A Lighter Side Of The City
Prostitution ruined my holiday
Walking through Amsterdam during the day as an outsider is to place your life into your own hands. Not because of any violence, not at all. The Dutch natives that made our acquaintance were incredibly charming and great representatives of their country. Not once during my trip did the people make me feel remotely uneasy. My biggest adversity was the constant stream of cyclists who seem to hold precedence over pedestrians. I couldn't absentmindedly cross a road without all of a sudden being bombarded with the ringing of a small metal bell. What’s truly remarkable about this mayhem is how quickly it flatlines. As soon as the sun goes down Amsterdam leaves behind the hustle and bustle and becomes a centre of tranquility. Old fashioned lamplights shine down onto cobbled streets and in collaboration with the moon seem to create dancing shapes on the water of the plentiful canals. I have never seen a sight as romantic, and even piles of trash heaped on the streets and bawdy tourists could not detract from the beauty.
It was on our second night when we decided to ingest the more liberal side of Amsterdam. A bag each of magic mushrooms seemed an appropriate way to enjoy the pleasures we are not afforded at home. A friend and I sat by the side of the canal and I felt as if I was transported back to the scenes of The Merchant Of Venice or some other Shakespearean tale. The setting gave me the sensation of a supporting character and I started to think in iambic pentameter. Lush descriptions of the allure clouded my mind. I stared into the water and I swear it has never looked so inviting. I can’t swim and I am terrified of any body of water that reaches beyond my waist but in that moment I had to restrain myself from jumping in. The golden reflections could do me no harm, bring me nothing but happiness and warmth.
Thankfully I am not that easily led and all of a sudden the darkness started to creep in. We felt uneasy at the disappearance of the illuminations and struggled to our feet. We stumbled over to the civilisation we had previously forgot existed and started the search to ask directions to ‘the light side of town’. ‘Where the lights are’. ‘A place with light’. In our childlike naivety it took us a few minutes to realise we essentially looked like johns using polite euphemisms on our way to the brothel. By divine grace our other friends reappeared before we dug a hole. Apparently we looked like ‘a couple of stray dogs’.
Who knows what would have happened if we had actually taken those directions. Our morbid curiosity did however get the better of us on a comparatively sober night and we eventually ventured to the Red Light District. It ended up being the most disturbing experience of the whole trip. A trip that included The Anne Frank House, The Van Gogh Museum and Miles Kane live. I’ve always been morally opposed to prostitution. I’m an old fashioned guy and I think sex should be something special and full of meaning, not a way of making some money. My image of prostitution was however, very out of touch with reality. Prostitution consisted of two very distinct narratives in my mind. On one hand you had the Belle de Jour prostitutes, glamorous and classy. On the other there were poor and desperate slavic girls wrapped in blankets. I imagined a stroll through the red light district to consist of supermodels on pedestals followed by a homeless shelter at the end of the road. An ignorant view based largely on stereotypes, but not one that I exclusively hold. Until prostitution is experienced first hand it is hard not to see it as a series of cartoons. I was astounded by my trip to The Red Light District, because they were all normal women.
These girls (and occasionally boys allocated with blue lights) are somebody’s children, somebody’s siblings, somebody’s parents maybe. They are human beings with friends and families, hopes and dreams. They have brains in their heads, hearts in their chest, blood running through their veins. I saw prostitutes as caricatures, and a great deal of people share that perception. The dehumanisation of these people makes me feel kind of sick, and racked with guilt. I’m not denying that strong individuals can go into this line of work and be happy, but they’re the minority. As I walked down that street every single person I locked eyes with seemed deeply melancholic. It is all in those eyes. You can fake confidence, adjust your posture and your body language, wear nice lingerie, but the second you properly look at somebody it all crumbles. To touch on another icon of The Netherlands — it’s all there in Van Gogh’s self-portraits. Vincent painted countless images of himself, each with a distinct mood and tone. Looking into the oily colours of his eyes in the museum I felt a great insight into Van Gogh’s soul. You can sense how damaged and beautiful the man was just from those circles of chemicals. If I can get such a reaction from an artist’s interpretation of the human eye, it is intensified one thousand times in reality. I couldn’t look at any of the gratitious body parts on show in those scarlet spotlights — I was too drawn to those pupils. I know nothing about their personal lives, but I know I’ve never been so unsettled by an interaction with another person.
I loved The Netherlands. I loved it so much I can see myself living there one day. I can look past the terrible sanitation problems, I can look past the tourists only interested in the drugs and not the culture. I don’t think I could ever look past an underbelly quite this dark. Every Dutch friend we made seemed so reasonable, but how can they be if this is considered normal? I like the freedom and how open the Dutch are. Our neighbour at the music festival we attended was proud to announce her one night stands over breakfast the next morning and I really like that. It was funny and charming. However I feel like liberty and indulgence come with a price — if you are going to enjoy the privileges of living in a country with those beliefs you owe the exploited and the vulnerable an extra debt. Happiness comes with a severe price and any embrace of the light should include an equal damnation of the dark and the seedy. I’m not saying make it illegal, but reform it enough that we can be safe in the knowledge these people are comfortable.
And perhaps I’ve got this all awfully wrong and it’s a noble industry. Perhaps I’m being just as ignorant as before. I could be called a prude. But if so, the prostitutes should wear sunglasses to make the sightseeing less painful.