‘What was it like growing up in Liverpool?’ a journalist asked John Lennon. ‘I didn’t grow up in Liverpool,’ he replied. ‘I grew up in Hamburg.’ My father grew up in Hamburg too, at the end of the second world war. The city had been bombed to smithereens. Cigarettes were the only currency, and my grandma had to trade her jewellery for food. When she met a British soldier who offered to take her to England, she grabbed this lifeline with both hands. If only she were alive to see her smart home town today.
When the Beatles came here in 1960, they stayed in St Pauli, the dockside red-light zone. When I first came here in 1990, St Pauli was still sleazy. Now it’s the height of chic. Some of the old strip-clubs have survived, but they’re outnumbered by swish coffee shops. Sight-seers forage for Beatles souvenirs amid the sex shops of the Reeperbahn.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in