Three Nights in The Red Light District

So, I went to Amsterdam, visited Leiden briefly, and went to the Red Light District, I am not ashamed to say. Although I did not purchase any services, I found my freeloading more socially acceptable and emotionally satisfying.

What I am trying to say is, I laughed at the prostitutes. I guess, when it comes down to it, the entire experience was a strange one. Our hostel was located in the red light disrtict, more on the edge of it really, on a street lined with bars, from British style pubs to gay bars with not so subtle names. But, when we looked outside the window to our room, a window that faced the back end of the building, we could see the warm red glow of prostitution.

I have always considered myself a feminist, no bones about it, yet somehow, in Amsterdam, I wasn´t offended. I was more bemused, the silliness of it all. See, it was not the sad, lonely hooker in the back alley, it was the lady, cahttering on her phone while standing infront of a window wearing underwear, in a brightly lit, populated area. The casual air made the entire expereince, simalteanously less and more unsettling. This was it, they were selling themseves, and I obnoxiously oogled them with no desire to purchase. I could but help feel strange for these women, who openly objectified themselves to the poiunt where even I felt they were more like items in a vending machine rather than people. It was sad, it was funny, it was weird. It was like a human zoo, stop, look, judge, leave. Sometimes you would see people go in and out, that was stranger, but when you just stopped and looked, you realized the weirdness of it all. How these women do it, I have no idea.

Also, I did not realize that the Red Light District in fact does have red lights everywhere, and the glowing neon red with now forever be associated in my mind with hookers. Dutch hookers (although I read that only about 5% are actually Dutch).

Well, beyond the red light district, Holland offered many a great thing,
1, an endless supply of Stroopwafels, both delicious and evil with their very caloric, buttery goodness.
2, an endless supply of funnily named beers, and while Grolsch was gross, Jupiler tasted nothing like a planet.
3, coffee houses, where I actually just drank coffee and quietly watched when people lit cigarettes and smoked, nothing really exciting, just like a Starbucks, but with a little more pot smoke.


Holland itself, is, as we realized upon entering the Centraal Station in Amsterdam, the land of Giants. We went from Lilliputian Spain to GIANT Holland, the tallest people in the world, Kailey later informed me. Seriously, these people were giants. And while they had similar physical characteristics to the people of London, they were far better looking. So, tall, handsome giants. On bicycles. Oh the bicycles, everyone on bikes, dogs running alongisde bikes, well dressed businessmen riding to work on bikes, babys sitting in little bike seats, couples biking on one bike, usually the girl balancing precariously on the back of the bike. Bikes. Bikes. Bikes.

And trams.

So, unlike America, or most nations where there is only one method of transportation to watch out for when crossing the street, Holland had three, and in turn, crossing the street became really the art of darting death in all its high and low velocity forms. The bigger roads, which had special lanes for bikes, trams and cars, became like little knots of coiling and intertwining lanes, crisscorssing and confusing the foreigners who were actually using their two feet to get accross.

Alright, I will continue my stories later, but now off to class.
Love and miss you all.
me