was the only way to be sure. Anyway my attention now was on getting through the gate-check to finally board the plane.

After another half hour waiting on the plane for other take-offs to clear, the pilot announced he'd try to make up for lost time. So full throttle. The plane creaked as it ascended, feeling like it wasn't entirely bolted together properly. The pilot, it seemed, was pushing it to the limit. I think everyone appreciated the effort, that these delays are mostly beyond the flight team's control, and just relieved to be under way.

Landing wasn't till midnight German time. Finally passed the passport check (necessary in case of stowaways who somehow avoided passport control at Stansted, I guess) it was a dash to wherever the train station happened to be. Maybe I missed the sign with train icon and T1 next to it (if there was one). So I asked one of the staff.

Information. Needed it right then. Just couldn't find it; didn't want to have to search for whatever display told me the station. So: "Offenbach?" I asked the first person I saw. But just a shake of the head and a puzzled expression. He looked German; if he was German he'd understand I wanted the platform for Offenbach, and certainly not to start a conversation – which maybe is what some people fear. Of course the info was available. Just had to find it. But time. Not the time to waste. It was getting on for 1am!

I was surprised to find an Englishman on the platform I happened to end up on – and one that had a local train phone app – a thing I wished I'd thought of, but no matter how prepared you think you are, there's always something. Write a list of everything you could possibly need and there will always be something lacking. That's the holiday experience, folks! Just encounter challenges and overcome them; it does you good, I tell myself.

Well, he told me the train time and the platform. But hang on, wasn't that late train cancelled? It wasn't clear. Anyway I got a ticket and found the platform, and a central display with the most welcome information I'd had all day: Offenbach 01.32. on the platform it displayed another name but the right time. It had to be the right one, but asked anyway – another Brit, no less, but one more ignorant of the train routes than myself! A couple waiting on the bench: he was German, and he had the app. And confirmed it: another twenty minutes. (The good thing about an app is that it can supplant your memory.) There didn't seem to be any other train due on that side. Neither of the three got on the train. There is curious thing about late night German stations: people just seem to hang around them. And somehow these people don't themselves seem odd or threatening. In the UK this would surely not be the case.

Eventually at Offenbach Ost. A few moments to orientate myself and allow my navigation app to do the work. Just a short walk, cross a couple of quiet roads. And, hey, I was there at my hotel. The feeling of relief then turned to doubt. Before me was not a rotary dial combination lock but one with an electronic key-pad, above a selection of compartments containing the door keys. There was no text or email. Still, I put in the combination. Nothing. There seemed to be 2 more digits left. The display was so poor, but didn't reveal the numbers anyway. I used the star key to clear and repeated. And one more? Was this somehow going to reveal itself to me at some point. Maybe they meant one more door key: one for the entrance and another for the room. But if it was one more digit ... well, I tried a few more times with added numbers.

By now it was just past 02.30. I was tired, and getting cold. And before me the phone number to request assistance, printed boldly. I wondered for a minute: should I try to figure it out, or phone and potentially wake someone?

I imagined myself just getting more frustrated, wasting time trying to figure it out. The number, the same number they called me from, was a simple matter of a couple of taps. There was no answer for about twenty seconds. Then a woman finally spoke. She had clearly been asleep. I said in my softest and most pathetically pleading voice: "I'm sorry. I can't get in. I think I got the number, but it wasn't enough."

She repeated it, but nothing else. I punched it in. Nothing of course. Then, perhaps as she awoke more, she added a word at the end of the sequence: a German word beginning with H. And then almost immediately I realised. "Oh, the hash key!"

"Yah, yah (Ja Ja). Hash key." Then she explained something about the key. But it didn't matter. Sheepishly, I thanked her, and felt utterly foolish for not figuring it out, and slightly guilty for not making enough effort to – but also of course for phoning her at that hour.

There is something I call the quiz effect: when the answer you're desperately seeking that just won't pop into your mind is finally given, it seems so obvious, but somehow the connections weren't working. One more thing, those words kept spinning round my head. Did one of them from the hotel say: "Not a number? Symbol?" I don't remember that at all. The airport was noisy, the line poor. Maybe one of them had read out the sequence, just as the woman had, but because I was not actually staring at the key-pad it would have made no sense to me. I just don't remember. But how much effort would it be for anyone to look up the words hash and key or button for the English version? Have they never had to deal with late British arrivals before? Instead I felt like an utter failure. Failed the entry test. This is why I'll never watch quiz shows, at least ones without multiple choice answers.

The next morning, just approaching eleven, I headed down to reception. A woman in her mid thirties was just about to ascend the stairs, perhaps to knock on my door.

"Reception?"

"Yes," she affirmed, sounding almost like a sigh of relief.

So I paid for the three nights, and apologised for my late arrival, mentioning the delayed flight. She gave me one of those forms that seemed pointless in 2017, and somehow I fumbled to complete it. I couldn't be sure if she was the one I'd spoken to on the phone at 2.30am, but I felt slightly embarrassed in her presence. And, notwithstanding the likelihood she was married, I found her attractive. Plus the accent, well, does it for me in the right circumstances. Perhaps that can be traced back to my Hamburg experience. Some would tell me I really need to get over that.

That day I walked for about four hours or at least ten miles. I kept getting the feeling my timing was bad. Someone approached me on a bike about 10 seconds before I was about to turn off the side road onto a track. He had a soundsystem attached to the back panniers on his bike playing some cheesy and once vaguely cool tune I couldn't identify. I manouvred into the siding to let him pass. But he stopped and did the sign for smoking. Now, as you may well know, nobody simply asks for a cigarette or a light; it is often a prelude to forming some kind of connection that will likely involve money. One night when a woman approached me to ask for a light, along Brighton promenade, I imagined a scenario where she would provide me with some kind of outdoor sex – for a fee; at best the possibility of some mutually exploitative relationship. I wondered about that a lot; it got me intrigued. Anyway, here in Frankfurt I sensed I did not want any association with this guy so I shook my head, feigning incomprehension, and telling him I don't speak German. It occurred to me, it was pretty much what the locals had done to me at the airport station. Fear of the alone stranger, or the strange loner.

Frankfurt has some beauty spots – a lake: one of those isolated places of tranquillity you might wish you could somehow get to without having to negotiate the city. In the city centre there is some interesting architecture, about which surely plenty of travel guides wax lyrical.

The second night I was too tired and feet too sore from the day's walking to feel like going out that evening; and really, the flip side of exciting is stressful – and it seemed like the latter I'd be mostly facing that night (yes, the prospect of sex with attractive women can be stress-inducing). So just nice to relax, make a start on the vodka and listen to some Radiohead and a bit of London Grammar.

Funny how that can sound like I'm making excuses.

First Night of Sex

The following night, after doing a reccee of the town and specifically the red light light district (just to be sure I could find it when drunk), I set off. After downing about 15 units I was definitely in the mood, energy restored.

A young woman of east-Asian appearance sat opposite me on the train wearing stretch leggings and spectacles. I remembered how badly I wanted her. And this I think is relevant to what happened some time later. By then feeling really horny aided by the drink. It was, I decided, going to have to happen that night – with someone, with anyone. This was starting to feel like Berlin – a type of madness creeping in. Maybe there was something in the air – pheromones. Certainly, hearing German women under fifty speak can be quite a turn on in the right circumstances, associations with previous visits. The hotel receptionist/proprietor had said hello to me as I'd passed on the way back up to my room. All these subconscious connections...

The place I had to get to, the Eros Centre, was about as blatant as you can imagine: pink with large arrows pointing at the doorway. Clearly there was no need to find it in the daytime, but a return train ticket can be used twice. I walked without compunction through the entrance and up the brightly lit stairwell. And there on the first at the end of the apartment corridor floor was perched a young dark-skinned woman on a stool, in black lacy underwear. She greeted me warmly and said something about 30euros. That seemed reasonable, and she had a great body: just the right side of voluptuous.

What could possibly go wrong?

As I followed her into her apartment. The room was like a small hotel room – one of the well-known budget chains – and brightly lit, which was unusual (there is normally a dim red light – which can have a calming effect). I told her outright I wanted proper, full sex. It was then she met my eyes with a challenging glare, and told me it would cost 100euros. "I've only got €50," I stated firmly.

"You can use your card," she countered.

"Oh no, I'm not using my card," I said perhaps a little too vehemently. "I can only give you fifty."

"I am from Kazakhstan," she informed me, "Near Russia," she added, just in case I hadn't fully comprehended.

"You are exotic," I agreed, thinking how badly I wanted to be inside her – if only for the second or two it would inevitably take.

I gave her €50 still not quite sure what it was I was going to get. She suggested she should put a condom on me. Did that mean full sex? My mind was too addled in booze-filled haze of lust to think it through. This was so different to what happened in Belgium last time. It was a feeling of no longer being in control. It wasn't a bad thing: my mojo was back!

Condom on, I vaguely remember her using her mouth and then a final flourish with her expert hand. It may have taken no more than a minute. My brain was so filled with the usual biochemicals – adrenaline, dopamine, and whatever else is generated by the alcohol and buzz of anticipation – that my orgasm hardly registered. Just one more little burst of pleasure. She confirmed triumphantly that I had come. Perhaps it was some new record she could claim over her associates. It might have been her way of ensuring I couldn't have full sex with her. It was certainly easy money for her. She hadn't even taken her underwear off, and I wondered whether I should have requested that. She did suggest I could come back the following night. Well, afterwards I did feel somewhat cheated, and didn't intend to be cheated again.

I did, however, return the next day. But not to see her.

The next day was my last day, the flight not due to leave before the evening. I still had some vodka left over, enough at least to take away the sharp edges of my hangover and perhaps enough to feel drunk. Enough to give me the confidence to return, it seemed.

The sooner I got there the better as far as I was concerned. That day it rained intermittently, but just a general dreichness (a slang Scottish word that stuck in my head when thinking of the general miserableness of the weather). I wanted to get €50 out and found a Western Union bank that seemed OK, except it gave me only a €50 note. I wondered about changing it; it was going to be my price I offered, so handing over a fifty would be convenient.

The first time I approached the Eros Centre a man in a dark hoodie jacket shambled along side me, clearly knowing I was not likely to be someone of high moral virtue – and here possibly seeing an opportunity. But I sped up and walked around the block, passing shops and considering whether to change the €50, though to buy something I didn't yet need.

With still the full note I finally entered the Eros Centre, suddenly feeling the weight of my heavy pack on my back as I climbed the stairs. It might have been the second or third floor where I encountered her. She, in her tiny underwear, stood up to greet me perhaps more warmly than the girl the previous night. Young, perhaps a bit too young, of east (or southeast) Asian appearance. I imagined Thai. It seems a bit crass to describe her as a cutie, but only the word cute seemed to best describe her. She seemed just lovely in every way. I didn't ask her how much she was charging, I only told her I had 50euros for full sex, which she accepted gladly. I believe it's not always best to go for the lowest possible price. Anything less than 40euros (in 2017 money) can feel exploitative: she also certainly would be doing it out of desperation; it's better for me to feel exploited, as I had the previous night. Anyway she seemed pleased to be in my company. She talked a lot: asked where I was from and my name, and seemed genuinely interested, even asking my age – the answer to which was met with surprise, telling me I didn't look it. For that response the money already seemed worth it! Of course I didn't ask her age: she might have been in her early 20s, or younger. The age gap may have been well over twenty years; I was too afraid to discover. But here I was feeling like a horny, awkward and inexperienced youth.

One day I will surely miss that feeling.

She may have been one of the desperate ones. In fact she told me I was her first. This, for a second, stopped me in my tracks. "Your first today?" I asked her to confirm.

"Yes, first today. No one visiting."

I still wasn't sure. But now, in the brightly lit room, she was naked. And I was in the mood. I looked at my wallet on the table, strangely not able able to remember if I'd handed over the money. I was about to get undressed when she asked for the money, which I (slightly embarrassed) promptly handed over. Wondering if I had paid her rather generously I then said something I later regretted: "Can I kiss you?" I asked tentatively.

"You can kiss me on the breasts," she said, by way of compromise.

"OK," I accepted, knowing the mere question had overstepped the mark. Breasts are not my preference – real or fake – to get off on, at least when there are other attractive parts. The only exception being the large woman in Antwerp. It wasn't as if I needed that extra stimulation here anyway.

I lay on my back and asked her to be on top. She looked down at me – at it – in slight puzzlement. I was beginning to get hard, but this was not the desperate situation of the night before. She started touching and manipulating it, and I'm sure (but not entirely) she said the following: "Is it supposed to go like that?" I should point out that I am uncircumcised (and you can use your imagination here), which can be a mixed blessing – a trade-off for pleasure over appearance.

I think I only stared at her blankly; words were difficult to find at that moment. So she added: "It's just I don't want to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable." But at this point my mind was in a spin, my brain flooded with the usual chemicals, as I stared up at her body.

I think I managed to say: "No, you're not. That's fine." Or maybe I only thought it.

Finally she applied the condom. And as she lowered herself over me I felt myself on the point of climax. I was barely inside her before I came. But she didn't seem to realise and kept going. And surprisingly I stayed hard for what seemed at least a minute afterwards, until she asked me if that was enough.

I got the impression she was inexperienced.

She kept me talking for a while afterwards, asking how long the journey takes from the UK to Frankfurt. I felt awkward and slightly embarrassed after my desperateness for her sex. And if not vulnerable than at least exposed – even fully clothed – as if without words I'd given away my most intimate secret. Not that there was ever any façade or persona to present to her. And why should there be? Why any need to impress when I will never see this person again?

I told her about the Kazakhstan girl from the night before, who wanted me to use my card. She said, "There is no one from there – only Romania" (and she listed other eastern European countries). I wondered if the previous one had been from some middle-eastern country. Is it considered exotic to be Kazakh?

The Asian/Thai girl seemed like one of the nicest people I have ever met. However, in that business you can never be sure. A good con-artist will be warm, friendly, and can even seem vulnerable (I mention another example later on). And now I'm wondering did she get my card details? Could someone have slipped into the room and done so while I was otherwise engaged. Used a near-field card-reader? Maybe now it's merely a case of paranoia. Were the questions she asked me somehow a way to obtain information for nefarious purposes? Or maybe she saw me as a potential way to start a new life in Britain. Her English was impeccable, but that never struck me as outstanding since so many German residents do speak more than passable English.

The last paragraph I wrote the day before (in 2017), and was thinking of deleting it. As so far, my account shows no sign of being defrauded; I feel as if paranoia had taken over. Lack of trust, if not suspicion, has been the problem since Hamburg.

But on that day, even with my alcohol addled, hungover mind I may have avoided being scammed again.

After I left, with the vodka wearing off, I felt mildly ashamed if not guilty. It was not that I had treated her badly: not been rough, though admittedly not given her good sex – if she even cared about that. Could I have stayed longer? She genuinely seemed to want my company. Well, she wanted someone's company. I can understand how her line of work can be a lonely one; maybe it was not conducive to finding friendships, the other sex workers were just competition on those slow days. Expressing so much interest in my country – I wondered if she hoped I'd somehow facilitate her visiting the UK. I've always been afraid that I'd visit someone only for sex but end up seeing them as a vulnerable human being, that I'd start to care about their life. I was careful not too ask about hers, not her age or country of origin. Yes, it was fear of being drawn in to her world. So, in that room, I got up to leave. She turned her head, allowing me to kiss her on the cheeks, and then we shook hands. A business arrangement indeed.

It is inevitable that intimate relationships do develop out of sexworker-client liaisons; probably from repeated visits they confide in each other. But can those ever be healthy relationships? Certainly not if there is a 20+ year age gap; then it can be one person depending on another, not only financially. This is not to say there is only one acceptable societal model for a relationship. Well, they are often complex when to the outside world they appear simple. Mutually beneficial when appearing unequal or exploitative. For me, involvement is best kept to the physical.

From now on, I think I'd be happy if the next person I went with was of my own age, looked ordinary, and had no interest in anything but the money I gave her for the sex. The terms then are simple: a business arrangement, not especially exploitative either way. She may be lonely, I might provide her a superficial level of company – it might even be considered a friendship. Proper kissing would be nice; it's the one thing I miss – the forbidden intimacy. But anything more than that?

No, perhaps it's too late to begin the anything-more-than-that's.

The day in Frankfurt city was long, empty, and occasionally with spells of darkness, despite the brightening skies. In the parks there were the poor, the homeless searching through bins. Only a few of these unfortunate people. I wasn't expecting any, in one of the world's richest cities. But of course it must be the same in London, New York. You name it. I just wanted a place to sit, eat my lunch, and find some peacefulness in my mind.

There are a succession of parks with ponds and waterfalls, and no end of benches, connected via roads where you await the green crossing. Or, if there's no vehicle in sight, just ignore them as the locals sometimes do (and some Brits); drivers sometimes do – which can be unnerving if they think they can pass before you reach that part of the road.

After walking a few miles through similar-looking parks, and with only €5 there seemed nothing else to do but head back to the station. I got back to the airport way too early – a few hours before the flight was due. So there seemed nothing else to do but sit and read a novel on my phone. It wasn't the most comfortable place, a block metal circular chair. At least it was near an information board.

After a few minutes I sensed a figure shuffling towards me. Wearing an old brown suit-jacket, he held a phone to his ear, muttering something. This quite elderly man, though possibly no older than seventy, sat next to me. He continued muttering for a minute or so and I continued to ignore him. But then he started speaking to me. It went something like: "You couldn't help me, could you? I can't get my phone to work in here." His English was OK but his words still mumbled. And at the time I took it to mean he couldn't get online.

"You need to get the internet?" I wondered.

No clear answer but he was pointing to his phone, so I thought getting him connected online was doing something helpful, so I got the settings and Wi-fi options up, though you have to sign up. His phone looked like an iPhone 5 or possibly 6 – not a basic one.

Then he looked down at my phone. "Can I use your phone? I've been trying to call my brother in Brazil but I can't get through." I think he also mentioned something about needing to inform said brother about his arrival, and it being urgent.

He seemed like a kindly old man, genuinely in need of help. But to give someone your phone is never a good idea. Even in the most dire emergency it would be me that made the call.

I told him the first excuse that came into my head: "Sorry. I'm a bit low on credit at the moment."

"I give you money for the call. I have to phone my brother."

I noticed there was an information desk right near us, so I just pointed him to that. He slouched off, reluctantly. I didn't even wait to see if did ask them at the desk. Instead I walked about, found somewhere more comfortable to sit. Waited there for about half an hour trying to immerse myself in a novel, until my concentration was disrupted by someone – a man in his thirties – who kept pacing back and forth along the lounge, in an increasingly manic way. Airports and anxiety. Airports and time that either stretches too long or passes too quick. Does anyone ever arrive at the right time? Is there a right time?

I went back to the original place where I'd been sitting, and there was the old man, pacing slowly by, still with the phone against his ear. Just beyond were a line of pay phones. My immediate thought was to point out to him this obvious way of solving his problem. But he was wandering off. And then finally the penny dropped for me. He must be running a scam, I realised. Couldn't think what it could be initially. But later, in those moments of waiting, I wondered: was he using someone else's phone to cover his tracks for some illegal deal, a misdirection for the authorities. The more I thought about it the more plausible it seemed. It was saddening to think such a kindly-seeming old gent should be crooked. Of course, it's impossible to rule out that he was genuinely in trouble and in need of help; he may have even had mental health issues. But in an airport there are plenty of others who can help. He did not fit the conventional profile of a con artist – the fast-talking and false (or forced) bonhomie is often a giveaway. They leave you with an uncomfortable feeling, trying to lead you into some agreement without giving a clear option to refuse, or not refusing to shake his hand means acquiescence. But when the con artist seems to be vulnerable and in need of help, it plays on your good nature. It's unfortunate to think that kind people are more likely to be conned than the cynical and suspicious-minded. Being intelligent or stupid hardly comes into it.

Still it felt like a close call, that my judgement was falling far short of astute. I even got confused about where I should go for the right gate. Thinking of Frankfurt as one of the larger airports, I was imagining having to go through security before the specific gate number-group, firstly terminal 2 section D. But no, somehow I had missed the relevant info. I asked a member of staff who told me to go upstairs. But I'd just come down from there, how could I have missed it? Upstairs was surely the way to get back to terminal 1. So I asked another member of staff, pointing out it had to be terminal 2. And, yes, it was via the floor above. But still no idea of my gate sector. Then finally one security guy checked my flight No. on his phone app. I had to get to security for the mid 50s gates. "Just keep going forward. Follow the signs," he said. And that was what I thought I was doing. But somehow I wasn't. Somehow I had walked passed my section, so had to backtrack. Poor peripheral vision, a hangover finally catching up with me? Could there not be better signage, better information on display? I wonder how many people had never considered a job designing the layouts of an airport until they actually visited one and felt the stress, and thought: I could do better than whatever bozo designed this. It's a job – other than being a writer – I'd most dearly love. It would surely pay better than being an author.

Anyway, with my particular choice of budget airline the flight was inevitably delayed. And I felt ridiculous for having even the beginnings of panic, for having asked someone who happened to be walking in my direction (since anyone under the age of fifty – and not from your country – will inevitably only give you a blank look, whether they perfectly understand you or not). Now a more relaxed waiting, having made it to the final stage before the flight.

A lovely relaxed feeling on the flight back. The luxury of time that demands no justification for its unproductive passing. It was a good time, though, to evaluate my life while being somehow apart from it. A liminal space in time.
Cologne (Köln)

There are two notable things I'd learned about Cologne before considering venturing there: it's expensive and contains one of Germany's most notorious pleasure establishments. Pascha has been highly recommended in on-line forums. But the whole district is something of a hidden treasure from the casual tourist; not one of the big cities that's on a direct flight from the big airports of southern England (although it is the fourth largest city in Germany). Instead it involved a train to London, then a tube, then finally another train to Stansted. But it was worth the effort!

Whenever I approach security at airports I get nervous. It's not that I (knowingly) have anything to hide that will set off the alarm, or trigger a positive on the body-scanner, it's just that it tends to happen anyway – as if I have an alien implant near my nether regions that had been inserted during some memory-erased abduction. Even at Stansted, where security is not quite at the paranoid levels of Gatwick or previously-mentioned German airports, I was stopped, recalled. Here we go again, I thought. Admittedly, though, I'd made the classic error of not removing my belt before the metal detector. So, belt removed along with shoes I gingerly entered the bodyscanner, then after the scan completed I noticing the woman supervisor give a muted sigh. I never get used to the pat-downs, and perhaps never will, frankly, when they're done by a man – who I'm sure does not particularly like having to do them. I remonstrated, pointlessly of course. He pointed out on a graphic where the machine had detected this hidden alien implant, or whatever it was that's undetectable by hand or visual inspection (though at least it didn't get to that stage). I did actually consider the other possibility – that the bodyscanners are not as accurate as the manufacturer or airport authority claim them to be. But given how often they have gone off (it happened at Cologne) perhaps I should stick with the alien implant theory. After all, if they really were so inaccurate and unreliable there'd be more complaints, resulting in the damn things being recalled. Right?

After an only slightly delayed flight I reached the airport train station, where I was possibly robbed of an airport-priced bottle of orange drink from my rucksack holder by someone speaking to me very fast in a language I didn't recognise. He sounded in a desperate state, so would have anyway been welcomed to the drink.

I should have known this but, in my tired and slightly stressed state, I didn't feel certain. I nevertheless got on the train, asking the first passenger I passed. "This the train for Cologne central, isn't it?" He didn't understand the question but, fairly sure I was on the right train, I said "It's OK. Don't worry." But it turns out the locals tend not to use the Anglicised name but know it as Köln, which perhaps explains why it's difficult to find on a large-scale map, compared to neighbouring Düsseldorf. Anyway there was the automated announcement that it was the next stop, but then the guy approached me after the driver had made an announcement that the train announcement was wrong, to give me the English version. Confused? I was for a moment. People hate to have failed to be of help, as I regret putting someone in that position to fail, and so here was a chance to resolve that mutual unease. But then the driver repeated in English, so neither of us had needed to say anything in the first place. I just had a case of first-journey dubiety.

I exited Köln Hbf into a very warm early June night.

The old (central) town is not known for being cheap, but I got a reasonably priced hotel it seemed. Requested a late check-in, got a set of instructions that even the proprietor admitted seemed complicated. Standing outside the hotel, I was confronted with three unmarked buttons and two intercoms. I stared at them thinking it must be obvious which one to press, and that in my tired state I just wasn't seeing it. A familiar scenario though. But amazingly the door buzzed open. My presence was detected.

He gave me the option: the large room with outside facilities, or small with en-suite. I chose the small room. On entering I wondered if I should have asked for specifics. Perhaps there are people of restricted growth who might have felt comforted in such extraordinarily small dimensions.

Still, I'd made it. The town that held so much promise!

First day I was tired. Too hot, not enough sleep in a hotel without air-conditioning. Yet the town, especially near the water, was ok. Not the humidity you often get in Britain. Had that been so I would have truly felt unsafe to be out in the town. As it was I felt liable to some mishap. Maybe chancing a crossing, not seeing a car in time. Or more likely a bike, swerving round a corner. Something you learn to be more vigilant of in continental Europe. But funnily enough I witnessed a cyclist trying to chance a red crossing and being hooted at. And then there's that schadenfreude and a release of tension after the shock of seeing another transgressing the seemingly orderliness of a German city, as everyone else appears to be so careful. There was one road, though, were the crossing was red but the traffic had stopped. I needed to cross but hesitated. When it turned green I started crossing, but now cars were turning towards me as if the lights were out of phase. It's a dilemma: keep to the rules or judge safety by what is or not approaching. Generally motorists allow for this.

I stopped at Aldi for the requisite vodka. The assistant said guten targ. I always feel there's no point greeting in the native language if you're not able to continue in it. With his hipster beard he looked in any case like the type who could speak good English.

Anyway a sense of relief to get back safely to the hotel ready to start on the drink. Well, I was hoping for further relief that night. Before that – as it was only about 3 or 4pm local – a chance to get some sleep. Had a few units of vodka but it still took a while to drift off but was surprised to have managed almost two hours. I often find taking more than a ten minute nap in the day not the best for mental sharpness, unless – as in this case – I was feeling totally knackered and not fit to have been out anywhere. Well, I was never expecting to be mentally sharp that night, given the level of drinking I was embarking on but there's drunk and there's stupidly blind drunk – and I've made the mistake of being the latter too many times.

The Sex

I got the S-bahn to Köln Nippes (yes I did misspell it as nipples in my mind), the nearest station to the place I had most anticipated.

Pascha is a big club, which includes (well, let's be honest) a brothel. But I made the mistake of going up to the main kiosk, and being told it would be 25 euros! Even clubs in UK south charge nothing like that, especially before the weekend, though I think she said it includes drinks. But I told here I needed the other (adjacent) club, to which she indicated – wearily. I was too drunk to feel embarrassed though. I wonder how many men of my age anyway would chance their luck at one of Germany's most notorious nightclubs. Possibly there might have been some novelty value of being a Brit on holiday. Anyway, no point wasting time on counter-factuals ... although I often do.

The fact of that night: I was feeling a bit desperate, and in this building was the chance for easy convenient sex. The girl I approached I hardly remembered the look of, vaguely like the previous one – a fantasy shape naturally (and perhaps they were natural), somewhere in her twenties perhaps. She spoke good English; not sure whether her interest in where in Britain I'm from was genuine or just a way of making conversation.

But soon down to business, she told me 100euros for an hour or €50 for twenty minutes. I assured her it was unlikely to last even that long. And the sex, I have to admit, was over fairly soon – after she did some vigorous work with her hand and mouth. Try to relax, I thought, as she got astride me. But I knew, as she encouraged me to touch her breasts, it would be over within a minute. She even commented that the drink must have affected me. At least it must have been very easy for her. Nowadays that is something that matters more than even my enjoyment, at least better than if they are uncomfortable for the sake of my pleasure. I thought about returning, I think I even suggested it after what seemed like a failure. Sometimes, though, it would be nice to go with someone I feel at ease with – as in familiar with their personality as well as their body, and not feel I may just be inadequate. I mean, none of those desirable young women are likely to desire me ... although as I have my quirks of attraction maybe they do too.

Cologne in a warm sunny June is invariably going to seem like a fine place to holiday – and so the 5mile/7km walk to my next hotel in Marsdorf, despite being loaded with luggage, was pleasant. I sensed the serenity of others. Even motorists were careful to slow near pedestrian areas. This felt like such a contrast to the freneticism of neighboring Düsseldorf – though that was well into the autumn.

And so I continued on, along the canal paths and peripheral tree-lined routes, stopping at a bench. There were two close together with few people passing so it didn't occur to me that anybody would want to sit on one. But as I got up to leave, a woman stopped, off her bike, to sit on the adjacent bench. I was listening to music on earbuds so wasn't sure I heard her say hello to me. But anyway said hello to her and she responded in kind. Well, as I'd already got up to leave I did the predictable thing and kept to that plan. So had I missed the one opportunity to meet my ideal partner? That's the question that stuck with me, just the vague possibility that I had. Assuming she was German there might have been a language barrier. I've got passed the stage where small talk – especially when it is limited by the language barrier – serves any use. No, if I'd been bold enough (aided by a good amount of my leftover vodka) maybe I'd have cut to the chase. After all it was fairly obvious I'm single, with all my luggage. She seemed about my age or a bit younger. And here I am typing this (first draft) in my hotel with its twin bed, wondering if I could have dared to tell her where I'd be staying, give her my phone number. Could I have chanced she'd have been that desperately in need of someone? Would I have seemed desperate or just so smitten that I'd be prepared to risk a knock-back? I'm not the gambling type – I don't believe in trying my luck such as it often seems lacking. And yet sometimes it feels there is such a thing as fate that deals a useful hand. Now rapidly approaching middle age, I don't feel these opportunities will in future be so forthcoming. So: what if? Always the question, isn't it, that bugs most of us; that lack of courage, of decisiveness. I should have got passed the fear of embarrassment by this stage of my life. People think there is a way to game the odds by using dating sites/apps, but my fear has always been the check-list credential comparisons, subject to which I'd fall short, I feel. Maybe that's just my cynical outsider view. I'm sure most women, like men, have ideals but are prepared to compromise. After all, isn't that what deep and meaningful relationships are about? Well perhaps I'm not really qualified to answer such a question.

That evening I had considered visiting Pascha again, had all the travel info, but I just didn't have the will. It was as if all the sex had been drained out of me the previous night more deeply than usual. And yet I felt, I think, happy, it had been a good day.

Final day, the weather was sunny, just bordering on hot. Way too early just to head back to the airport.

I stepped off a tram – the only way to get back from Marsdorf – at Köln Lindenthal Melaten. I didn't actually plan or know that it was a cemetery until stepping through an opened gate. There a network of paths leading through grand iconographically religious graves, rich in flowers bordered profusely with trees. It was almost overwhelming. The beauty, the serenity – for the grieving, for the dead, but maybe more than just by design.

I was completely sober at the time. Had I been drinking, maybe it would have all been too much. It felt like something profound was trying to break through to my slightly hungover psyche, and I thought if I let it I would just break down. Only the sporadic presence of other people – visitors and grounds staff – kept me on an even keel, it seemed.

Stepping out onto a main street surrounded by students brought me back to a normal state of vigilance. Had to find somewhere for lunch, so I went back through the park I'd become familiar with. It was crowded. When I found a metal picnic bench it was too near a path – a feeling of being noticed as the loner.

Eventually found a similar bench near an empty playground. Lots of people nearby, a gathering of five or more who seemed more my age. I started on the leftover vodka, listened to an Unexplained podcast, hearing about phenomena most people have hardly time to consider but enough time to dismiss.

More relaxed now I could head back to the station. It still felt too early. Evening flights are cheaper, but it always feels like there's so much time to kill. I never understand why most holiday travellers drag along those wheelie cases. Surely they must be restrictive. Or is there somewhere safe they leave them on that final day?

At Cologne (Köln Bonn) airport I predictably set off their version of a body-scanner, more of an arch than a chamber. This time I was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt; hardly anything metal other than a zip and button (although it could be the alien implant). Still the guy there didn't bother with the full pat-down.

Once through I didn't think I had a whole lot of time, and started to hurry to the gate. I needn't have worried. A storm was forecast to approach. And about twenty minutes before the the flight was due to depart, the first flash of lightning. People had already been standing in line. Then came the delay announcements. Then came the thunder. These departure areas well soundproofed for obvious reasons, but when the storm came overhead, it was loud enough, near after the flashes of forked lightning to know that this was a serious storm. No time was given for estimated departure. People began to disperse. The storm was right overhead, with no sign of moving away. I imagined someone joking: "Is this divine punishment for one of us who has sinned?" The mind wanders with so much time. Ever waited for an indefinitely delayed flight? You feel like your sanity is becoming increasingly fragile.

Away after nearly 3hours delay, the relief and even happiness of other passengers was palpable. Except I was faced with the sobering prospect of a long and difficult journey home. There were more delays, disruptions. To be honest, I really felt I was losing it by the time I got back to London. But I made it home eventually.

On reflection, it was a holiday I will remember fondly. I'm sure one day I'd be tempted to go back. But perhaps I should resist that temptation.

Stuttgart

Stuttgart is not the cheapest city to stay in Germany. Yet it has so much to offer, something I did not fully appreciate on my first visit two years earlier. Firstly, the walk in mid November. Although the trees had variously lost their flame and yellow leaves there was still enough of the wondrous majesty of a seemingly endless forest. The weather was perfect, at least for one day. Passed a number of people, either walking alone, in a couple, some joggers. No dog walkers (which makes a nice change from the UK). Never quite sure if I should say hello/ guten targ. The few times I did it was barely a mumble. There's no reason why these passing encounters should be awkward, but many of them were. I always am listening to something, in this case it was 5live streamed – as I find it difficult to break links with my home country; comforting when you're alone, even though the discussion was mostly centred around Brexit (that nagging and seemingly unresolvable issue of 2018). Well, it's no surprise that German 4G is exemplary even deep in the woods.

I kept going for miles and miles until eventually I reached some arbitrary point (at the bottom of a hill) where I decided it was time to turn back. Afterwards it seems ridiculous not to have kept some track of my distance. But this is something I never do. Maybe to know will only make me feel more tired.

Had to think about the following night. The following night was when it was going to happen. I had to keep something in the tank. Did not want to feel like last time, where I was just too knackered. Stopped off at Aldi for essential supplies, including a 70cl bottle of my usual, trying not to care about the mature woman cashier's probable disapproval. Fact is, I don't hope for a warm greeting at these budget places;the staff are surely not paid enough to be friendly.

The night didn't go quite to plan...

Too much to drink in too short a time. I made it to the correct station, Echterdingen, but somehow did not get to the place – the club until it was too late and they had locked up. My navigation is never good at the best of times, but even my phone failed me (or I failed it).

Next and final day. It was grey and a few degrees below average for November. Had almost half the bottle of vodka left – and a lot of time to kill as my flight wasn't due to leave for another 9 hours. But, despite in need of a balm to my hungover nerves, was determined to resist drinking it before lunch. So, at only around 11am I explored the north part, then the main town. There's a huge park with so many paths and benches. There were also a lot of joggers, more than half of them female, and many seemed to pass very near to me. I tried not to notice, but it was almost impossible not to. Spandex is very popular, and these fit young women wore it extremely well. To be honest I was finding walking increasingly difficult. It was in any case time for lunch. The first bench was in an alcove adjoined to a trail, but there passed more runners. No, had to get well out of the way. And so I found an unoccupied bench opposite a pond. It was cold so not many people wanted to be static for long.

At last made a start on the vodka, felt the warm glow fill me. Ate a large bag of chip sticks and cereal bar. The world now seemed like a far more inviting place than a hour ago, full of so much potential. I only had one plan for that afternoon.

It was a simple train journey – the stop before the airport. The Paradise club, though large, is more hidden (for obvious reasons) in an industrial area. Although the huge lettered facade ensures it can be found even by a drunkard such as me.

Even fairly well intoxicated I was nervous. Still I forged on, and entered. There was a girl – clearly a sex worker – who barely acknowledged me. When I spoke, she told that someone would see me at reception (where I stood). The woman who returned to her post, asked if I wanted to stay for the day, but I said I was only there for a short visit. She took 30euros just for admittance. A free glass of coke was included, (though perhaps I would have benefited more with that other variety of coke, maybe just that once). Anyway I was given a drink, and told to wait, and for some reason there sat on the same couch what I thought another client. Maybe he was a member of staff, but typically with an equanimity as I imaged of a German who frequented. We said so few word and fortunately the girls arrived very soon.

Yes, there were four or maybe five – in my state I don't remember exactly how many – stood before me naked. I was utterly overwhelmed! They were all gorgeous, and I had to choose between them. There was the typical tall, curvy blonde; a brunette; dark skinned (or black – as I guess she would consider herself to be). Possibly another blonde and another brunette, but my memory of those is hazy. This was never going to be easy. And so I probably fell into the trap most clients do when presented with such a choice. I opted for the tall curvy blonde, who spoke most to me (I think she was the one who asked me to choose) it was a decision I slightly regret, but then maybe when given such a rare opportunity of choices you wonder what the others would have been like.

Anyway she told me to wait, so I did, drinking my coke and not really talking to the bloke sitting adjacent. When she did reappear, she didn't approach me but was some way off to the side (nearest the other bloke), and being short-sighted I wasn't sure if she meant me when she said "come on then." without even catching my eye. But it was like I was in a kind of shock at being in this situation. So she repeated, "come on!" And I felt foolish for not realising immediately, and hurried over to her.

There was the delicate matter of money to discuss, which could only be done in the room. Another €50 for full sex. For a hundred I could be kissing her (I think what's known as the full girlfriend experience). But I only had €60 and was not prepared to use my card. So she first got herself prepared by using lube. It's not the best thing to see, I've never seen anyone use it, hardly suggesting she was in the mood. Not that I was really expecting her to be feeling aroused; it was after all an artificial situation; even I had to be be help – and she did so by using her hand and mouth. I told her to stop when I thought things were getting too near the conclusion. And as it turned out things had. I just got inside her before climaxing. Frankfurt all over again! Maybe I should have closed my eyes. Perhaps for me daytime is not the best time for stamina. Fact is, it's more difficult to relax. In late evening I would often be too drunk or tired to be tense.

So I do regret not getting there before closing time the night before. Also, there was a feeling of being manipulated and ever so slightly conned, though this purely could be my imagination.

The journey back was one of the most hassle-free. I really got to like Stuttgart airport. None of the freneticism of most others I've experienced. You can sit on an outside terrace and watch the planes. Even on a cold November evening it's a nice relief from the interminable waiting inside the terminal. But if you do get cold there's a sealed off glass shelter complete with vending machines and charge points (when there never seems to be enough elsewhere).

So would I visit there again? I certainly wouldn't rule it out.

* * *

Second chance at Paradise

Stuttgart was a place I had to revisit for a number of reasons. Not least the vast forests that stretch for 10s of kms. It is always tempting to walk too far just to see what the next section brings. So many paths that branch off. I failed, though, to find my route from last year where the colours were stunning! This year I arrived two weeks earlier in the season. The best time I think is early November. But with the fear of crashing out of the EU on Oct31 I booked for those last few days before. Weather was OK, mostly cloudy. One thing that struck me: the absence of any wild animals, not a single bird. A strange subdued atmosphere, calm, that can become quite eerie when the light fades. Still quite a few people about, some with dogs. More cyclists than before, causing a tinge of envy – you can get a sense of unlimited trails but of little progression, and occasionally the monotony. So I decided to try the narrow cross trails. Even along those you can encounter a mountainbiker, but I ended up on the more extreme gradients – and really felt the burn in my calves. Found myself on a wooded hill with no trail visible except on my phone map, thinking how without that I'd be starting to panic. Eventually I ended up near a station. So it may well have seemed logical to take a train back. But no, that would just have felt like a failure. I'd gotten into that mindset of seeing a way to navigate back. And back on the main path felt good, what makes using a GPS map enjoyable. Only: the hills, they take their toll!

Finally, in the hotel. That sense of relief and accomplishment. But my legs were near gone. And this wasn't good news for my night-time plans.

Determined to get some

That night, the final night, I'd set myself the goal of returning to Paradise, hoping to get the full girlfriend experience. It was a simple objective; what could possibly go wrong?

At the ready was my usual bottle of vodka. I drank and I drank, and for some reason I didn't observe how much I had been drinking; just kept pouring it into a small glass. Then at some point I slumped into unconsciousness. Woke up at 22:20. Too late to be admitted into paradise. Damn. Fell back asleep, woke again at 05:00. Puked in the toilet. Then felt better, but realised I'd missed possibly my last chance for Paradise on Earth. I obsessed over what could have been, making out with a gorgeous young woman. It would cost all the money I had: 130 euros. Maybe I'd put myself under too much pressure. Maybe, given the huge expectation, it would have been a disappointment. Maybe kissing was just too intimate when there's no genuine affection; it could only ever be an acting performance to her, and so maybe even to me seem fake. I still had worries about being a failure even when it's of no consequence to the other person.

I felt like I'd had enough sleep. Felt determined I wasn't going to leave without getting some. The problem was I had to be at the airport by 11:30. So I searched out the area near my hotel. And there were a couple of establishments opening at 10:00 not far from Stadmitte.

I tried for the Eros centre, but couldn't get a response (it was only just 10) so I walked round the block and passed what looked like a bar, out of which emerge a large black (or mixed race) woman who encouraged me to enter. At this point it seemed my options were limited. I didn't know quite what to expect – was she some kind of brothel madam, a hostess who was going to introduce me to younger women. She to me seemed to be well in forties. She offered me a drink. And I soon discovered she was the only person on offer. But I decided to go with her, which wasn't such a bad thing. After all, at that stage I not sure I could have handled a young hottie. Memories of my last time in Paradise, or the Berlin failure where just the sight of those young women made the anticipation too great.

This woman presented me her breasts; they were large and full and undoubtedly fake but felt ok. I could tell she was trying to fleece me for every bit of money, and kept asking me for more. She eventually got 65euros – what I had left in my wallet. Not the best value for sure but I had a lot of them unspent in my luggage. It was half of what I could have spent in Paradise.

She finished me off with her hand, and it was very good. I experienced a true expert. But I'd missed out on a chance of the girlfriend experience because of my careless drinking. But I wondered if I really could have gone through with it.
Barcelona!

For all it cost, this was one holiday with a truly happy ending!

The gradual descent over the Pyrenees was something to behold. Still, even though I had a window seat, it turned out the other side had the best view (according to the pilot). Anyway the flight from Gatwick at under £50 seemed like a bargain. Pressure-based earache, though, distracted me on the final descent – maybe too steep. Then the inevitable infant expressing its suffering. The kid had my sympathy!

As often, at the airport my ears had that flu bunged-up feeling, and curious popping. Then my typical mild disorientation, having to really make an effort on focusing where I'm getting. Passport control has an automated option, but curiously a fingerprint sensor, which, on reflection, is slightly concerning. My fingerprints have never been stored anywhere except my phone, and now do the Spanish authorities possess it? It was taken again at near gate. Maybe this explained why so many people opted for a human checker.

Finding the train station wasn't really a problem (certainly nothing like the questing journey in Madrid Barajas). A relatively short journey to Bar Sants. The city centre is reasonably easy to navigate but I've got so much in the habit of using my phone even to find a hotel that's a 5 minute walk. Being near and at a budget will always feel like a comprise: small single room, in darkness until I found the slot for the key card (how they stop people wasting power). Hardly bothered with the invariably no-English TV. But free wifi felt like the saviour of my sanity. Even if you don't have BBC Sounds there's a world radio app (on android so not quite sure of its legality) that surely covers all your radio needs.

The first day often that feeling of trepidation – that if I make a plan it will go wrong. (Well, I always make a plan for the night, but more of that later.) Estacio de Franka: the obvious tourist destination. What could be simpler? I had my train map, so hardly needed to bother with the info at the station. Nicely numbered and colour-coded. Simple? No. Somehow I'd missed the display giving the platform number and instead went with corresponding R2, dark green. But none went there, and so I had a dilemma: do I risk exiting and losing my ticket or hope I can get off at a near station. Eventually I risked, and managed to get through the correct platform barrier. I often think there's some logic that's obvious to the locals and that somehow I'd missed. But actually I was make an even more grievous error the following morning.

But this day I got to Estacio de Franca, and in the sun it's a lovely district – a circuitous park, stunning architecture amid trees in blossom. Abundant art installations that don't have to mean anything beyond their aesthetic appeal. And people soaking up the joys of spring, making me wish I could too.

Barcelona is a city steeped in culture. Or maybe many. Not one I can fully grasp. Still, the night-time was sure to offer a different understanding.

Despite the number of road crossings I was determined to get to the coast. Even in late March it seemed very tourist heavy. I began to feel self-conscious and slightly overdressed in trousers, casual, bordering on smart and long sleeve top even though the temp was no more than 18c, and most others were in long sleeves. I'm reluctant to reduce to T-shirt level unless it goes above 20c. But the sun made it feel more like UK summer. The beach was everything I could expect, soft sand bordered by palm trees and a gentle lapping white-frothed dark blue sea. But there was no way I was venturing onto it. Most of the people looked under thirty, one on his own taking a selfie; something i'd never do. (I wish the selfie camera was an optional extra rather than feeling that, because it's there, I should use it.) Others, I guess locals, wearing clothes that seemed too warm for a Brit.

Train back to Barcelona Sants; too early, really, for the hotel. But it turned out there was a problem with my ticket: the barrier machine rejected it. I only wanted to exit; I had a valid return ticket. A staff member told me I was supposed to stamp it at the destination! Stamp it where exactly – what machine? I was so irritated I didn't even bother to ask, though she did seem surprised I was able to exit at de Franka. I'm sure there's no puzzle at all for the regular traveller, but given this is a popular tourist area you shouldn't have to figure out those quirks. UK stations only use ticket/barrier systems, the occasional inspector, and only one type of automated ticket vendor. So Britain's system is not fare-dodge proof but at least it's less likely to leave the foreign traveller irritated, and thus more likely to return.

Finally, she told me, "So you'll remember to stamp it next time."

Me: "There won't be a next time!" Which I had meant at that moment. And it gave me a mild jolt of pleasure to see her dismay – whether or not it was genuine.

Shaking off my irritation, I had to think of the shopping mission, which involved a 2km walk to Lidl for something strong to drink. OK, _mission_ sounds hyperbolic; it should be simple, but it wasn't quite, not helped by a misleading offline map. It takes me a while to get used to crossing roads where motorists feel that stopping at a green crossing is not mandatory. I'd fear the driver with dark obsessive thoughts just as much as the distracted. The shop is far enough away from the tourist hub that staff are never going to bother speaking English – if they were able, but normally that isn't a problem, until they are trying to tell you to do something (such as "can you move along so I can put the barrier across"). Spirits are so much cheaper than in the UK it seems like a no-brainer. We get to pay majority sin tax, which actually feels someway absolving. Never mind that it might one day kill me. My ideal checkout cashier is someone who's disinterested enough in their job not to care that I'm a Brit alone wanting to get through a bottle of vodka.

Back in the hotel I contemplated the night ahead...

That night didn't go well. I knew Badal was the metro stop I needed but somehow couldn't get on the correct side for that direction. I had a vague memory of vaulting a ticket barrier when it wouldn't accept my ticket, which left me with a curious feeling of shame and pride (cos I'd never thought I'd have the confidence or the athletic ability). Got to Apricots eventually but was 10euros short at the establishment, not taking my wallet, just in case, but hoped I could negotiate. No chance. Anyway, after almost 2/3 of a 70cl bottle of vodka, I was possibly too drunk.

So another day to get through. One where I was tired and hungover. Still, what could possibly go wrong?

I planned just to get to a park, about 3km walk – if that. No trains but to get to the north side of the line, thought I might as well go through the station on to the boulevard. What could be simpler? But as I walked through I noticed a group heading towards what looked like it could have been a exit: I could see daylight through the other end. But as a followed, the group turned off to some kind of kiosk leading below. I was within a cordoned off corridor. Then I realised there was no exit and no way to turn off. And as accepted I'd have to turn back, just to compound my embarrassment I got barracked by a burly guard speaking in Spanish, though _comprender_ is fairly universally understood. All that because the thought of passing through a crowded station was suddenly too much that morning.

There comes a point where you think: _I've already embarrassed myself to the extent where it can't get any worse._ There is an sense of resignation in that thought but also a curious liberation. I think there's a drinking term that also describes it: breaking the seal, though in this case _the seal_ is what protects my dignity. So thereafter I got to the park, then carried on higher and higher. Just stopping short of the mountainous part. A long walk back but no sense of fatigue. Maybe the warm sun helped.

Back at the hotel, I drank an energy drink, exercised my upper body a bit, listened to some radio. At this point I wasn't really in the mood for revisiting the establishment. But then there was a knock at my door. It was the maid. She looked somewhat embarrassed – and also very attractive: late 20s very dark skin. My heart sped, wondered: _what if I'd just got out of the shower?_... Thoughts racing. Not that anything was ever likely to happen, or indeed should, that would surely be exploiting a power dynamic. They remain only fantasy figures. Yet it was an unusual time at around 4pm. Still, she'd gone.

Eventually I drifted off into a doze.

Finally I resolved to get out. A couple of hours earlier than the night before and noticeably less drunk. I hadn't planned to use the metro after it went wrong previous night, but as I'd already broken the dignity seal I could risk it. And the journey went reasonably smoothly. I got to the right station, though only after getting off the first one in the wrong direction where I could cross to an adjacent platform. Again, something obvious I must have missed.

The Sex – finally!

Got to Apricots in a strangely calm state. Any nervousness, along with my dignity seemed to have long since evaporated. And so I entered. A woman greeted, thankfully not the tall 40-something of the night before but shorter, Latino. She told me to wait in a room, and that I should pay the sex worker directly. Shortly after a girl entered, kissed me on the cheek and told me her name. Then another, and another – one short curvy blonde, tall, brunette. Another tall black. And there were other I don't even remember.

The madam re-entered and asked me which girl I preferred. I could not remember the name of any of them but I said I preferred the black girl. Only the woman didn't seemed to understand me but instead ran through the description of each. She mentioned the brunette, and since my last two were blonde I opted for her. Her name (I think) was Svetlana. She was not the best looking I have ever been with, perhaps one of the least physically attractive, although that's compared to some gorgeous young women. I noticed she had smooth skin; that counts for a lot at my age. And I made it clear I was pleased to see her. I was given the option to pay €70 for half an hour, which I assured her was more than enough time. She told she'd get ready. I got undressed; she seemed surprised at my apparent eagerness. We then went into the shower. We touched each other. She stroked mine and made complimentary remarks about it and the rest of my body (which may well have been part of the general spiel to get me in the mood). I was feeling aroused but relaxed, and actually glad she didn't resemble any of the typically pneumatic babe types I'd been with before. Things might have ended prematurely in that shower.

On the bed she took me in her mouth – without a condom! It felt great, of course, but I decided I didn't want it to end in that way. Perhaps I am a little on the conservative side. So I told I wanted conventional sex. At that request she reacted with surprise, and had to go away to get a condom. Surprising they weren't there in the room. She returned after a minute, slipped it on, and got astride me. The sex was actually the best I'd had in some while. It was a gentle all-encompassing pleasure. Perhaps being less drunk than most times I had more sensation. Or maybe she'd perfected her pelvic muscle contraction. Even though I was more relaxed than most other times it didn't take long. I remember how satisfying it felt to come inside her; like the solution to all my worries. Afterwards there was still at least 10 minutes remaining. We just lay on the bed, naked, with her stroking me. She asked my age, and I thought revealing that would put her off, she certainly seemed surprised, but only wanted to know more about my life, whether I'm single, what I do. I told her I'm a writer. I've never said that to anyone, it sounds somehow pretentious, but my brain wasn't working well enough come up with some banal cover story, one that wouldn't get her only more intrigued. In my state she could have got all my secrets! Somehow we got into a discussion about Brexit, though it was more out of her interest in whether she would need a visa to visit the UK. Well, at the time of writing this the UK's future relationship with the Europe is highly uncertain.

The next day, the journey back, I tried not to think that my adventures in Europe could be over. That one memorable night had left me thinking I had to go back for more. One day surely the temptation would be too great. And I was sure to succumb.

Hot in Dusseldorf!

Düsseldorf was hot. The kind of heat you have to submit to or it can drive you crazy. For me it nearly did.

Another record-breaking summer in Europe. This was climate change in action. I tried to offset my carbon when booking the flight and buying travel insurance. Well, it's only an hour by plane from Stansted to Weeze, but until there is a decent rail link there's no other option. Not the main airport – Weeze is tiny and it's a long way from the city centre, about 80km. It hadn't occurred to me there'd be two but Düsseldorf Weeze has a good train link and the airport was generally less aggravating than Düsseldorf international.

It did start well. I even got a free train journey, offered by a student I met at the airport who said she'd include me on her pass – which covered the replacement [for the bus] taxi. I must admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed, not only by her kindness but also her preternatural attractiveness (that is, not just physically). She was though with a man also in his early twenties, and there was another young traveller she made the same offer to. Not that I would ever have had a chance with her under any circumstance. Even in my dream she was completely unobtainable. Rightfully. I would have thought had I been her age on meeting her, I'd have been totally tongue-tied, but here I was talking about the heatwave and discussing Euro travelling. When she removed the band and shook her blonde hair free I felt myself go weak at the knees. In her short denim shorts and vest she must have known the effect she had on men. But being such a warm night there seemed nothing inappropriate in that. I think there is something about the heat that intensifies feelings.

After an awkward parting, I made it to the hotel. Late check-in was ok: pick the key – actually a contactless fob – out of a safe, to open doors. It's the future!

Next day a long walk in the heat through wide trailed woods. Good to shelter under the canopy of trees. What a contrast the weather made from last time.

For company I was listening to radio 5live streamed; a comedienne describing her new book about sex, how women's bodies (usually young) are potentially on constant sexual display, since it maximises their chances to attract the highest number of partners and prospective fathers. Thus the shape of their bottoms must present a challenge for men to control their urges, which she claimed to have been a revelation (yet a while ago I have seen her showing off her glorious body in PVC trousers on a travel show). She also questioned why men visit sex workers but without interviewing any of their clients. I hereby invite her to interview me, or at least read this book.

A woman runner passed me. And very soon I heard her gasping for breath and groaning. Turned round to see her doubled over. She sounded in a desperate state. I was surprised not least because she looked like a professional athlete. Yet there was no way I could have ignored her. But when I asked her if she was all right suddenly she stood up straight, a slight look of surprise. After a few words of German she was very much 'I'm fine.' I offered her a drink but she assured me she was very near her friend who had a drink. The incident left me bemused. It seemed as if she had been exaggerating her state of exhaustion, that she wanted to catch my attention. But then once she got a good view of me – or at least knew I'm not German – had second thoughts. I felt embarrassed afterwards and took an alternative path and waited out on a bench. A troubling thought then: the situation could have been construed that I was trying to take advantage of her. Approaching a lone woman on an isolated path is not something I'd normally do. But if I hadn't I'd have felt bad. The heat has strange effects.

Left it respectably late to buy my usual in Lidl. Then finally back to the hotel – a relief! The room was way too warm so I took a cool shower. Started drinking the booze from about 5:30, and eating, possibly too much of either. Large packets of snacks not designed for one person.

Then something happened that left me shocked and disturbed. Not so much that I fell asleep. It was more a total dreamless unconsciousness. I'd got through two thirds of the bottle, and it seemed as a result knocked myself out. I don't remember anything after about 7pm. Woke up at around 3am. I'd lost a night – as if the time had never existed. What would have been a very important night. I wondered: was it too late? Maybe I should have wondered: could I have died? I did wonder: could that be what it's like to be dead? Pointless thoughts. Dark thoughts. Nothing else but to go back to sleep and hope I can make up for my lost night.

Next morning I felt surprisingly not hungover, probably because I hadn't yet sobered up. Not too late, I assured myself, to achieve what I'd set to last night. Still had a third of vodka left and at least 4 hours before I need to get to the airport.

I found a park to sit, drink my heady cocktail. Was finding it difficult though – not enough mixer. I'd watch in awe at someone downing that stuff neat. Eleven am is not my usual drinking time, but on holiday I live by a different morality (in case you hadn't guessed). Anyway I was conscious of looking like a drunkard ni area with kids not far.

Not enough booze to make me feel drunk. And now some it had warn off from last night, letting in a creeping anxiety. There was in mind the memory of how badly daytime encounters can go. That said in the heat of last night there may well have been a line of men waiting for those women. Surely at this time I could have my pick.

### The sex part

The place is called Bahndamm. At the end of Industriestrass, It's just south of the station following the rail line. Nearly there I caught sight of a south American woman who might have been at least forty, but she looked amazing in her pale yellow leggings. I was starting to feel desperate at this point. Maybe she worked at that establishment. Or someone similar.

Once there I was surprised. Even at that time there were a couple of men trying to catch the eye of the women. One caught my eye: she was dark skinned, and even with my poor long sight clearly over forty. I did manage to catch the eye of a couple of others in their apartments. You are supposed to remember the number and it helps to know the floor. I only remember one number: the dark middle aged woman.

I went up flight after flight. At one point I passed a door that read Brazil, and thought of knocking. But if it was someone available she'd have her door opened, I reasoned. So I kept going, and someone ended up in the welcoming presence of the dark middle aged lady. I was surprised at how old she seemed, over 50 by the lines on face. Maybe a hard life had aged her. I was having second thoughts; she couldn't even speak English. I was starting to feel like I had made a mistake. But she did everything to keep me there. Well, I felt obliged to stay with her. At least by comparison I felt young. She was doing everything to get me excited; squeezing my crotch in my underpants. It was working. Even though I'd had a shower just before leaving the hotel, she insisted on washing it, saying she always washes them. I asked her where she was from, she told me Puerto Rico.

She presented me with her breasts. Large but they felt natural. For a woman probably well into her 50s she had a remarkable body, that South American curvaceousness. It didn't take much to get me hard. And once she slipped it on she took me in her mouth. I tried to relax but the sensation was so intense I was reaching the point of no return. I tried to stop her, and thought maybe just in time. Just needed to cool off. I had a drink. She resumed, put me inside her. But it wasn't working. She used a device on me that encompasses it with vibration, but even clearly at full power it was not getting it hard. I suggested I needed half an hour, but there was no question of waiting there. It didn't seem like i'd got my 50euros worth. Well, that's the risk you take. The night before I would have been too drunk; that morning perhaps not relaxed enough. But what was worse that for all her skills she failed to satisfy me. Yet I was one who felt like a failure. So why, you may wonder, did I choose her when there were surely younger and better looking choices. Perhaps it was seeing that woman in her stretch leggings shortly before. I think it's what magicians/mentalists call priming. I wasn't consciously thinking of that woman but maybe I was being subliminally influenced in my choice..

The journey back

On reflection I wondered: could I have returned an hour later? Two hours later as I stepped off the train, a young South American woman walked in front of me in tight white jeans. I wished I'd looked away; it was almost unbearable! Maybe partly the heat, maybe pheromones. I've wondered if there is such a thing as the human mating season; it was as if I was 20 again, hormones raging. If only I could have been back at Bahndamm, even for the middle aged sex worker.

After waiting for an airport bus that never arrived I decided to walk the 6 or so kilometres. I thought if nothing else that would be a good way to aleviate my frustrations. But I got there not feeling remotely tired. The waiting area of the airport was not remotely crowded; there were so many places I could have sat. I chose one seat on a row in front of the window. I noticed a South America girl, probably around 20yrs, approach me. It happened I was sitting in front of a power socket. Maybe it was because I hadn't sobered and had headphones in that I hadn't initially realised she'd plugged her phone in. As she walked away I remember giving a mild groan. The thin cotton dress she wore clung to her body in a way that seemed to defy physics. If I was around her age and single I wonder what humiliation I would endure to win her affection. Even in magazines on anywhere I've looked online I don't think I've seen such perfect bodies. In one sense this was torture. She returned to the row of seats and sat a little way along from me talking into another phone. Now I'd finished my drinks, I knew I should get up, go through security. But I had to – how shall I put it – allow things to settle. It wasn't easy.

At least I got on the flight without incident. There was yet another South American woman seated along from me. She may have been at least forty, a bit overweight, but if she'd shown even a modicum interest in me I'd have been delighted.

Eventually the drink wore off. The plane may have landed smoothly but mentally I had now crashed. Even getting to the epassport channel had become a challenge, notwithstanding the lack of decent signage – they seem to assume the passengers to be alert and have good peripheral vision. After that embarrassment it felt I'd really come back down to earth with a bump.

I now feel I truly understand the phrase _holiday madness_.

Rotterdam & Amsterdam – finally!

After four years of my Euro sin city adventures, I had to finally take the plunge and head for the most notorious of them all. The last time I visited the Netherlands (officially there is no longer a country called Holland) was as a child on a school trip, where the only thing I cared about were the pedal karts; and the memory of strange slow-thrumming music emanating from some Bohemian den. Now my mind was clearly focused on the one thing most single men would be on visiting Amsterdam. But that, I had previously been savvy enough to realise, was the one reason I should not go. But the completist in me gave in to the temptation. I mean, could it really be as tacky and tawdry as I imagined or had it become more gentrified, maybe like Ghent. Either way, I knew it was going to be crowded. But this was February mid week so surely would be quieter.

Rotterdam central is within easy reach by Eurostar. The advantage of rail – other than the carbon saving – is you can take a comfortable amount of luggage, not have to spend hours or days refining your choice down to what that just-flight-legal cabin bag will hold without breaking its zip. In February I'd really struggle with that for a three nighter.

Had an embarrassing incident at the St Pancras terminal after I'd forgotten to zip my bag's back pocket. Travel passes and a spare phone fell out seemingly just after I'd walked the few metres to the queue with it on my back, I only realised when other passengers had picked them up. I must have been distracted by the surprise announcement, and lost in some discussion on streamed radio.

Embarrassed at my carelessness, I decided part of the problem was with my cheap eBay bag – I now would always associate with that embarrassing incident, so decided to buy a new one. Spent half an hour or so looking through sports discount store rucksacks. Well, it passed some of the time. After dark, the journey really dragged. No sense of the 200+km speed cross country. Still, one train journey from London to the Rotterdam central can't be bad.

Only one night in Rotterdam before moving on to the capital. Glad to arrive late enough I wouldn't feel the need to go out again since that meant notifying the hotel proprietor on return. How different from the capital!

Next day it was chilly, breezy, and not much sun; the kind of coldness just enough to be uncomfortable in the one jacket not too warm to wear inside a station. Hours before my bus was due. Much cheaper than train if you book in advance. Relieved to get out of the cold rain. Then at the destination I climbed out and made for the luggage area of the bus, and could not understand why it was closed. No one else taking their luggage. Then opened and shown to me it was empty. I was baffled, until he pointed out my bag was behind me. But how had I not noticed it? Surely it hadn't been there the whole time? I know my peripheral vision is not the best (I've passed by a friend on the street completely unrecognising more than once). But to not see it at all. Still baffles me. It was as if this luggage bag had developed some power to make me seem foolish beyond its cheap appearance. My dislike of it became hatred. It was definitely going get dumped for another.

The budget XO hotel turned out to be impressive, other than its dimensions. Though it was away from the city centre. I could have upgraded to a double for under 2euros but that somehow seemed unnecessary. The room itself was impressively well-equipped with tech, for a 3star: a coffee machine, huge TV and luxury shower.

That evening I searched for a Lidl, hoping to find some cheap vodka. But nothing more than beer. Carrying basic supplies I headed back, still hoping to find an off-licence near the hotel as most shops were closing before 7. I ended up in a 'night shop'. The cheapest bottle of 70cl was 21euros! Normally a discount supermarket in Belgium or Germany would sell the same for no more than €9. It had to be tax. I'm happy to pay loads of duty on spirits in the UK, but on holiday it leaves me feeling exploited. Nevertheless I bought it. I drank nearly a third that night.

That night I took a train into the notorious city centre. After drinking over a third of the vodka it seemed like a good idea. But it was getting late, approaching nine. The old town was crowded despite it being a cold winter Tuesday night. Somehow the red light district eluded me. But that night was, you might call it, a dry run, though I was there too long given my ticket only lasted an hour. No choice, it seemed, but to walk the entire 5km journey back. This is when you are glad of the alcohol in your system.

Second morning in Amsterdam, slightly hungover and tired-legged I set out to buy my new luggage bag. Train fares are way simpler than most other countries, not least the UK. I got one ticket that lasted 24hrs for 8euros. Amsterdam Noord Park first, where I went for a walk, yes, around the park. With the sun it felt pleasant to eat my grated cheese sandwich and cereal bar.

On to Noord town. I headed for a Decathlon store and picked up the rucksack I'd thoroughly perused online. I think I'd had a quick check of the zips before taking it to the counter to pay in cash, rather than self service. There was a queue so I had a look around and picked up a cheap bottle. Another embarrassing incident followed. The cashier asked me: 'Is their anything inside?'

'I'm not sure,' came my honest response. Somehow I hadn't noticed how it was filled out.

He unzipped it to look inside. And I can't remember his exact words. But I remember the word 'shoplifting,' said both for me and his assistant who had suddenly appeared. He then started pulling out these little boxes, and commented: 'Those would set off the alarm.'

But soon he realised they were just empty boxes, mostly flattened. Though he still seemed perplexed. I pointed out they must have been used to fill out the rucksack. At this point, I don't know who was the most embarrassed. I hadn't fully processed whether he was seriously suspecting me of attempted shoplifting, more concerned was I about making up the right cash. After I'd paid he said, 'have a nice day.' And I left with the burgeoning realisation that I'd been suspected not only of attempted theft but of being a rather stupid thief.

Relieved to be back at the hotel I started my usual preparations for that night. Listened to live-streamed UK radio 4, a discussion about nudity – its cultural history & changing meaning.

### The sex section

After downing nearly half of the vodka I was finally ready to hit the town. My new self-assurance that tonight had to be the night. This time I found the red light area with no problem. A narrow street led from the canal. I vaguely remember a couple of women, one typically blonde, perhaps mid twenties in the usual skimpy underwear. But she hardly got off her stool, since there as I reached the door approached someone dark skinned and considerably older. I can't say whether she was black or mixed; her maturity was the main thing I noticed about her. I even asked her age and she told me 35yrs. Well, maybe she'd lived a hard life; many sex workers have, let's be honest. In any case I doubt she was older than me. And so I handed over the cash I had ready, 50euros. She got down to business without bothering much for conversion, though her English seemed reasonable. But I was glad not to be asked questions about my life. Unusually for recent times it was me to be on top. The sex was okay. And more surprisingly I didn't embarrass myself; it just seemed to happen naturally. Not my usual nerves. Perhaps she could have been more responsive. At least she wasn't rushing me to finish. On reflection I'd wish I'd been friendlier to her.

After exiting I realised I'd put my jacket on inside out, so dipped into a quiet side-street to correct it. As I strode to the end I nearly bumped into a group of lads at the intersection. I stepped back in to let them pass. But they instead turned towards me. One of them kicked me in the shin, and all three of them seemed to laugh at that. He hadn't used much force but it was enough to be annoying after the initial shock. Surely they were on something; alcohol makes casual violence easy, and I felt the urge to search them out and be violent back (though thankfully I didn't). I don't see myself as the type to get picked on; I'm not big but at a glance I could pass for a middleweight boxer. It was the first time anyone has shown violence and it hasn't put me off visiting dodgy places, which is probably inevitable with what I seek out. But then Amsterdam, for all its tawdriness, reputation for drugs, doesn't feel like a threatening place.

The next and last day I returned to the city centre. It seemed a more gentile and tourist-friendly place, but still very crowded, mostly under 30s. I considered visiting another sex-worker, with 50euros still in my pocket. And maybe I would have done but for the lack of them at early afternoon. Difficult to know in the harsh light of day, albeit mildly intoxicated, whether I would have gone though with it.

Generally the rail system works well, but Amsterdam station could maybe do with a simpler information display. There are so many different types of train. Had to ask one of the staff in the end which platform. The return journey was by high speed back to Brussels. The most interesting part was when a couple got searched for drugs. A team including sniffer dog. This is passing through the Schengen countries so it's a good opportunity for smuggling. They returned to their seat. Maybe just a bit of hash, not enough to warrant arrest but still hardly worth what they must have gone through.

In conclusion, Amsterdam is not somewhere I'd ever want to revisit. Maybe great if you're looking to experience the weed, some tulips, or just the culture. Not (IMHO) the best place to visit for paid sex. Germany and Belgium offer more variety and, crucially, discretion – no exiting into a crowded street. Amsterdam's very reputation, attracting millions of tourists, makes it seem over-hyped and caricatured. Perhaps a victim of its own success.

Surely there are many like me who discovered, or had it confirmed to them, that the idea of this city is better than the reality.

Reflecting on...

I have sometimes asked myself why I keep going back for that one thing. It may only be two of three times a year and usually the minority of holidays. I have worried about it becoming an addiction, although I'm not especially the addictive type. As with gambling, you may crave the buzz of anticipation rather than the conclusion. Win, lose, climax – that's when the excitement ends.

There is one city I discovered to be a disappointment – Rome. Much has been said or written about the EUR district. But my exploration was fruitless. The only sex workers I encountered were either trans people or the occasional girl standing by the roadside only interested in drivers stopping. There seemed to be plenty of men around wandering that park area, no doubt out on a similar quest. Still, if you were determined enough I'm sure it's possible to find satisfaction, maybe at a different time of year. But in any event, I found that area a bit too seedy even for my drunken tastes. As far as I'm concerned Rome is a better place for absolving your sins than committing them. On the plus side, the airport seemed a far less stressful experience than Gatwick or certain German terminals with their paranoiac levels of security.

My search for enjoyment is more than just about the buzz. Yet it is all about seeking pleasure. Maybe this need for hedonism was something to do with rapidly approaching middle-age. Thinking: If I can't enjoy myself now, then when can I? After all, if nobody gets hurt why should there be a problem with it? Sure, I understand it's hardly that simple; not many of those women are likely to view what they do as the ideal work. One survey claims 80% of sex-workers want to leave their profession. It would be interesting if a similarly anonymous survey was done with cleaners or waitresses.

What appeals to me so much about going with these women is that I never need to impress them; never need to try. Maybe some of them view me as pathetic anyway just for visiting them, for being so desperate. Not that they in any way require desperation from their clients as a motivation. They may not all be beautiful but they generally are attractive in one way or another, the types I'd have never even attempt to chat up at a bar – in the days when you could experience rejection in a real time public space. If it seemed I had succeeded I would be suspicious of some ulterior motive. But, in the situation where I am paying, there is a liberation – in that I don't need to worry what they think of me, my body, my performance, only that I am not hurting them or causing discomfort. So I can just relax (in theory), enjoy the sex, and not go through the neurosis of: does she find me attractive? Will she want to see me again? Or: will she let me think there is a future in a relationship, until the day she finds someone better and then tells me in the kindest way possible – via text.

Ideally, I want them to view the sex as something being done with them rather than to them. With a few I felt they actually preferred the latter – if only because they didn't want an active engagement but only to mentally zone out, be somewhere else in their mind until it was over. In future I will try to get them to be more in control, even if it means I am only the passive recipient.

For the foreseeable future I'd prefer to keep it simple. I've had enough rejection from literary agents to want to add to that with matters of the heart. Of course, there are ways to hook up for casual sex. There's an app for that, you know! But I believe paying for it avoids misunderstandings and complication. Well, I guess you may think (or at least would a female reader) that fearing things getting complicated is not so unusual of the male.

And yet I'd never viewed myself as typical.

Email: aidenr18@protonmail.com
