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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... |
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