Amsterdam

Having stopped off for waffles and beer in Belgium- undoubtedly the best waffle I’ve ever had, and itself more than enough reason to return- we arrived in Amsterdam at the fantastical rail station. We were immediately greeted by music, an oboe sweetly rendering What a Wonderful World. Ready to drop our bags and wander around a bit, we began the search for the hostel.

We managed to find a bar with the same name as the hostel, and without another clue as to where the hostel might be, we decided to ask the barkeep. “checking in?” he asked us, and when we nodded he launched into his clearly very practiced speech detailing the rules of the hostel.

With our bags tucked away and a bit of daylight left, we began to wander the compact city. Cobbled streets and small, crowded sidewalks, and bands of bicycles filled in the space between the buildings and the canals. One building, maybe 45 meters from the hostel-bar, became immediately of interest to me. The straightforwardly marked Live Sex Show glowed in red letters above what looked like a reception room with hanging pictures of porn plainly displayed for passers-by. We had unwittingly wandered into the red light or perhaps my instincts had taken us there. But it was time to eat and Darren had demanded a walkabout through the Chinatown we discovered during the search for the hostel. Dutch dim sum? Yes please.

After several hours of walking into, out of, and around Chinatown and the Red Light, one thing became clear to me: the Red Light is an opt-in oubliette. With little to navigate by after sunset, the district becomes a maze, and you find yourself using the ladies of the night as landmarks. They are displayed, red lights emanating from above them, like indecent advertisements in windows closed until a beau becomes a john. No longer blank-faced, the johns hop into the windows often looking as though they have cracked the riddle of the maze and are about to slip into the very portal that will get them out. Those who could not pay the ladies looked altogether distraught, as if they’d discovered the only way out was through the sort of self-mutilation they hadn’t the courage to endure. In fact, several who had initially walked in through a window soon came running out, repeating, “not for me!”

Bright red lights blanket the walls of the alleyways, the cobbled streets, and the endless glassy-eyed faces that wander them. But there are some oases. One in particular saved us that night: the very aptly named Waffles n Crepes. Freshly pressed waffles and Crepes, with sweet and savory choices available, are the pillars of this bustling business which was cleverly situated across the street from one of the famed Amsterdam coffee shops. It was a god-send and a great end to the evening.