Amsterdam and the End (Finally)

It took quite some doing (and more than a bit of manipulation of the French Rail System), but I made it out of Nice and, after a day of high-speed training, I was in Amsterdam. Considering the spleen with which I've addressed cannibis and women of ill repute, it probably seems a tad daft to head to their European capital (it's the world capital in marijuana, but I'm pretty sure Bangkok wins for ladies of the night). I choose to see it as facing my adversaries down. So, I wandered in the rain, the first of my trip, and passed many of the famed coffee houses as I struggled to find the hostel.

The office/bar/coffee shop was down from street-level and I descended into the haze and procured a bed, and after having one Heineken (I won't admit to any more after various elders threatened to send me packing to the establishment of the recently bereaved presidential widow due to the alcoholic content of these emails), I went off to find my bed and sleep.

The next morning, the seventh, I left my bags and wandered the city. What with the overcast day, the muted color of the buildings, and the lack of others out and about, I was a tad depressed. Going to the museum at the Anne Frank house didn't help matters. After another museum visit I was in dire need of cheering up and so I went to see the whores.

Even though I rarely care what people think of me, particularly strangers in foreign lands, I was more than a trifle embarrassed when i had to ask twice for directons to the famous Red-Light District. It would appear I don't have a nose for these sorts of things. Upon arrival two things struck me.

The first was that picking prostitutes is apparently like picking a puppy at the pound. Not you, not you, not you... Of course, personality is important in a puppy. I don't think the working girls could hear through the glass if I asked, "What's your favorite movie? Do you watch Oprah?"

My second profound observation was that the day shift was ROUGH. Maybe they trotted out the plain ones for those desperate enough to come calling in broad daylight; maybe beer goggles transform them into irresistable objects of desire; maybe at night, the darkness and red lights make them hard to see and thus mysteriously beautiful or perhaps just not too egregiously slovenly. Oh and they had bad posture. Every single one of them. The hookers of Amsterdam could use a good etiquette class, I think.

Other than the typical travel complaints, the trip back to the US was uneventful. Thus, blessedly (for the readership) ends my European Adventure.

P.S. I was rather amused to see that the first Latin inscription that I could perfectly translate was in Amsterdam, at a peristyle, which said, "Homo Sapiens non urinat in ventum". I think we can all learn from that. I think it's from Cicero.