The Red Light District in Amsterdam is smaller than I’d expected. It compensates for its size in density — peep shows and sex clubs squeeze between hundreds of glass lined cabins in which prostitutes compete for the men walking passed by showing their thongs at creative angles. I was sitting in a bar across the canal from the Cafe Remember waiting for my companions to resurface from their chosen cabins when I noticed a balding, middle-aged man standing next to me.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“I’ve been baked since 10 a.m.,” he shouted with a smile, his face crinkling under a 5 o’clock shadow, the crease lines from his dimples visible to the top of his shiny, bald head.
“Oh, well where you from?” I asked, checking the time. We were pushing two in the morning.
“Canada,” he told me, recovering from his auditory issues.
“Plan on…taking the ride?”
He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Might go through with it. Know what they're paying?”
“Fifty euro to get in and 50 more for everything else after that.”
He looked at me, finished his beer, and I never saw him again.
How exactly had I ended up in one of the most storied centers of sex tourism? And what exactly were my intentions now that I was here? These were thoughts to ponder as I went back to nursing my drink.
Less than a week before I had been in a wholesome family environment, staying with a cousin in Luxembourg City. We barely had time for a family dinner with my uncle before leaving the next morning for her job interview in Liege, Belgium, before pushing on to Brussels by nightfall where we checked into our hotel rooms. Then, dinner in Waterloo with an old college friend.
“I guarantee you if she wants to meet us at something called ‘Oscar’s Pub’ in Waterloo there’s a guy involved,” Aurelie told me before leaving.
As we pulled up to the bar I noticed an adjacent casino.
“Maybe she wants to gamble?”
“She can’t. She was an addict and now she’s been banned from all casinos in Europe.”
We met Morgane inside, sitting under a screen on which Portugal were starting their game against Iceland. I resisted the urge to offer Morgane a bet on the game and ordered a beer while she and Aurélie caught up.
“Why do you keep checking your phone? Are you waiting for un mec?”
“No! Well, sort of, he’s next door,” Morgane answered sheepishly.
“Ah! I knew there was some reason we were meeting in Waterloo,” exclaimed Aurelie. “ How did you two meet?”
“While I was gambling,” answered Morgane before explaining preemptively, “I was using my sister’s I.D. and then one night I couldn’t remember her birthday when the bouncer asked me.”
“Does he gamble often?” I asked.
Morgane’s eyes light up. “Yeah, he’s really good. He wins a thousand euro a week doing it. If you don’t play too much, if you can walk away, you can really win a lot,” she told me in adoration, seeing my surprised expression. “I know some people who pay their rent that way.”
Aurelie interjected: “Yeah, but you can’t Morgane. You always get sucked in too far.”
After Waterloo the next leg of the trip boils down to two days of bike riding in warm rain in Paris. I also distinctly remember being taken to a nightclub where the drinks cost 12 euro each but it’s best to focus on the positive.
I made it to Amsterdam on a Tuesday evening. Due to an easily preventable, entirely self inflicted issue regarding the transfer of money through various bank accounts, I was on a very tight budget until Friday, so the first order of business was to find somewhere incredibly cheap to have dinner. I struck up a conversation with the only other person in the common room at the Hostel Sarphati — where I was paying $30 a night for a shared room with blood on at least one wall — and that, in short, is how I met John.
John is a 26 year old black man with dreads from Kansas born to military parents currently living in Germany and Italy. Originally enrolled at KU he had partied too hard, as he put it, and ended up with a degree in graphic design from a technical school, but his passion is photography. He seemed like a genuinely nice person so I forgave him his interest in anime and poi. All this I found out on the way to dinner. After the half hour walk it was clear we would be friends until our departures on Friday.
We weren’t ready for bed once we returned to the hostel so we sat in the common room drinking wine where we met Max. A chubby, blond French-Canadian boy with hair to his shoulders, Max seemed nice and I think John and I both liked him immediately. He was pleasant and friendly and was using conversation to bring the room together. Eventually he mentioned he had planned another expedition to the Red Light District and agreed to show us around.
“Put your wallets in your front pockets. I have seen two pickpockets myself since I have been here,” he advised. “Always have your passports on you as well.”
As we walked across the city with Max’s intuition as our only guide (he didn’t own a cellphone and neither John or I had service) he offered more advice, clearly enjoying his role as sherpa:
“People will offer you drugs. Don’t talk to them and keep walking. It isn’t illegal to take drugs but it’s illegal to buy them on the streets.”
“I’ve heard of tourists being hospitalized because of the coke sold on the street recently,” I said.
“Yes, it was actually white heroin. Just keep walking and the dealers will leave you alone.”
A few minutes later a man stepped onto the sidewalk with us and sniffled his nose, an odd subtlety considering he then asked us directly if we were interested in buying cocaine.
As we entered the Red Light District, so-called because of the red lights illuminating the exterior of sex related venues, we stopped at a bar, made it out meeting point since John and Max had been up front about wanting to experience a prostitute, and had several more drinks.
“First, I take you to the peep show,” declared Max. “It’s only 2 euro but last night I spent 40 on a private show and it was worth it. First she tells you it’s only 20 for her to spread her legs, but then she says it’s another 20 for her to touch herself and then 20 more for toys. I did it but I negotiated the price first,” he finished with a happy smile on his face.
The place he showed us was a building with an exterior room open to the street that served as a lobby. There was an information desk at the back, private rooms to the right, and just off-center to the left a closed circular room with about 10 private cabins surrounding it. I stepped in and fed a 2 euro coin into the slot as Max had instructed. Suddenly the frost lifted off the window in front of me and a gorgeous, young brunette woman became visible on the other side of the glass, spreading her legs and smiling as she touched herself. She had a small chest and her only clothes were the tall, black heels that we’re currently inches from my window pane. Around her, the men in the other cabins were visible. Some smiled sheepishly, others stared at her with intense focus, hands somewhere below sight level. The scene was shocking and an unexpected electric feeling coursed through me after every round of eye contact with the model. After a minute or so the brunette got up, left, and was immediately replaced by a tall, slim, blonde woman who looked to be in her 40s. She was very outgoing and I could make her accent out as being English. My window frosted over and I exited to the lobby to wait for John and Max.
We continued along the street, ogling the prostitutes as we passed, and with a few drinks in me and an opening act behind me being propositioned by beautiful women in underwear became very tempting.
“They choose their clients, to a certain extent,” said Max as women tapped on their cabins windows and pointed at him. “If they like you they get your attention, otherwise they just stare in another direction.”
Although that seemed to be the established system, the accuracy of Max’s statement depends on your interpretation of the word ‘like’. The men who were getting the most attention here were those who would get the least amount in more subtle locations. Max, with his long hair and pudgy body gave off the impression that he could still be living in his mother’s basement.
I turned to John. “So what’s your flavor?”
“Either Brazilian or glasses,” he answered without hesitating, clearly thrilled with the turn the night had taken.
“Look at them, those are glasses!” I said, turning his attention to two girls in their mid twenties with impossible proportions and thick square glasses on their noses.
He didn’t bite so we kept walking. A few minutes later as I was talking to Max I noticed John fall back and call out “I think I got one guys, see ya!” He disappeared into a cabin, the curtain was drawn and Max and I continued.
“What about you?” asked Max, “what do you like?”
“I’m ok, I don’t think I’m going to do anything.”
But Max was already walking up to the two closest girls, who already had their door open, asking:
“How much for him?” As he pointed at me. “How much for him? For both of you.”
“Fifty each for both of us,” one of them answered.
“Really, I’m ok, Max,” I said as I started to walk away.
He tried to haggle for an extra second, then gave up and returned next to me as we made our way back to the main canal. No sooner had we crossed over than a door opened for Max, and a woman called out:
“Hey, you, can I ask you a question?”
Max stopped and I joined him outside the cabin door.
“Where you from?” She asked, then before he could answer: “Can I touch your hair?”
He nodded and she stroked his locks. I noticed movement behind her and became distracted by the girl from the adjacent cabin, who was gesturing wildly at me and tapping on the glass.
“Hey! Hey you! Come here!” She shouted. I smiled and shook my head.
“It’s ok, come here,” she said, lifting her hand to her mouth to mime a blowjob. Then she held up 10 fingers: only 10 euro. I smiled some more and shook my head again.
“Why not?” She demanded impatiently. “Come on!” She cried, stamping her foot.
By now Max was entering the cabin so I turned to make my way to the meeting point. I was on my own now and, supporting my theory on which men make the best clients, every prostitute in Amsterdam suddenly wanted my attention. The women I made eye contact with would notice I was alone, become visibly excited, and start to bang on the window energetically. It was a fun walk back to the bar.
Eventually I had to finish my beer. It had been well over 20 minutes since Max had left me, the standard visiting time to a cabin, and pushing 40 since John had disappeared. Images of John getting pummeled in a back room by a big Eastern European pimp flashed through my mind as I left the bar. I saw John standing on the sidewalk, a wild look in his eyes.
“I didn’t have enough money so she sent me to the ATM. I was coming for you but I found one first.”
I couldn’t tell if he was amazed at the experience he’d had or about to be sick so I changed the subject to John.
“It’s been almost 40 minutes, I’m starting to get worried,” I said.
“Should we go look for him then?”
After some confusion we stumbled into the alley we had left John in and found the curtain to his cabin still closed. We walked over to the next one and got the girl’s attention.
“Excuse me,” said Max, “is there a black guy in there? With dreads? Have you seen him come out?”
“Oh, Carla? Yeah Carla is still working,” she answered before shutting the door impatiently.
We walked to the other side of the alley and waited for a few minutes before being approached by a tall man smiling at us.
“Hello! Is this the line?” He asked, flashing a bag full of something brown and sticky just long enough for me to see it out of the corner of my eye.
“Oh, no, no definitely not. Sorry,” I said.
“We’re just waiting on Carla,” said Max, not understanding the situation.
“Oh Carla? She’s lovely, isn’t she? Gorgeous hair, do you think she’d let me cut it off and use it as a wig?” He said, putting his hands on his scalp and holding imaginary pigtails.
“Nah, she’d be out of work for a month,” I told him.
“But wouldn’t I look gorgeous?” He called, walking away.
I pulled my phone out to take notes when suddenly I was being shouted at:
“Hey! Don’t you film me! Don’t film me! Put your phone away!” It was our informant, the prostitute next to Carla. I quickly did as I was told.
As soon as the heroin dealer had left John came walking around the corner, out of breath.
“Oh no? Is she gone? No no no,” he moaned as we reassured him that she hadn’t.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I asked.
“I asked her if it was 50 for sex and she said yes, but then said it would be another 50 for a blowjob, and then another 50 for actual sex,” he was clearly panicked as he explained the situation. “So she sent me to the ATM and kept my passport. She said if I didn’t come back before she left it would be an extra 150 tomorrow.”
My eyes widened as the severity of the situation sunk in. Thankfully, we weren’t there long before Carla’s curtain opened and a relieved John stepped in to deliver his payment.
We started walking back to the hostel, exhausted now that it was three in the morning and the oppressive humidity hadn’t lifted. We followed Max almost blindly, unable to differentiate one canal from another as we sweated it out in the narrow streets of Amsterdam. I was pressing Max for details about his encounter when he stopped melodramatically and said, in his thick Canadian drawl:
“I am telling you, man. These girls are angels. Angels from hell.”
