After about a month of travel, we took it decidedly slower in our explorations of Amsterdam, opting to a get a feel for the city as a local might live rather than doing non-stop sightseeing. Our flight from Dublin to Amsterdam had us arriving later in the evening, so we jumped on a bus and headed to our Airbnb, which straddled the neighborhoods of the quieter Oud-West and the DINK (Double-income, no kids)-infested Jordaan. Needless to say, we fit right in! After climbing three flights of incredibly steep and narrow stairs to drop our bags in the new digs, we realized that we needed to find a place ASAP as it was nearly 10 pm. Luckily, a cute little café nearby, Café Toussaint, was up to the task, and we enjoyed quiche, an antipasto platter, and beer that hit the spot.
The next morning, a canal cruise beckoned, and our English audio guide pointed out the sights and architecture of the city as we drifted along its many man-made waterways. As we later learned in the Amsterdam Museum, this city is an architectural and engineering marvel! Were it not for strategically placed poles under buildings and carefully constructed dams, much of the city would be under water. We also learned at the Amsterdam Museum (a well-crafted, very digestible historical account of the city’s history) about the town’s legacy of leniency and its embrace of diversity. From gay marriage, to prostitution, to drugs, anything was and is permissible in Amsterdam long before it was acceptable elsewhere. The “provos” (provocateurs) of the 60s give San Francisco’s hippy counterculture a run for their money.
The next morning, a canal cruise beckoned, and our English audio guide pointed out the sights and architecture of the city as we drifted along its many man-made waterways. As we later learned in the Amsterdam Museum, this city is an architectural and engineering marvel! Were it not for strategically placed poles under buildings and carefully constructed dams, much of the city would be under water. We also learned at the Amsterdam Museum (a well-crafted, very digestible historical account of the city’s history) about the town’s legacy of leniency and its embrace of diversity. From gay marriage, to prostitution, to drugs, anything was and is permissible in Amsterdam long before it was acceptable elsewhere. The “provos” (provocateurs) of the 60s give San Francisco’s hippy counterculture a run for their money.
While Cameron worked during the days, I found myself lured by the sounds of Amsterdam’s neighborhoods. While sitting on the balcony, I overheard conversations over smoke, quick and violent rainstorms that soon turned to brilliant sunshine, and even chicken squawking in a lower courtyard. Equally, I caught up on some syllabus-building and TV watching, with the Wimbledon finals an ever-present background accompaniment to my work. When Cameron returned from the Amsterdam Gracenote offices on the second day, it was time to go to the place I was most nervous about seeing – the Red Light District.
I had mixed feelings about visiting this area, so like any good researcher, I read some articles and arguments on both sides. I perused a report on how the legalization of prostitution was in fact a good idea because it brought mankind’s oldest “job” into the light and enabled regulation of items such as healthcare. On the other hand, I read another argument about how this industry encouraged human trafficking, particularly of women from poorer countries in Eastern Europe, Asia, and Africa. Feeling ambivalent, my ethnographic curiosity got the better of me, and we set out to wander the streets filled with women dancing in the windows under the red lights…except they weren’t dancing. Actually, mainly, most of them were texting. And most were dressed in what would be modest swimsuit wear on some European topless beaches. The streets at 11 pm were not lined with lewd and sinewy men, but rather with tourists, many who giggled their way through some of the oldest and most architecturally beautiful streets in town. The Red Light District, like Amsterdam itself, felt like a series of paradoxes, inconsistencies, and embraces, all bathed in the glow of magnificent row houses and historic waterways.
I had mixed feelings about visiting this area, so like any good researcher, I read some articles and arguments on both sides. I perused a report on how the legalization of prostitution was in fact a good idea because it brought mankind’s oldest “job” into the light and enabled regulation of items such as healthcare. On the other hand, I read another argument about how this industry encouraged human trafficking, particularly of women from poorer countries in Eastern Europe, Asia, and Africa. Feeling ambivalent, my ethnographic curiosity got the better of me, and we set out to wander the streets filled with women dancing in the windows under the red lights…except they weren’t dancing. Actually, mainly, most of them were texting. And most were dressed in what would be modest swimsuit wear on some European topless beaches. The streets at 11 pm were not lined with lewd and sinewy men, but rather with tourists, many who giggled their way through some of the oldest and most architecturally beautiful streets in town. The Red Light District, like Amsterdam itself, felt like a series of paradoxes, inconsistencies, and embraces, all bathed in the glow of magnificent row houses and historic waterways.
Another element that I had prepared for was a decidedly different issue that was both delicious and disheartening – Indonesian food. I had read (ok learned from Anthony Bourdain) that Amsterdam was known for its Indonesian food. Never mind, that little issue of colonization that paved the way for such a large diasporic population in Amsterdam. Still, when we sat down to order at a cute little spot called Kartika, our taste buds were quickly overwhelmed with a sampling of about 15 different foods that covered our entire table. It was absolutely delicious! But this was actually true of most of the restaurants we tried in the international cuisine atmosphere of diverse Amsterdam. Cameron adored the beer (after all, he says, the Netherlands are sandwiched between Belgium and Germany, so they HAVE to have good beer). I fell in love with a little place called Juice + Salad, which made the freshest – wait for it – juice and salad that I have tasted.
Other sites that we made it to included the Rijksmuseum – a very, very large art museum that featured many Van Goghs, Rembrandts, and Vermeers. I, on the other hand, preferred to escape from the Gallery of Honour to those collections hidden in the attic and basement, spending most of my time looking at fashion through the centuries and the modern and postmodern installation art. While strolling through Vondelpark (and trying not to get too much of a contact high from all of the pot smokers in the gardens), we stopped to watch a modern dance solo concert, marveling at the attentiveness of the audience and their consistent applause. Perhaps, my favorite outing, however, was to the Concertgebouw performance we attended, which featured the Dutch National Orchestra. Playing classics from the movies to the Dutch meant playing a lot of music first intended for ballets that were later featured in movies. We thought that the lead woman was going to be a singer, but instead, it turned out, that she was our Dutch narrator. Not speaking a lick of Dutch and also having the honor of actually sitting in the choral section behind the orchestra, each time the actress cracked a joke, we looked at each other and laughed aloud with the rest of the audience…even though we had no idea what the joke was about.
Other sites that we made it to included the Rijksmuseum – a very, very large art museum that featured many Van Goghs, Rembrandts, and Vermeers. I, on the other hand, preferred to escape from the Gallery of Honour to those collections hidden in the attic and basement, spending most of my time looking at fashion through the centuries and the modern and postmodern installation art. While strolling through Vondelpark (and trying not to get too much of a contact high from all of the pot smokers in the gardens), we stopped to watch a modern dance solo concert, marveling at the attentiveness of the audience and their consistent applause. Perhaps, my favorite outing, however, was to the Concertgebouw performance we attended, which featured the Dutch National Orchestra. Playing classics from the movies to the Dutch meant playing a lot of music first intended for ballets that were later featured in movies. We thought that the lead woman was going to be a singer, but instead, it turned out, that she was our Dutch narrator. Not speaking a lick of Dutch and also having the honor of actually sitting in the choral section behind the orchestra, each time the actress cracked a joke, we looked at each other and laughed aloud with the rest of the audience…even though we had no idea what the joke was about.
One final scene of note – another fateful bike ride for Michelle in Europe (if you want to know the first story, just ask my brother). In this encounter, you must first understand that Amsterdam’s streets are a madhouse. There are bikers, pedestrians, motorcyclists, cars, and trams everywhere. Everyone has their own path, but not everyone stays where they should. Thus, when we hopped on our rented bikes to go visit a cool brewery set in a windmill in the outer city limits, fate decided to place a well-dressed man squarely in my bike path. Cameron, of course, missed him and dinged his bell. The man turned and saw me. I adjusted to the right. He adjusted to the right. I adjusted to the left. He adjusted to the left. And that was all there was time for – BAM. We crashed. Luckily, I insist on going slow at all times, so no one was hurt. But, next time, even though not one of the thousands of bikers I saw was wearing one, I am going to bring a helmet with me to Amsterdam!
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