It’s not uncommon for me to fall in love several times a day. The world is filled with beautiful people and it would be a lie to say I didn’t constantly fall victim to this fact. I’ve talked about the random girl on the train or the pretty barista glanced fleetingly through a storefront window, but there is another type of beauty. One that transcends my juvenile fantasies, plows deeper and leaves me haunted.
I lived in Amsterdam for about five months with my good friend, Alejandro. What had started out as a two-week visit quickly extended itself onward as we explored and fell in love with the city. Sure, there was the weed (goddamn was there weed), but the city itself was incredible. Cobblestone streets and iron wrought bridges where beautiful Moroccans and Dutch residents would glide in ghostly elegance on their bicycles. Young rich kids would putter through the canals in small white boats and at dusk their laughter would drift across the waters and catch you breathless as the sun dipped lower behind the crooked houses bordering the calm waterways.
Amsterdam has some seedy parts. You’ve probably seen or heard of the Red Light District where women sit and wait behind glass doors, faced towards the street, hoping to sell men a fantasy, a warm bed or a something else entirely. I was told the industry itself was managed and women were not abused, but it didn’t really matter. Paying for sex is sad and gross and the whole thing made my stomach crawl. Nevertheless, the area fascinated me. Most nights we’d take a walk through it on our way to our favorite shoarma. In this just quick jaunt I felt like you could see the entire gamut of desperate humanity. Need and want. The wide empty eyes of hopelessness.
The night when this feeling changed was a warm one. We strolled down the avenue slowly as young Moroccan men whispered “Cocaine? Cocaine?” at us as we passed. About midway down the block Alejandro tugged my sleeve and pointed upward at one of the more classier brothel houses. Normally the women didn’t hold much interest for me. I too often could only see someone’s daughter standing alone behind that glass. This time was different.
I don’t know how to describe her. All the flowery bullshit language I could throw at you wouldn’t compare suffice to say there was a pride there, a strength that catapulted her statuesque delicacy into something indefinable. We were struck. We quickly moved on, not being the types to ogle a prostitute, but did so silently. Both of us wordless to describe this magnificence. How could someone pay money to share even a moment with her? How could anyone think that they deserved to touch, talk, and even look upon someone of such majesty? I felt terrible and, this is important, I pitied her.
Three blocks, two falafel sandwiches and one spliff later we relaxed in our favorite coffee shop. Alejandro went pale. He gestured. She had walked in and taken a seat. With her came a man dressed all in white that, by my best recollection, looked like Billy Zane. With them were two of the most adorable children I had ever seen. They laughed. They talked. Truly, I haven’t seen a family so happy since then.
So, what did we learn? I was the idiot. The dunce who had thought he could look down on her and feel pity for her when perhaps the happiness she experienced put his own discontent and loneliness into sharp perspective. I wasn’t the knight in shining armor. I was the sexist puritanical American thinking he could make better decisions then a woman he never even met. Whatta dick. I still would never pay anyone for sex, but I won’t judge someone by their chosen profession again.
My mind still wanders back to her and my time there. Amsterdam was a strange place.
And that Richard Gere Julia Roberts Pretty Woman bullshit is BULLSHIT.
It’s not uncommon for me to fall in love several times a day. The world is filled with beautiful people and it would be a lie to say I didn’t constantly fall victim to this fact. I’ve talked about the random girl on the train or the pretty barista glanced fleetingly through a storefront window, but there is another type of beauty. One that transcends my juvenile fantasies, plows deeper and leaves me haunted.
I lived in Amsterdam for about five months with my good friend, Alejandro. What had started out as a two-week visit quickly extended itself onward as we explored and fell in love with the city. Sure, there was the weed (goddamn was there weed), but the city itself was incredible. Cobblestone streets and iron wrought bridges where beautiful Moroccans and Dutch residents would glide in ghostly elegance on their bicycles. Young rich kids would putter through the canals in small white boats and at dusk their laughter would drift across the waters and catch you breathless as the sun dipped lower behind the crooked houses bordering the calm waterways.
Amsterdam has some seedy parts. You’ve probably seen or heard of the Red Light District where women sit and wait behind glass doors, faced towards the street, hoping to sell men a fantasy, a warm bed or a something else entirely. I was told the industry itself was managed and women were not abused, but it didn’t really matter. Paying for sex is sad and gross and the whole thing made my stomach crawl. Nevertheless, the area fascinated me. Most nights we’d take a walk through it on our way to our favorite shoarma. In this just quick jaunt I felt like you could see the entire gamut of desperate humanity. Need and want. The wide empty eyes of hopelessness.
The night when this feeling changed was a warm one. We strolled down the avenue slowly as young Moroccan men whispered “Cocaine? Cocaine?” at us as we passed. About midway down the block Alejandro tugged my sleeve and pointed upward at one of the more classier brothel houses. Normally the women didn’t hold much interest for me. I too often could only see someone’s daughter standing alone behind that glass. This time was different.
I don’t know how to describe her. All the flowery bullshit language I could throw at you wouldn’t compare suffice to say there was a pride there, a strength that catapulted her statuesque delicacy into something indefinable. We were struck. We quickly moved on, not being the types to ogle a prostitute, but did so silently. Both of us wordless to describe this magnificence. How could someone pay money to share even a moment with her? How could anyone think that they deserved to touch, talk, and even look upon someone of such majesty? I felt terrible and, this is important, I pitied her.
Three blocks, two falafel sandwiches and one spliff later we relaxed in our favorite coffee shop. Alejandro went pale. He gestured. She had walked in and taken a seat. With her came a man dressed all in white that, by my best recollection, looked like Billy Zane. With them were two of the most adorable children I had ever seen. They laughed. They talked. Truly, I haven’t seen a family so happy since then.
So, what did we learn? I was the idiot. The dunce who had thought he could look down on her and feel pity for her when perhaps the happiness she experienced put his own discontent and loneliness into sharp perspective. I wasn’t the knight in shining armor. I was the sexist puritanical American thinking he could make better decisions then a woman he never even met. Whatta dick. I still would never pay anyone for sex, but I won’t judge someone by their chosen profession again.
I lived in Amsterdam for about five months with my good friend, Alejandro. What had started out as a two-week visit quickly extended itself onward as we explored and fell in love with the city. Sure, there was the weed (goddamn was there weed), but the city itself was incredible. Cobblestone streets and iron wrought bridges where beautiful Moroccans and Dutch residents would glide in ghostly elegance on their bicycles. Young rich kids would putter through the canals in small white boats and at dusk their laughter would drift across the waters and catch you breathless as the sun dipped lower behind the crooked houses bordering the calm waterways.
Amsterdam has some seedy parts. You’ve probably seen or heard of the Red Light District where women sit and wait behind glass doors, faced towards the street, hoping to sell men a fantasy, a warm bed or a something else entirely. I was told the industry itself was managed and women were not abused, but it didn’t really matter. Paying for sex is sad and gross and the whole thing made my stomach crawl. Nevertheless, the area fascinated me. Most nights we’d take a walk through it on our way to our favorite shoarma. In this just quick jaunt I felt like you could see the entire gamut of desperate humanity. Need and want. The wide empty eyes of hopelessness.
The night when this feeling changed was a warm one. We strolled down the avenue slowly as young Moroccan men whispered “Cocaine? Cocaine?” at us as we passed. About midway down the block Alejandro tugged my sleeve and pointed upward at one of the more classier brothel houses. Normally the women didn’t hold much interest for me. I too often could only see someone’s daughter standing alone behind that glass. This time was different.
I don’t know how to describe her. All the flowery bullshit language I could throw at you wouldn’t compare suffice to say there was a pride there, a strength that catapulted her statuesque delicacy into something indefinable. We were struck. We quickly moved on, not being the types to ogle a prostitute, but did so silently. Both of us wordless to describe this magnificence. How could someone pay money to share even a moment with her? How could anyone think that they deserved to touch, talk, and even look upon someone of such majesty? I felt terrible and, this is important, I pitied her.
Three blocks, two falafel sandwiches and one spliff later we relaxed in our favorite coffee shop. Alejandro went pale. He gestured. She had walked in and taken a seat. With her came a man dressed all in white that, by my best recollection, looked like Billy Zane. With them were two of the most adorable children I had ever seen. They laughed. They talked. Truly, I haven’t seen a family so happy since then.
So, what did we learn? I was the idiot. The dunce who had thought he could look down on her and feel pity for her when perhaps the happiness she experienced put his own discontent and loneliness into sharp perspective. I wasn’t the knight in shining armor. I was the sexist puritanical American thinking he could make better decisions then a woman he never even met. Whatta dick. I still would never pay anyone for sex, but I won’t judge someone by their chosen profession again.
My mind still wanders back to her and my time there. Amsterdam was a strange place.
And that Richard Gere Julia Roberts Pretty Woman bullshit is BULLSHIT.
