Red Light District Part 1

“Natascha – the only pro in whose window I’d dare to go…”  

Yes, Dear Reader, Hank Moody visits the Red Light district in Amsterdam. How could I not? There is something deeply comforting knowing that a place like this exists in the world. Not just prostitution – which exists everywhere, even Utah – but a place that has the common sense to admit it. Amsterdam.

In America, Amsterdam is depicted as depraved and dangerous – a social experiment gone wrong, full of drug-injecting, baby-killing, baby-injecting terrorists. What they don’t tell us is that the city is historically beautiful, modern where it needs to be, relatively clean, and – above all – safe. Where in America would I find Marieke: a single, young, woman on her way home from the club alone at 2 in the morning? (don’t worry, I took good care of her) (until appx. 4:30 in the morning).

In America, sex is dirty and wrong, but guns are okay. Here, guns are out of the picture. And as for sex, you could probably flag down a police officer in the middle of masturbating and they’d help you finish off. In fact, just the fact that the Red Light district exists in this town gives the rest of the place such a relaxed vibe that I wouldn’t technically need to go there… but who are we kidding?

The only obscene thing about the Red Light district is that they plunked it down right in the middle of the oldest and most beautiful neighborhood in the city. A fitting homage to the world’s oldest profession. It’s as if the Red Light district is the reason Amsterdam exists in the first place. There should be museum of all the Best Tricks from the Golden Age: The vixens of the East India Trading Company, Henry Hudson’s ho, the Concubine who gave the clap to the Pilgrims, who gave it to America.

The Red Light district is billed – by some – as an outdoor theme park for adults. Like one big Disneyland for sex tourism. It’s a Balled World After All. Butt-Pirates of the Caribbean. And, of course, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. What I wasn’t expecting was the House of Horrors, which is how I would describe the experience of window-shopping for women – many of whom looked pretty well picked-over. Until I met her.

To be continued.