Some more Amsterdam info
Travelling should be fun, laughter should be high on the list of priorities,
just to get you into the mood for your travels, read below article.
I hope you laugh as loud as I did!
Amsterdam's Red-Light District
Written by Kate Crawford
It's a penis!" shouted my petite, eighty-one -year-old mother.
A muffled giggle escaped from my normally composed 18-year-old niece. A
snicker fractured my sister's best "oh-how-interesting" look. I tried to
keep my cool, but a short snort sneaked out and that was it, we all began to
hoot.
Mother isn't given to talking dirty. She was simply answering, in her best
classroom style, our guide's not-so-innocent question, "Does anyone know
what that is?" She was right, of course. We could all see the erect,
eight-foot high, backlit fountain across the canal was a penis. But we
weren't going to say so.
"Well, it is," said Mother, a bit defensively.
We could see by our guide's surprised face, he never expected Mother to
answer his rhetorical question. We laughed harder.
My mother, sister, niece and I were three generations on a
"girl's-week-out" in Amsterdam. One of us, and I'm afraid it was I, thought
up this red-light district night tour figuring it would introduce us to the
pragmatic Dutch and their no-nonsense approach to social problems.
Not quite picturing the four of us, 18 to 81, wandering around alone to have
a look-see, I had turned to the web. A bit of surfing netted VIP Tours which
specializes in small groups, never more than eight, with both "off the
shelf" and individually designed tours. Axing the larger tours, the
umpteen favorable comments from VIP's alumnae and their swift and
informative e-mails clinched it; VIP's Guss Issen became our guide and
guardian to the seamier side of Amsterdam. Guss-trim, tan and blond-was a
retired police officer so I reckoned we'd be safe. A sometimes humorous and
sometimes serious guide, I suspect he was editing liberally to guard what he
perceived our naïve sensitivities,
briefing us on this business of brothels.
In Amsterdam, the world's oldest profession is practiced
in its oldest neighborhood. The red-light district
surrounded the Oude Kerk with its tower dating from
1300, Amsterdam's oldest church and spread along
Oudezijds Voorburgwal, Amsterdam's first canal. Guss
pointed out that families in the district have, through the
centuries, coexisted with the world of the prostitutes.
Amongst the brothels, condom stores and sleazy night
clubs (with sleazier fountains) we were fascinated to
discover a day care center, a butcher, and Amsterdam's
oldest and best tea and coffee merchant (Geels & Co at 67
Warmoestraat.)
In the voyeuristic fashion of tourists everywhere, we peered through
typically-Dutch uncurtained windows at people preparing dinner and reading
newspapers just as if they were part of the show.
Still the real show was at street level. As we traipsed along behind Guss on
the narrow cobble streets and among the 17th century buildings, we were both
intrigued and ill at ease. At street level, rows of 8 X 10 glass-fronted
cubicles that looked like large shadow boxes all lined up in a row. Most of
their interiors were covered with antiseptic-looking white tile, and
generally a small bed occupied one corner. In these little rooms,
prostitutes lounged, primped and waited for customers. The floor-length
curtains were drawn only when the women worked.
Each woman had her own act. One woman, in a classic 30's girlie picture
pose, bent from the waist towards a mirror as she applied scarlet lipstick
to puckered lips. Her white bra and skimpy bikini panties glowed pink in the
demi-light that exuded from two long ultra violet bulbs on either side of
the window. The sizable, scarlet panties and lace bra of another woman
overflowed with rolls of dark chocolate flesh as she lolled on her bar
stool.
At that point, I noticed that segregation appeared to be strictly enforced.
On the first block every prostitute we passed was black and in the next
block every prostitute was white. When questioned, Guss replied, definitely
editing out unfavorable impressions, that women of the same background liked
to stay together for safety.
No such division existed in the street crowd which was largely, but not
entirely, made up of men. A wide spectrum of humanity was represented. Men
in impeccable three piece suits and men in Arab djellabahs mingled with boys
in grubby running suits. Head gear ranged from sweatshirt hoods and baseball
caps to fedoras and turbans. Women who were onlookers like ourselves tried
to appear unobtrusive. A few-ragged and strung-out-were illegally
streetwalking.
As we walked along, bulging tourist-like from purses secured inside our
raincoats at Gus's suggestion, we were instructed on the finer points of
red-light economics. According to Gus, the women were self-employed workers;
they averaged about $300 a day after forking over $100 to the landlord. The
landlord rented each room for three, eight-hour shifts
a day if he could, although the morning shift was not
in high demand. So, a landlord could make $300 a day
before taxes.
"Each client pays 25 dollars for ten minutes. Eleven minutes, another 25
bucks, because time is money and business is business. So if clients want to
keep it cheap, they have to do it like rabbits," Guss clarified.
"In America, most of the time, the women hang out on the streets an jump
into cars and anything can happen to them. Here, prostitution is centralized
where it can be controlled and the women in some way protected. Here," Guss
continued with less than perfect reasoning "rape is almost nonexistent
because every lunatic can come here and do what they want to do."
Perhaps that's what made me uncomfortable in the red light district, being
surrounded by lunatics. Or maybe my uneasiness came from the thought of all
that mind-altering testosterone being pumped. The working women made me sad.
I didn't doubt most had chosen this profession, but I suspected their
choices hadn't included becoming a doctor or corporate executive.
It was nine pm and our two-hour tour was nearly over. To bring the evening
to a close, Gus invited us for a nightcap at De Waag, a small castle-like
edifice illuminated entirely by candlelight. In 1488 De Waag was built as
the city gate and over the centuries, it has known many occupants. In the
17th century, as an Anatomy Theater, it was the scene of public dissections
and of Rembrandt's painting "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp." As we took in
the medieval atmosphere, we watched people surf the net by candlelight,
since De Waag businesses now include a restaurant, bar and internet cafe.
While we drank our Grolsch beer, Guss continued his red-light district
stories. "About five years ago," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "there
was a Women's Emancipation Committee that was very much against the fact
that there were no men in the windows. A few men took this seriouslyand
started into the business. It only lasted for two weeks. Not because they
didn't have clients. The problem was they couldn't make money. After five or
six times a day they were over and done and that was that."
The most enlightening tidbit I came across, however, was the one I picked up
from an article after I got home-many of the women in those windows, it
claimed, were actually cross-dressing males. I expect Gus knew this.
But he wasn't going to say so...
