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.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Amsterdam
I'm at an internet cafe in Amsterdam's Centrum. I got a late start from The Hague and got here around 3:30 or so, so I'm just wandering around the Centrum until I get too tired or until it gets too dark. Then I'll find my way back to the Centraal Station and back home.
Two immediate observations: The first is that I see a lot of people walking around here with their faces buried in maps. I'm trying to avoid looking too much like a tourist myself, stealing only the random furtive glance at my Lonely Planet guide (the maps in it are typically bad anyway). There are also lots of people stopping traffic to take pictures of each other with a canal or something in the background.
The other observation is that I smell marijuana smoke wafting on every street. I suppose this was to be expected, but somehow I figured Amsterdam's reputation in this regard was overstated. It clearly is not.
My 38 minutes of internet time are nearly spent. More later ...
Two immediate observations: The first is that I see a lot of people walking around here with their faces buried in maps. I'm trying to avoid looking too much like a tourist myself, stealing only the random furtive glance at my Lonely Planet guide (the maps in it are typically bad anyway). There are also lots of people stopping traffic to take pictures of each other with a canal or something in the background.
The other observation is that I smell marijuana smoke wafting on every street. I suppose this was to be expected, but somehow I figured Amsterdam's reputation in this regard was overstated. It clearly is not.
My 38 minutes of internet time are nearly spent. More later ...
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
The Events of 2-1
I have to say that Janet Jackson's right breast, nice though it may be, is causing nary a splash over here. Europeans are all wondering what's the big deal. To them, it's the confluence of two baffling American obsessions: sex and football.
CNN seems to be digitizing the breast when they show clips of the Super Bowl halftime stunt. All others show Janet in all her glory. A spin around the channels is, er, revealing on this point. To get to the clip of Justin Timberlake ripping off Janet Jackon's dress, I passed MTV Europe's "Top Ten Sexy Videos", featuring Snoop Dog and 50 Cent frolicking among a bevy of topless brown babes, the Swatch commercial featuring the naked ass on a bed and the all-night commercials for the 0900 lines, which show absolutely everything, anatomically speaking. Everything. And this is basic cable. A few weeks back, a (tasteful) photo of a fully exposed set of breasts was plastered on billboards everywhere to advertise some conference or something. Only the North Americans gawked, and nobody said anything.
In fact, nobody is saying much of anything about "the events of 2-1", as Jon Stewart is calling it. Bafflement has dissipated into indifference. It's a non-story, that only gets mentioned when somebody's interviewing an American. For the record, Bob Dole thinks America is a great country for being offended by the stunt. He said so on the BBC.
But this is an old saw: America is puritanical about sex, Europe more enlightened. Their puzzlement about the whole thing is not surprising. What is surprising is that anybody in America is offended. Wasn't she wearing a pasty? Wasn't she, even in her exposed state, wearing more clothing that Lil' Kim wears to church? Wasn't it patently obvious to everybody that this was just another stunt to milk (pardon the expression) a few more minutes of fame for two performers on the downside of their careers?
The real question we should all be asking ourselves is: Why does Bob Dole think it's great that we're all suckers in America?
CNN seems to be digitizing the breast when they show clips of the Super Bowl halftime stunt. All others show Janet in all her glory. A spin around the channels is, er, revealing on this point. To get to the clip of Justin Timberlake ripping off Janet Jackon's dress, I passed MTV Europe's "Top Ten Sexy Videos", featuring Snoop Dog and 50 Cent frolicking among a bevy of topless brown babes, the Swatch commercial featuring the naked ass on a bed and the all-night commercials for the 0900 lines, which show absolutely everything, anatomically speaking. Everything. And this is basic cable. A few weeks back, a (tasteful) photo of a fully exposed set of breasts was plastered on billboards everywhere to advertise some conference or something. Only the North Americans gawked, and nobody said anything.
In fact, nobody is saying much of anything about "the events of 2-1", as Jon Stewart is calling it. Bafflement has dissipated into indifference. It's a non-story, that only gets mentioned when somebody's interviewing an American. For the record, Bob Dole thinks America is a great country for being offended by the stunt. He said so on the BBC.
But this is an old saw: America is puritanical about sex, Europe more enlightened. Their puzzlement about the whole thing is not surprising. What is surprising is that anybody in America is offended. Wasn't she wearing a pasty? Wasn't she, even in her exposed state, wearing more clothing that Lil' Kim wears to church? Wasn't it patently obvious to everybody that this was just another stunt to milk (pardon the expression) a few more minutes of fame for two performers on the downside of their careers?
The real question we should all be asking ourselves is: Why does Bob Dole think it's great that we're all suckers in America?
Monday, February 09, 2004
The 'ABB' vote
The host of the BBC program "Dateline London" on Sunday put the question to the journalist from Le Monde : What do you know about Sen. John Kerry and what makes you think he would be a good president? The answer was surprisingly blunt: "He's not Bush."
This seems to typify the Continental attitude toward the presidential race. People I've met here have been quite polite about it, but it goes without saying that Bush has very few friends or fans here, outside of Number 10. Colleagues at the ICTY are watching the election with greater interest than I expected, maybe with greater interest than most Americans at this early stage. But there's no great debate about the hoped-for outcome, only a question of which Democrat should be elected. Nobody really knows whether Kerry would be more worldly than Bush, less unilateral in his thinking. It's assumed he will be, because he's, well, Anybody But Bush.
Of course, it's a little more nuanced than this back home among the "party faithful" who show up at these events. My own 43rd District notwithstanding, I was heartened to see the Dems in Washington had the sense to abandon their infatuation with Howard Dean. I'll claim credit for consistently calling him a charlatan, the sort of "angry guy" that Democrats find so attractive early in the process. He isn't really even a liberal in the Rep. Jim McDermott sense of the word, which is what makes his success in the 43rd so puzzling. I will, however, concede that I, too, got so caught up in the media's campaign-as-horserace coverage that I as much as wrote off Kerry weeks ago. Personally, I relished the prospect of slugging it out with the Deanites at the caucuses in support of Wesley Clark, Our Very Own General. I guess I could have predicted that Dennis Kucinich, he of the "Department of Peace", would outpoll the "hero of Kosovo" more than 2-to-1 in Seattle's core. Don't I look smart now for having absentmindedly declared myself a Kerry supporter to one of his campaign staff a few months back, even if it was just to get him off the phone?
Maybe the country, and Washington, as far as that goes, is taking a more pragmatic, European approach to the election and realizing that though Dean is "ABB", he's also something else: unelectable. In any event, the message is clear here now: "Go Kerry."
This seems to typify the Continental attitude toward the presidential race. People I've met here have been quite polite about it, but it goes without saying that Bush has very few friends or fans here, outside of Number 10. Colleagues at the ICTY are watching the election with greater interest than I expected, maybe with greater interest than most Americans at this early stage. But there's no great debate about the hoped-for outcome, only a question of which Democrat should be elected. Nobody really knows whether Kerry would be more worldly than Bush, less unilateral in his thinking. It's assumed he will be, because he's, well, Anybody But Bush.
Of course, it's a little more nuanced than this back home among the "party faithful" who show up at these events. My own 43rd District notwithstanding, I was heartened to see the Dems in Washington had the sense to abandon their infatuation with Howard Dean. I'll claim credit for consistently calling him a charlatan, the sort of "angry guy" that Democrats find so attractive early in the process. He isn't really even a liberal in the Rep. Jim McDermott sense of the word, which is what makes his success in the 43rd so puzzling. I will, however, concede that I, too, got so caught up in the media's campaign-as-horserace coverage that I as much as wrote off Kerry weeks ago. Personally, I relished the prospect of slugging it out with the Deanites at the caucuses in support of Wesley Clark, Our Very Own General. I guess I could have predicted that Dennis Kucinich, he of the "Department of Peace", would outpoll the "hero of Kosovo" more than 2-to-1 in Seattle's core. Don't I look smart now for having absentmindedly declared myself a Kerry supporter to one of his campaign staff a few months back, even if it was just to get him off the phone?
Maybe the country, and Washington, as far as that goes, is taking a more pragmatic, European approach to the election and realizing that though Dean is "ABB", he's also something else: unelectable. In any event, the message is clear here now: "Go Kerry."
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Dutch Land Mines
Through the rain and the mist and the inky night, I could just make it out, a classic Dutch scene, silhouetted by the gleam of streetlight off cobblestone: a little white dog, ass earthward, crapping on the street, right there where Willem De Zwijgerlaan meets Van Boetzelaerlaan. Or rather, in the space in the middle, where the former crosses the tracks for Tram 11 (and where pedestrians fear to tread). I eyed the dog as I walked past, on my way down to Frederik Hendriklaan ("the Fred") for a bite of Chinese food with Peter. Another steaming pile of Dutch Land Mine.
More surprising still was that this dog was on the end of a leash held by a master with no shame about the mess his dog was depositing on the cobblestones. None. Sin verguenza. I looked him in the eye, trying to detect even the tracest amount of embarrassment. He stared back implacably, then turned and walked away.
This is the first time I've actually seen a dog drop one of these bombs, but I swear I've stepped in dogshit 10 times in my three weeks here. It's like I'm walking around in that Robert Altman film Ready to Wear, only the joke about all the dog crap in the streets is wearing damn thin. Everybody here seems to have at least two dogs, and nobody here seems to clean up after any of them. I've seen the random garbage can emblazoned with a cartoon pooch crapping on a cartoon toilet, always in pristine condition from lack of use.
Somebody told me that 10 percent of the cost of registering a dog here goes to cleaning up dog crap and, thus, the Dutch figure they've paid for the right and feel free to let their dogs defecate with abandon. I'm not sure where this alleged 10 percent goes, but there's gotta be a scandal over that one. It sure as hell isn't going to clean up the mess.
Fortunately, the rainy season affords some relief from this problem. In two weeks' time, even the biggest pile of the stuff washes into the canals, and the many puddles left by all damnedable condensation start looking like little blessings. One simply stomps around some in the water, shakes, stomps, shakes, stops, shakes ... and before you know it, the treads of my Birks are free of all traces. Until next time.
A guy from Canada told me today that when he first got here, he thought the Dutch were so humble because of the way they always keep their heads down when they walk. I, too, have been humbled by the Dutch Land Mine, so much so that I'm likely to walk into the path of an oncoming Tram.
More surprising still was that this dog was on the end of a leash held by a master with no shame about the mess his dog was depositing on the cobblestones. None. Sin verguenza. I looked him in the eye, trying to detect even the tracest amount of embarrassment. He stared back implacably, then turned and walked away.
This is the first time I've actually seen a dog drop one of these bombs, but I swear I've stepped in dogshit 10 times in my three weeks here. It's like I'm walking around in that Robert Altman film Ready to Wear, only the joke about all the dog crap in the streets is wearing damn thin. Everybody here seems to have at least two dogs, and nobody here seems to clean up after any of them. I've seen the random garbage can emblazoned with a cartoon pooch crapping on a cartoon toilet, always in pristine condition from lack of use.
Somebody told me that 10 percent of the cost of registering a dog here goes to cleaning up dog crap and, thus, the Dutch figure they've paid for the right and feel free to let their dogs defecate with abandon. I'm not sure where this alleged 10 percent goes, but there's gotta be a scandal over that one. It sure as hell isn't going to clean up the mess.
Fortunately, the rainy season affords some relief from this problem. In two weeks' time, even the biggest pile of the stuff washes into the canals, and the many puddles left by all damnedable condensation start looking like little blessings. One simply stomps around some in the water, shakes, stomps, shakes, stops, shakes ... and before you know it, the treads of my Birks are free of all traces. Until next time.
A guy from Canada told me today that when he first got here, he thought the Dutch were so humble because of the way they always keep their heads down when they walk. I, too, have been humbled by the Dutch Land Mine, so much so that I'm likely to walk into the path of an oncoming Tram.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Phone madness
Getting a phone line here is a royal pain in the ass.
Initially, I was told that, as a non-citizen, I'd have to put down a deposit of 450 euros before getting a line. Then, I'd have to sign a yearlong contract with the local monopoly, KPN. Penalty for early cancellation? The balance of the contract. The basic monthly rate (because I also want to get the internet) is 17.95 euros per month. This does not include the 45 euro installation fee, nor the cost of the calls. These can be as high as 3 cents/minute during peak, weekday times, but less than a minute on the weekends.
I'll never complain again about good ol' Qwest, where I can install and cancel on a whim.
Even the guy a KPN told me the yearlong contract thing was bad news, but "those are the rules." Damn.
I'm in my new place now, which has cable included. Pi was on last night. I've also seen The Limey (I turned it on just in time to hear the classic line: Tell them I'm coming! I'm fucking comminngg!. Gotta love Terrence Stamp). I also watched most of that lawyer movie for which Ed Norton won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. What was the name of it? Mostly forgettable.
The Brown Bunny was sold out on Friday night, by the way. For the best, really.
I mostly watch BBC and BBC World News, though Peter tells me BBC World News is just a propaganda organ of the Foreign Ministry. Hmm.
I attended a trial advocacy training on Sunday. I played a witness, and the lawyers got to practice examining and cross-examining me. Sheesh. That's all I'll say.
I'm back at the library, because today is a UN holiday (Eid) and because they have moved me to another office, location as-yet unknown. Nobody seems to know where I should be. Tuesday will be interesting.
It's raining here again. My feet are wet. I'm counting the days, the hours, the minutes until I get to go back home and see the family on February 20 (for Dari's birthday). I've realized in this three weeks that I'm really not whole without my family. It's only a fraction of me here, walking around these damp streets, cursing the wind and the rain.
I shopped over the weekend at LIDL, a cheap-ass discount retailer, based in Germany, apparently. I scored, getting enough food to last me three weeks, for about 20 euros. I'm paying too much in rent, but appreciate having a place to store food.
My minutes are running short. Better get back out into the rain. Or maybe I'll linger here long enough to read the IHT before I go. Wasn't yesterday the Super Bowl or something?
Initially, I was told that, as a non-citizen, I'd have to put down a deposit of 450 euros before getting a line. Then, I'd have to sign a yearlong contract with the local monopoly, KPN. Penalty for early cancellation? The balance of the contract. The basic monthly rate (because I also want to get the internet) is 17.95 euros per month. This does not include the 45 euro installation fee, nor the cost of the calls. These can be as high as 3 cents/minute during peak, weekday times, but less than a minute on the weekends.
I'll never complain again about good ol' Qwest, where I can install and cancel on a whim.
Even the guy a KPN told me the yearlong contract thing was bad news, but "those are the rules." Damn.
I'm in my new place now, which has cable included. Pi was on last night. I've also seen The Limey (I turned it on just in time to hear the classic line: Tell them I'm coming! I'm fucking comminngg!. Gotta love Terrence Stamp). I also watched most of that lawyer movie for which Ed Norton won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. What was the name of it? Mostly forgettable.
The Brown Bunny was sold out on Friday night, by the way. For the best, really.
I mostly watch BBC and BBC World News, though Peter tells me BBC World News is just a propaganda organ of the Foreign Ministry. Hmm.
I attended a trial advocacy training on Sunday. I played a witness, and the lawyers got to practice examining and cross-examining me. Sheesh. That's all I'll say.
I'm back at the library, because today is a UN holiday (Eid) and because they have moved me to another office, location as-yet unknown. Nobody seems to know where I should be. Tuesday will be interesting.
It's raining here again. My feet are wet. I'm counting the days, the hours, the minutes until I get to go back home and see the family on February 20 (for Dari's birthday). I've realized in this three weeks that I'm really not whole without my family. It's only a fraction of me here, walking around these damp streets, cursing the wind and the rain.
I shopped over the weekend at LIDL, a cheap-ass discount retailer, based in Germany, apparently. I scored, getting enough food to last me three weeks, for about 20 euros. I'm paying too much in rent, but appreciate having a place to store food.
My minutes are running short. Better get back out into the rain. Or maybe I'll linger here long enough to read the IHT before I go. Wasn't yesterday the Super Bowl or something?
