Hamburg is a fun little coastal town with a lot of tourist attractions, so I visit at least once or twice a year. There are several fun hipster neighborhoods, the Elbphilharmonie is wonderful, there's a world-class attraction in the rooms full of tiny, dazzling scenes at Miniatur Wunderland, and all along the short coast are excellent fish restaurants mixed with stylish modern buildings that will appeal to any architecture fan.

The Reeperbahn has to be Germany's best adult neighborhood, with blocks and blocks of every sort of entertainment from restaurants to nightclubs to drag bars to just flat-out sex clubs of every persuasion.

Nearby Herbertstraße is so crowded with prostitutes that female tourists are warned against visiting for fear of starting a "turf war."

My husband Dieter, our friend Evelyn and I drove up one Friday last July to weekend at the Arcotel Rubin Hamburg. It's an okay hotel a few blocks from St. Georg, the city's rather small gay neighborhood. The first words the desk clerk said to us were, "We're sorry, but the air conditioning doesn't work."

Instantly my mood flipped from carefree tourist to cross-examining inquisitor. It was ninety-five degrees outside. Why would they wait until check-in to tell us this? Were they afraid -- rightly -- that if we'd been warned, we'd have stayed somewhere else? My blood pressure skyrocketed while my two German companions decided to share their thoughts.

Evelyn is a tall, ice-cold blonde with aquiline features. "That is fine," she snapped. "We are strong German stock."

Dieter is six foot nine and about a yard across. "That is not a problem," he agreed. "Germans are used to hardship."

I stared at them in disbelief before turning to the clerk. "I'm American," I said. "I need to speak to the manager."