German F#@k Hotel

In Malia, on the northern coast of Crete, there exists a hotel that, as years go by, I begin to believe actually only exists in my fantasies.

We had wound up in Malia pretty much by Chris pointing his finger on a map in an Iraklion bus station and telling the ticket guy that's where we wanted to go. We had visited the Palace of Knossos, checked Iraklion record stores for Iggy Pop, and now I wanted to be swimming in one of those crazy blue seas by days end.

The bus ride was uneventful, but it was some sort of twisted Cretan death march from the stop on the highway to the coast. It was 100 degree plus and we were feeling dirty. We passed numerous shops selling beach toys and towels, but could not seem to get down to the coast. We eventually found it, the hotel whose name is lost to me, but will now forever be known as the German Fuck Hotel.

We had gotten to Greece just before the seasonal mad rush of tourism, so the hotel was fairly deserted if I remember correctly. And I don't remember if it was a conclusion we all came to, or if it was a notion I forced on the group, but the place just had the air of a haven where swinging German tourists come get their crazed, leather bound and latex painted, sex game playing asses serviced. I think the first thing that brought the thought sashaying up the walkway was the strangely Bavarian wood decorations throughout the place. There were other clues, that while innocent enough, only lent themselves to the sex trade fantasies; paintings on wide walls of topless women and wait staff with bulging crotches, a pen of animals that seemed to serve no real purpose and included a goat that looked as if it had been sodomized with another larger goat.

Oh, and the beach was covered by sea urchins. This has nothing to do with the sex hotel aspect of the story, it was just a little disappointing that the refreshing swim that drove us to this place was wasted on looking out for prickly sea creatures. Oh god, and the mosquitoes at night...

But never mind all of that, the important part was the restaurant next door where we had dinner. The handsome Cretan man who played sole waiter, and possible owner, to the place was one of those wild gifts you didn't know you wanted. He was gregarious, he was immediately our friend and he provided us with a simply amazing dining experience, one that is lost in the blissful haze of the moment and leaving only grinning, hole-filled memories.

There was an austere German couple eating at a table nearby who didn't seem to be in the mood for our man's personality. In my mind, they went back to the hotel with a peacock, a small Peruvian boy and a hand cranked 110 volt power generator with alligator connector clips. The only thing that kept us from hearing their shrieks of pain and pleasure was the constant whine of mosquitoes in our ears.

We had breakfast at the same restaurant, and the same man waited on us, even sitting at our table for a bit. He was looking a little worse for wear, just a tad hungover. We strapped on our bags, checked out and began the even more meandering and blistering hot, hard core hike out of there. Our man at the restaurant came out to the street to see us off as we passed by, giving each of us a high five as we passed.

Ever since, I've always wanted to get the band together and release a live album called "Live From The German Fuck Hotel"...