My Trip to Amsterdam With My Parents
My undefined & unfiltered thoughts on sex, and its industry.
My dad had always wanted to go to Amsterdam. And so my mum, for Christmas, decided that it was time that he should go.
With me and my mum.
To be honest, I thought it had been a good idea. A few weeks before Christmas, my mum wanted to run down with me what she had planned for dad as a Christmas gift and, of course, tickets to Amsterdam was one of them. My mum had pretty much prepped as if she was pitching an idea to a business company; pictures, statements and all. She was planning on booking an Air BnB for the three of us, and it was on this cosy, open plan boathouse that sits on top of one of the many canals that Amsterdam is surrounded by. And the place was just a bus drive to the city, which was convenient.
I was super excited, and so I asked about when it would be. And she told me.
On Valentine’s Day.
My face kind of fell. Valentine’s Day was meant to be a day for lovers (and the day for singles to celebrate being single, anyway). Even so, Valentine’s Day is meant for showing and appreciating the emotion of love and, as long as I saw it that way, I felt comfortable being the third-wheel of my mum and dad in Amsterdam.
However, I did face another dilemma. I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend, and celebrate Valentine’s Day with him as well. And when I told my mum about the situation, she simply replied with.
“He can come along too.”
I was looking forward to go to Amsterdam at that point, but wasn’t sure what to anticipate with both my parents, and my boyfriend, and the infamous “City of Sin”. Even when my mum handed the tickets to my dad on Christmas Day, I was waiting to see his reaction and then evaluate whether I should be worried about the whole thing; it was positive, so I was betting it’d be good bonding time with both my family, and my boyfriend at the same time.
As it got nearer to February, with all parties booking the days off, and the place of stay set, I was eager to see everything. I think all of us were curious about Amsterdam, and I think EVERYTHING about Amsterdam.
On the weekend of Valentine’s Day 2016, my mum had planned out most things, like drinking vodka and orange juice in a room full of ice, and passing a diamond factory on a canal cruise, and eating food, like chocolate and cheese. We also had beautiful delicacies of cuisine. There was this famous street food my dad had mentioned which included mayonnaise, a brown sauce of some kind, and onion, slathered all over a generous portion of chips. We also went to the Heineken museum where we got the chance to get drunk again with a couple of free pints each for getting the exclusive tour. And I even got to ice skate and fall on my arse a few times (not being drunk at the same time).
Eventually, we knew that we wouldn’t have seen the entirety of Amsterdam without seeing the infamous Red Light District.
I remember it was about 7pm, sometime very early evening, and the street itself was dark, because Winter was finishing but the days were still ending short. And the few lights that lit up the streets at the time were fluorescent lights, and red curtains.
I stood there, hand-in-hand, with my boyfriend, and my parents walked in front of us doing the same. We passed a few dormant rooms, that seemed like stalls awaiting something to be propped inside, and signs saying “No Photographs” and “No Flash Photography”. And I was thinking to myself that these girls must be beautiful, and I got a little worried.
It is legal to be a sex worker within Amsterdam. People had the choice for it to be a certain career path for them. Even in a family who has raised me to love, care, and respect any individual, I still felt that sex work is still a taboo, and frowned upon. I feel like if anyone I knew went into sex work, I’d feel that it wasn’t on their own whim, that it wasn’t their first choice, or that they couldn’t be who they wanted to be because of certain circumstances. Did these people want to be where they want to be?
Maybe I was thinking too much about it, and that’s when I began to feel a little bit uncomfortable.
It got awkward with me, my parents, and my boyfriend. It felt like we were waiting for something to happen, we were waiting for the people to come out, at least that’s what I was thinking.
It was pretty early when we left the main city as we never got to see the typical ‘woman in a window’ scenario like you see in the movies.
Maybe I’m wrong about all their situations, maybe they don’t give a damn about what I think about. But I felt that if I was looking at them, whilst they’re displaying themselves, was a sense of disrespect to them in some way, even though I know that the whole point of their job is to practically sell their body.
I didn’t know whether it was sad, or reassuring, if people didn’t care about the choice of a career path in the sex industry. Did it mean that people were more accepting? Was it a way to live life?
My parents have always kept me well-travelled. And I think it’s just because they take pride, and work very hard at what they do to, just like any parent, provide for themselves and the people close to them. And maybe that’s what sex workers are doing too.
Even so, despite knowing about the Red Light District beforehand, I still recall it as one of the few times I faced a culture shock. I remember lying in bed on the night thinking we didn’t see much, or anything at all. But I was still curious about it.
With thanks to Leah Hockley.
