Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Sex tourist
I wandered down Amsterdam's Zeedijk, by now unabashedly captive to my inadequate Lonely Planet map. I was trying to make a right turn into the Red Light District. I followed a street (typically not on the map), took another left, looked up and promptly shoved the guidebook back into my jacket pocket. I was unmistakably in the The Red Light District ("de wallen", in local parlance): this was the most crowded area of the Centrum at 7 p.m. on a Saturday night and positively filled with, well, red lights.
As I stepped onto crowded Oudezijds Voorburgwal, I was greeted on my right by a scantily clad prostitute in a window with red lights on all sides, the sign that the window is occupied by a working girl. She smiled widely at me and the other men passing by, then shook her breasts a little to try to cinch the deal. A few steps past her, just seconds later, I heard her shout something in Dutch. As I turned around, I saw a cupful of water land on the pavement and a grinning man with a camera running the other way. Taking photographs of the prostitutes is one of the few cardinal taboos here. [Note to the obviously American guy trying to film, through the small gap between the bottom of the curtain and the windowsill, a prostitute and her customer inflagrante delicto: Can you be any tackier?]
Business seemed good on this night. I saw prostitutes in all phases of their transactions save the act itself, and plenty of evidence of that. That is, lights on, curtains drawn. Directly behind the women as they stand in their windows is a bed and (sometimes) a sink. Small, cozy, efficient. When a visitor arrives, the curtain closes.
I saw maybe twenty red-light windows during my stroll down Odezijds Voorburgwal and a few of the side streets. On one quieter street, I looked right and saw three prostitutes each of whom started knocking wildly on the windows. As a lone man walking around, I most certainly looked like a good bet for business, not unlike walking down The Strip in Vegas: the touts never shoved the ubiquitous advertisements into my hand when I was with Sheryl, only when I was alone.
Mostly, people in the district walked around in groups. There were the expected roving gangs of laughing young men, of course, but I also saw many couples walking hand-in-hand. I passed one middle-aged American couple carrying bags from Madame Tussaud Scenerama (a "must-miss" tourist trap, per Lonely Planet) laughing and pointing. "Maybe it's a little too early yet," said the husband to the wife as they looked around for an occupied window.
Also profligate in the district are sex theaters that employ crass touts ("a great fucking show, ladies and gentlemen"), porn shops displaying over-sized penises and shops displaying pots and pots of marijuana plants under grow lights. I was offered cocaine more than once by soft-talking dealers who would wait until I was just about to pass them before they would make a solicitation, almost under the breath.
One on corner was a Red Light District gift shop (The District), selling souvenirs of one's visit.
After an hour or so of walking around and watching the people watch the prostitutes, I stopped into a small shop for frites (fries in America, chips in England) before getting back onto the train for Den Haag. As I stood there, waiting for the salty goodness, I realized that I wouldn't have been buying my fries right there but for the fact that I was in the Red Light District. Even though I didn't patronize any prostitutes or watch any "nudie" shows, I was still just another sex tourist.
As I stepped onto crowded Oudezijds Voorburgwal, I was greeted on my right by a scantily clad prostitute in a window with red lights on all sides, the sign that the window is occupied by a working girl. She smiled widely at me and the other men passing by, then shook her breasts a little to try to cinch the deal. A few steps past her, just seconds later, I heard her shout something in Dutch. As I turned around, I saw a cupful of water land on the pavement and a grinning man with a camera running the other way. Taking photographs of the prostitutes is one of the few cardinal taboos here. [Note to the obviously American guy trying to film, through the small gap between the bottom of the curtain and the windowsill, a prostitute and her customer inflagrante delicto: Can you be any tackier?]
Business seemed good on this night. I saw prostitutes in all phases of their transactions save the act itself, and plenty of evidence of that. That is, lights on, curtains drawn. Directly behind the women as they stand in their windows is a bed and (sometimes) a sink. Small, cozy, efficient. When a visitor arrives, the curtain closes.
I saw maybe twenty red-light windows during my stroll down Odezijds Voorburgwal and a few of the side streets. On one quieter street, I looked right and saw three prostitutes each of whom started knocking wildly on the windows. As a lone man walking around, I most certainly looked like a good bet for business, not unlike walking down The Strip in Vegas: the touts never shoved the ubiquitous advertisements into my hand when I was with Sheryl, only when I was alone.
Mostly, people in the district walked around in groups. There were the expected roving gangs of laughing young men, of course, but I also saw many couples walking hand-in-hand. I passed one middle-aged American couple carrying bags from Madame Tussaud Scenerama (a "must-miss" tourist trap, per Lonely Planet) laughing and pointing. "Maybe it's a little too early yet," said the husband to the wife as they looked around for an occupied window.
Also profligate in the district are sex theaters that employ crass touts ("a great fucking show, ladies and gentlemen"), porn shops displaying over-sized penises and shops displaying pots and pots of marijuana plants under grow lights. I was offered cocaine more than once by soft-talking dealers who would wait until I was just about to pass them before they would make a solicitation, almost under the breath.
One on corner was a Red Light District gift shop (The District), selling souvenirs of one's visit.
After an hour or so of walking around and watching the people watch the prostitutes, I stopped into a small shop for frites (fries in America, chips in England) before getting back onto the train for Den Haag. As I stood there, waiting for the salty goodness, I realized that I wouldn't have been buying my fries right there but for the fact that I was in the Red Light District. Even though I didn't patronize any prostitutes or watch any "nudie" shows, I was still just another sex tourist.
