Spuistraat backstreet, Amsterdam
Amsterdam, The Netherlands – English geezers on stag parties. Whores and red lights. Green plumes of smoke drifting from coffee shops.
That’s what I thought of when my friend Andy invited me to visit Amsterdam with him for a long weekend recently. And you know what, I was right. It was all these things. Luckily, it was also a lot more.
But first, the red light district. My first look at this scene was walking from the train station to our hotel late on Friday night. I was humping my backpack and chatting away to Andy when I noticed out of the corner of my eye an inviting shape waving at me to my left. Probably no more than two metres away. I turned to look. And was confronted by a beautiful girl, probably no more than two metres away from me and divided only by a pane of glass, wearing nothing but a very skinny bathing suit and an enchanting smile.
Embarrassed, I quickly looked away – to the other side of the street. Where there was another girl behind another red lit window. She was beautiful too. She saw me look and her smile lit up as she tapped the glass to beckon me over. Oh no! I looked away again, upwards towards the sky. There were more windows with more girls up there.
We practically ran for it. The entire street was dotted with red lanterns and behind each window was a girl, moving suggestively. The effect of the black light made the whole thing seem surreal. Like they were toys in a plastic wrapped box.
The real red light district
Turns out our hotel wasn’t even in the red light area proper. After checking in and grabbing the third mate on the trip, Mike, we headed out into the red light district. We set up shop outside the Old Sailor and drank half litre mugs of sudsy Amstel beer while we watched the crowds walk past.
Gangs of English blokes in uniforms of shaved heads, gold chains and leisure wear prowled the streets. A few timid package tourists, wives gripping husbands’ arms, walked by in wonderment. Stoners stumbled by with bleary red eyes. Roving gangs of Italian lads in red Ferrari jackets chatted away excitedly, only stopping to stare the girls in the windows up and down.
Hard men in leather jackets called for business outside neon-lit sex shows. Punters matter-of-factly browsed the aisles of porn shops – at 12.20am – flicking through almost every genre and fetish imaginable.
Across the canal from the pub we watched what we later learned was the most expensive window in the strip do a roaring trade. The lads brave enough to leave the cheers of the crowd behind and negotiate with the girl lasted, by our estimation, about eight minutes in her upstairs bedroom. Maximum. And the going rate was apparently more than 50 euros for 15 minutes.
See the Amsterdam photo gallery here.
Backpack Storybook tip: We stayed at The Tourist Inn for 165 euro per night for three single beds. Nothing flash, quite small but a great location. Expensive for what it was, but Amsterdam’s like that with accomodation.
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