2 posts tagged “holland”

7 September 2007

I've never gotten dressed and packed so quickly or quietly in my life.  I nearly broke a toe with all the moving around on my toes, but it was worth it; Andrew and I got out of the hostel before Virgil had woken or moved a muscle from his bed.  With that load off my shoulders, the only one I had to handle was the literal load of my backpack as we took the long walk across the city to the Rijksmuseum, where we met Megan and walked to her hostel after the security guards informed us that we weren't allowed inside with our backpacks, not even just to drop them in the cloakroom.  Thankfully, her hostel was close, and we had no further trouble with Security once we got back to the museum (since we're such troublemakers and all). 

Am I incriminating myself to say that the three of us got into the museum for free?  I'm sure that's what Dutch museum officials do in their spare time -- troll the internet to find blogs where American tourists admit that they lied about their age in order to gain free admission.  There, I said it.  We pulled this a few times over the course of the trip; bless the Europeans and their discounts, and their trusting ways.  They didn't so much as blink at the Rijksmuseum when we said that we were 18; just waved us on through.  Score one for looking like I'm still in high school.  Everyone keeps telling me that I'll love it when I'm 40, but as I still have 20 years to go, I appreciate the occasional bone thrown my way.  Genial Bartender last night wouldn't believe that Andrew and I were 20 after we told him.  He kept saying, "It's alright, you don't have to lie, I'm still going to serve you guys; how old are you really?"  It was nice to be able to put those baby faces to good use today.

I liked the museum more than I was expecting.  Paintings never have had much of a hold on me, but I hadn't realized beforehand that the Rijksmuseum features much more than paintings by Vermeer and Rembrandt (or, as my Red Sox-starved brain started referring to him as I sat in the galleries and watched the tour groups go by, Remmie).  There was a huge section on the Dutch East India Trading Company, cases full of old ornate weapons and silver, and these incredible dollhouses that you had to get on a ladder to see the entirety of.  I said that they were pretty damn cool toys -- and then someone pointed out the plaque that said these were not toys; these were exact replicas of the houses of Dutch young brides, each of whom then outfitted the dollhouse like a miniature version of her home.  Dutch ladies sure had a lot of time on their hands in the 16th and 17th centuries.

I wasn't especially excited about the rooms full of paintings by Rembrandt and Vermeer, as my earlier comment probably suggested.  I wound up resting my feet on the large benches in the middle of the rooms while Andrew and Megan listened to their audioguides and studied the paintings.  It's such a strange culture we live in, jostling each other with delusions of politeness while lining up to slowly pass in front of a painting of a woman pouring a glass of milk, peering closely at it and making 'Ooh' and 'Ahhhh' sorts of noises.  What is there to ooh and ahh about? It's a bunch of paint on a canvas.  I know, I know, again: philistine, heathen, I don't appreciate the finer things in life, etc. etc. 

I felt for the guides who were taking the groups through.  If the art had any meaning at all to them in the first place, does it get drummed out after leading groups of tourists through and regurgitating the same information, all day, every day?  I couldn't help but think of the way that, if I say a word enough times in a row, it slowly warps until the meaning has fled my mind somewhere along the way, and I'm left wondering, 'What is "potato," anyway?'

Once Andrew and Megan had had their fill of paintings, and I mine of cool old weapons, we picked up our backpacks from Megan's hostel and had lunch in Vondelpark.  Andrew had been carrying around a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese for the past day or so, and the three of us had a feast of amazing bread and cheese that he'd found at a bakery or a deli or something along those lines.  It was a lovely park, incredibly green, and even nicer, there were people using it everywhere.  People walking their dogs, sunning themselves, eating lunch, napping on benches, walking hand-in-hand.  From what (admittedly, little) I've seen, Europeans really use the green spaces that they have.  After our lunch, Andrew and I said goodbye to Megan with plans to meet up with her in Amsterdam again a few days later, to travel to Germany together, and we took that long-ass walk back across the canals, through the crowds watching street performers, past the sex museum and the fry stands, to Centraal Station. 

When we arrived in the Hague (Den Haag, my soul cries out for me to use, but I said I'm going with the presumptuous Anglicized names and I'm sticking to my guns here), we were totally lost.  We had nothing but a GoogleMap printout and a vague idea of where we were, and we wandered the streets, looking helpless with said GoogleMap printout.  However, good fortune was ours.  We looked pathetic enough that a woman on a bike waiting at a red light called over to us and asked if we needed help.  We showed her where we were trying to get to, she pointed out which way to go and gave directions even after her light had turned green, and then we went our separate ways.  I was really surprised and completely delighted to have had a complete stranger offer to help us like that, and, even better, she turned out to be 100% correct!  We reached the hostel on the strength of her directions, with no further trouble.

I'll have to give more of an impression of the Hague tomorrow; I haven't seen enough of it yet today, and everything's closed for the night.  The hostel is grand; six beds, lockable cabinets in the actual room, a table and chairs, OUR OWN TOILET AND SHOWER-- The Hague is worth it already, just for the hostel.  There's a great view of the city from the window, too!  We ate at the bar, where  I continued my grand (legal!) Heineken tradition, and also my grand legal lightweight tradition, and then we went out to see what we could of the city.  We didn't get very far; just to a market to buy food and water, and I took way too many blurry, bad pictures.  When we got back to the hostel and were still the only people in the room right up until 8:30 or 9:00,  we began to have visions of spreading our stuff out across all six beds and the floor, but alas, it wasn't meant to be.  A key turned in the lock, and we met Neil and ... I'm going to go with Gerrish, but I'm really not sure that that was how you spell it.  They were cousins, Neil from Boston and Gerrish from Britain.  Boston-cousin had just finished his masters degree, and was going on a trip as a present to himself, with British cousin happily tagging along.  They're nice guys, really funny; I wish they were going to be here longer, but it's just the one night for them. 

Within ten minutes, Gerrish had offered us Jaffa cakes and said "cracking." It was the best thing ever.

Another pair followed shortly after the two of them; a Greek woman and a Greek-American man (or maybe it was the other way around; I'm not entirely sure).  She asked if Andrew and I were together, and there was this awkward pause, the kind that comes just before two people start laughing in your face, and she quickly added, 'Traveling together.'  They were friendly, too, and now the four of them have gone off (separately) for food, and while we can't use all the beds, Andrew and I have still had this place entirely to ourselves all day and night.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.  All caught up, now I sleep.

-- Except, wow, I can't believe I didn't write about this.  Maybe I'm trying to block it out of my memory?  I had Bank Drama today.  My account got locked because of some personal idiocy that I carried out right before I left the States (I called to make sure it wouldn't get locked -- and I didn't know the answers to all of the identity-verifying questions that the operator asked me), and I had two women trying to tell me that I could not unfreeze my account without setting foot in a My Bank branch.  I tried to explain to them that I was on a continent where there was not a single My Bank branch, and would be so until December, but they were Just Not Getting it.  Finally, after a great deal of crying and flailing at my mom, and an obscene amount of money spent on phone minutes, and some calculated crying at Bank Man on the phone, I got him to talk to his supervisor, who said that I just have to go to any bank here and get them to fax copies of two forms of picture ID, on bank letterhead, to Bank of Great Fail.  He gave me a fax number.  Here's hoping it actually works.

8 September 2007

Well, that sucked.

The Dutch bank that I went to this morning very politely told me that they cannot send a fax for me, gave me the immediate impression that it was an incredibly weird request, and said they did not know of any European bank that would do what my idiot American bank told me they would do.  They told me to send a fax from the telephone shop or to go to my bank (ha fucking ha).  My day has been consumed by this, mostly. 

Back at the hostel, which I had to return to after striking out with the polite Dutch bank, I spoke more with the Greek and Greek-American couple in our room.  They were very nice, indignant on my behalf after hearing some of my half of the conversations with My Stupid Bank, and Victor entertained me with stories of his crazy adventures in London until I felt un-furious enough that I thought I could stand to go out again.

I did walk down to the older section of town, which is lovely.  It's a modern city with wide streets, tram lines and all, but with old buildings.  I'm going to be sad to say goodbye to the canals, though I know I'll see canals galore in Venice.  I wandered through a marketplace and past Oude Kerk (there's one in every Dutch city?); it reminded me of Amsterdam, really, but less touristy and less packed.  The streets were a little more open.  The old buildings that I mentioned pop up here and there, unexpectedly.  I met up with Andrew, who had been getting his museum on, and he went on to Delft, a nearby village and/or town, while I settled in to nap and go to war with my bank, and update this.

I met our two new roommates; a British couple, our age, finishing their travels before getting to uni for their third year.  They've been all over the place for the past two weeks, and had forboding words about the frozen north that is Berlin.  They said that they're very tired of traveling, and very ready to go home.  I'm not sure how well this bodes for us, when we're traveling a week more.  Hopefully, they just have weak constitutions?

Wow.  I just budgeted out my entire trip so far, and, fudging aside and if I continue in these same spending patterns (which I won't; rail to the Czech Republic and back out again, Italy, Paris...), I'll be significantly under my budget for the trip.  I am a golden god!

* * * * *

I finally got the bank problem settled, with the able assistance of Mom and her ability to walk into a bank and talk people into things.  It's all set.  Cue me sighing a giant sigh of relief.  Quiet night in the Hague. 

5 September 2007

I need to start keeping:

A) better notes
B) better track of money spent.  Urk.

Today we got up, said goodbye to Megan with the possibility of seeing her again in Amsterdam, and we took the subway to the train station for the last time, and from there, went on to Antwerp.  Or, if you'd rather, Antwerpen.  I tend to like the idea of using a city's traditional name, but then I look at Prague, and as much fun as 'Praha' is to say (pretend like you're making an evil scientist laugh out of it.  PRAHA.  PRAHA.  see?  fun), I can't bring myself to avoid calling it Prague, and I am nothing if not consistent.  If one city goes with the presumptuous English-translated name, all cities go with the presumptuous English-translated name.

The train took about an hour, and at first, I was unimpressed with Antwerp.  It felt like any modern city.  It was incredibly gray, on a wet day, and I was carrying my heavy backpack, which I disliked for two reasons. One, mine was heavy for me.  Two, they marked us immediately as tourists and strangers. However, despite my existential issues with my backpack, we walked and walked until we turned a corner and saw the steeple of De Kathedraal rising over narrowing streets.

The McDonald's on the corner was kind of a drag.  Granted, it was a pretty McDonald's, set in and amongst the tiny midieval-looking storefronts on the cobblestone street, but it did wreck the ambiance.  You know, just a little. 

We ducked down a few streets in the mist and came out in a square, just in front of the cathedral.  It was soaring, incredible, even on a dismal day.  Inside, we paid the two Euro entrance fee and left our bags under the watchful eye of the bored security guard, and found that the interior was just as impressive as the exterior.  There were a few sections being renovated, so they were covered in scaffolding from floor to very high ceiling.  There were several enormous paintings by Rubens, who is apparently a very famous Belgian painter.  I know, I know, I'm fine arts philistine; what do you want from me?  What I liked most about De Kathedraal in Antwerp was the peace and quiet.  I picked up two postcards--from the giftshop inside the church, which struck me as a little odd--and sat in a pew in the back to fill them out. 

Once Andrew had had his fill of Rubens, we went back outside to find Antwerp's market, in a set-up that once again reminded me of Brussels', but less snazzy.  However, Antwerp's had a fountain involving a sculture with a man holding his own severed hand.  I don't know how Brussels could possibly have topped that.  Andrew got some Belgian fries--which did taste different than normal fries, though I couldn't possibly articulate why or how; all I know is that I really, really liked them--and we walked back to the train station.

Antwerp's train station, for the record, is absolutely stunning.  Vaulted ceilings, beautifully designed enormous glass windows, would have looked beautiful -- if it hadn't been heavily under construction.  How's that like my life?

I have little to no memory of the train ride to Amsterdam; my best guess is that I slept, which is something I've really been honing my skills at.  Drink cart! [Note: I have no idea what this means or what I was referring to.  My notes just contain the wacky interjection 'drink cart!']

Once we got to Amsterdam, we hooked a left out of the train station and started to walk.  It was a gray day, almost misty, but Amsterdam was still a hell of a sight.  There's a canal every time you turn a corner, with barges and tourist boats making their way through the city.  The sheer number of bicycles is overwhelming.  The streets are narrow, many cobblestoned, and lined with shops and populated by small cars, but they stop for pedestrians.The bikes do not. I fear for my life from the bikes.  The bike lanes are everywhere, and I have a particular knack for not noticing when I'm walking in one.  Cyclists seem to have the right of way over all. 

We walked for what felt like ages but probably took a half an hour to 45 minutes, and found ourselves at our hostel.  It's pretty standard; a lobby on the ground floor, a bar upstairs (I like the bar; it feels like a real one, looking out on a canal), and the rooms above that.  I was a little stunned when I walked into our room; there are 21 beds.  Thankfully, though, it seems to be set up well; each pair of two bunk beds (so four beds in all) has its own little section, and is partially walled off from the rest of the room.  Our neighbors in the two beds across from us were some loud English guys on their last night in Amsterdam.  I'm starting to realize that maybe the situation at the hostel in Brussels, where everyone was friendly and hung out together with ease, isn't normal.  These guys definitely weren't very friendly.  There's no real place to hand out besides the bar, which isn't open most of the day.  But the room is clean, the breakfast is free, and the window at my feet looks out on the canal.  Perfect.

Andrew and I dropped off our stuff, and we went to the Anne Frank House.  The whole thing felt -- it was incredibly surreal, as I walked through what had once been the office, and made my way up into the annex through the narrow staircase.  I could not grasp that I was standing in the same place that Anne Frank once had; that she had written the diaries that would become the book that I read here.  It was hard to picture it as it was; the house was bare besides the exhibit materials.  There were no furnishings or attempts to make it look like it had.  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?  I'm not entirely sure.  It was crowded, particularly with American tourists; some visitors were visibly moved.  One man walked through, reading everything carefully, carrying a single flower with tears streaming down his face.  I've never seen anyone cry in such a dignified manner.  I wished I'd felt even a fraction of what he did.  Am I inured to suffering by now?  Is it culture?  Is it all of the reading that I've done related to violence studies?  Or is it just that my feet hurt and I was cranky? Je ne sais pas.

After the Anne Frank House, we walked and walked in search of affordable dinner.  We finally settled on an Argentinean steakhouse, where they hauled people in off the street (sample conversation: "You speak English?  Yes, yes, you should eat here!  We make [this], [this], [this], and [this], all excellent, at very good prices.   Oh, you want to eat somewhere else?  But it is better here; come and have a meal with us," on and on and on until, more often than not, the prospective customer wound up becoming an actual customer).  I had amazing chorizo (spicy Argentinean sausage), and bread.  I'm going to explode from all of the bread, pasta, and French fries I've been eating, I think.  Possibly, I should look into this whole 'balanced diet' thing.

After dinner, we walked back to the hostel, where the discovery was made that I am horrific at chess, and then we started walking toward the infamous Red Light District.  Halfway there, my body rebelled against me, and I turned around and went back to the hostel to crawl into bed.  Once again, Enya has saved my life.  Shivering, shaking, nauseous, in pain, and feeling alone and far from home?  Listen to Enya.  Everything gets better.  Never fail.

I got the best night's sleep that I've gotten since arriving in Europe -- eight blissful, full, uninterrupted hours.  There were 20 other people in the room, but it was quiet, the street noises muted, church bells in the distance...

I am never going to underestimate the value of a good night's sleep ever again.

6 September 2007

Up at nine, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (or, more accurately, sleepy and fumbly), for breakfast with Andrew, and then he headed off for adventures in art, while I took the best shower ever.  Another thing that I solemnly swear to never unvalue again: showers.  Showers with good water pressure, hot water, and where you don't have to, A: hold the showerhead over yourself, or B: lean on a button because the water automatically turns off every 20 seconds.  I understand that that's conserving water and most of the time I'm all for it, but I appreciate environmentalism less when I'm standing in the cold with a head full of goopy conditioner.

After my gorgeous shower of happiness, I hiked 45 minutes or so south through the city, to the former Colonial Institute, now known as the Royal Tropical Institute (KIT) -- Tropenmuseum.  See notes on Tropenmuseum map and on back of itinerary.  [Note: The Tropenmuseum map and the itinerary are currently hiding from me.]  In a nutshell, it was a strange experience.  There was a large exhibit on former Dutch colonies, with mentions of unrest and imperialist propaganda, but no discussion of the treatment of the natives at the hands of the Dutch settlers and Dutch government, or what caused said unrest.  It was interesting to look at it from the point of view of the outsider that I am.  Where did all of the artifacts in these nice, shiny cases come from?  They were "acquired" or "collected," according to the placards.  The whole thing felt very strange, walking through the aisles in a museum in Europe and hearing English and Dutch voices telling me all about the East Indies.  I wonder if the Smithsonian would feel like that now; we'll see about the British Museum.  I haven't been to enough American museums to be able to compare approaches, really, but it would make an interesting study.  All in all, it was a fascinating museum; I stayed for hours.

I slowly wandered back to the hostel, inordinately proud of my navigational skills for getting me there and back without so much as one wrong turn, and I ran into Andrew on the street long enough to say hi and bye again.  I went in a new direction, into shops; among ridiculous sex shops and stores with porn and whips in the display windows, I found a "tiny supermarket," as its sign advertised it.  "Tiny supermarket" sold only chips, drinks, bread, and chocolate.  Some day, I will find somewhere that sells fruit and tissues.  Some day. 

I'm taking a break in the hostel lobby now (after being asked directions on the street!  I apparently look like I know where I'm going!), and am unsure of where Andrew is.  I could walk in search of internet (it's 1,50 Euos for 15 minutes here; ridiculous), but -- feet hurt.  But need internet.

But feet hurt.

Decisions, decisions.

* * * * *

As usual, my need for the internet outweighed all potential physical discomfort.  I walked off the main street and found a little bar.  There were a couple of French guys there, a couple of British guys, the bartender, and me.  But it actually wasn't weird at all; the French guy on the stool next to me said 'hey' and then went back to minding his own business; the bartender was nice and helpful without being overly familiar or creepy.  I got a Heineken to pass the time while I waited for a guy to get off the place's only computer.  I'd drank half -- listening to the conversations around me, watching the French guys smoke pot, and trying to read a Dutch-language newspaper -- by the time I got the computer.  I sent a couple of e-mails and checked Facebook, and by that point, I was a little tipsy. 

A word of advice, kids: drunk-LiveJournaling is never a good idea.  Don't do it. 

Of course, I did it anyway.

I managed to get back to the hostel despite a wrong turn or two, grinning all the while.  It was okay, though, because I took a picture on one of the wrong turns that is totally going to turn out to my one of my best. [Note: I was right.]  I got back, made it upstairs, met the new guy in bed B1 across from us.  Virgil (note: this is not his real name), we figured out after several minutes of elementary English, has lived in Spain at some point in his life, so we switched over to elementary Spanish.  I think I understood some of what he was saying.  He's a construction worker in his forties, working on a building, he'd thought I was British at first, and he's resting now because he's been drinking for the past two days over a broken heart.  I think.  He was very nice, if shaky and a little incoherent in both languages, and we had a pleasant-enough chat before I headed off for a shower and sleep.  And here I am again in the hostel lobby, finishing off a cheap set of rolls from Tiny Supermarket (I hope those were poppy seeds and not mold) to get something in my stomach besides Dutch beer.  The rolls are gone, the water is very nearly, and I suppose I ought to figure out where Andrew is.

* * * * *

I went to the bar and had ... gazpacho-thing?  Goulash; Hungarian soup.  Andrew finally wandered in -- with Megan from Brussels in tow.  He'd met her at the train station and they'd been wandering Vondelpark, climbing trees, being poked with sticks by small children... The usual.  They split a pitcher of Heineken and we played darts.  I won a game, but in general, we sucked.  Andrew's foot nearly became a casualty of war.  Post-game, we sat at the bar and talked to the bartender.  He was a young guy, with curly hair and a friendly attitude, along with a killer sense of humor.  It was interesting to hear his take on Americans ("nasal and very loud" "I have an American accent.  I hate it, man, shit").  He kept teasing Megan, with her Texas drawl, and calling her farmgirl.  He didn't mind knocking us a bit, but in a good-natured way, which was nice.  He said that he found, the couple of times that he went to the States, that a lot of Americans think that Amsterdam is a country. 

Can you say, 'oh my God that's so embarrassing'?  I knew you could.

After a while, Virgil showed up out of nowhere, and sat down across the corner from me at the bar.  He asked if we could talk, and I should have known right there that this wasn't going to end well, but I made a fateful tactical error and said, "Uh, sure?"

He proceeded to move to the stool next to mine and get uncomfortably close.  Meanwhile, he was trying to talk to the friendly bartender, but he wasn't making much sense to the bartender, either; Genial Bartender asked him where he was from, just like I had earlier, and again, the response was completely incomprehensible.  He was like Fez from That Seventies Show, where no one knows where he's from.  It would have been hilarious if I hadn't been starting to get a creep vibe off the guy. 

Genial Bartender's response was pretty good, though. "... Uh huh.  Is it nice -- there?"

However, Virgil's attention was not to be taken from me for long, even though I kept trying to turn my back on him and get back into the conversation between Andrew, Megan, and Genial Bartender (GB for short).  Virgil kept touching my arm, even as I drew back, and kept complimenting me on my terrible Spanish. That's not a sense of false modesty; that's me being completely unable to communicate to him what I was trying to say, and him saying, 'Muy bien, muy bien!'  He repeated words in both languages, in something that wasn't quite a stutter but did manage to give the impression that he wasn't all there.  Finally, he asked (using usted, the Spanish formal form of 'you,' which put me on edge immediately), if I had a compañero.   Not quite sure what he was asking, but with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I pointed to Andrew, who was sitting obliviously beside me with his back to me and my incomprehensible problem.

Virgil's face fell.

I understood what he'd been asking.  I silently thought something along the lines of, 'OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD,' and I pointed hard at Andrew. 'Compañero,' I said quickly. 'Compañero.'    

Virgil said, 'Que lastima.  Oh, si estás sola,  yo sé que este ropa no está muy bueno, pero voy a comprar ropa nuevo y traerte a cena, y entonces--'*

I cut him off quickly.  I said, nope, got a compañero, he's sitting right there, and then, like an idiot, I felt bad.  I said, 'Me gusta hablaba con tu, pero -- eso.'**

He said, '¡Amigos!'

I said, '...Sure.'

He asked me about the US, asked if everyone there was like me; asked how he could get there, what the situation was like for immigrants, if he could get a job.  And then, he said he had a big question.  I was, by this point, resisting the urge to run screaming, because he was still getting more and more into my personal space, and between hitting on me, he was telling me how he always gets drunk and violent and into fights and arrested, and he looked like a guy who could kick somebody's ass.

He asked if he could visit me in the United States.  By then, I was having to try really hard not to laugh at the absurdity and cry at how pitiful it all was, and also just at how uncomfortable he was making me.   I deflected the question with growing horror, saying that I would be in grad school and didn't know where I would be living.  I started trying to nudge Andrew harder, but he didn't get it. I turned to him to ask when we would be leaving, nudge nudge wink wink, and his response was, 'Oh, soon.'

I caught Megan's eye over Andrew's shoulder as Virgil said, 'What are you talking to him about?' I turned around and he was leaning in, his eyes steady on me and unblinking.

I said, 'We leave soon.'

'Ahhhhh!' He chuckled knowingly. 'Often, when I say I leave bar soon, I really mean two or three hours, ha, ha, ha!'

I shook my head hard. 'No, I mean soon.' I turned to Andrew again, and said through gritted teeth, 'Andrew, how soon?'

'Eh, fifteen minutes,' said Andrew, and he went back to laughing with Genial Bartender.

I turned back to find Virgil grinning at me.   But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Andrew getting up.  I asked if we were leaving now and was told 'yep,' and I got up as fast as humanly possible and snatched up my purse.  Virgil looked, no lie, like a kid who was about to have his favorite toy taken from him.  It was impossibly creepy, and, what's worse, he looked as if he were about to get up and do -- I don't know what.   Thinking fast, I went for the handshake, hoping to keep him sitting and in the bar.  I said, 'Adios,' and went to pull my hand back.

Here's the thing: Virgil wouldn't let go of my hand.

Here's the thing: When I tried to yank it away, he started pressing my hand to his face, saying 'Where are you going, where are you going.'

I froze, looking desperately ahead for help, but Andrew was already out the door and not looking back.  Megan looked back and saw me.  She hurried back, grabbed my arm, hauled me away from Virgil, and said, 'We don't know where we're going,' and we booked it.

Outside, I told Andrew and Megan the story of what had been happening while they'd been talking to GB.  Megan apparently saved me; she's the one who caught that something wasn't right, and she's the one who told Andrew, no, we leave now.  Andrew thought it was hilarious and not in the least bit creepy until I got to the point about Virgil wanting to visit me in the States, which is when it became 'still hilarious, but a little creepy.'  Megan made jokes, too, but I think she understood that I was genuinely rattled, especially by him grabbing me.  It was a little frustrating.  I think it's hard for guys to understand where we're coming from (straight guys, at least; I have no idea where it stands for gay guys).  The implications aren't at all the same for a guy when a girl comes on too strong and/or is creepy.  Similarly, when we would reach the Red Light District later that night, Andrew wouldn't notice the utter lack of females on the streets until Megan and I pointed it out, and he laughed at us a little when we said that we wouldn't have wanted to go without someone of the male persuasion with us.  Some of that is Andrew, I think, who seems fearless sometimes, and who throws himself so strongly into everything that he does.  But some of it is male vs. female, and the culture of fear that we live in that men don't always think about.

Me rescued by my lady in shining armor, we walked out onto the streets at ten P.M.  There were tons of people everywhere, with the bridges over the canals lit up.  We wandered through the maze of fry shops and sex shops and bars and cafés, the strong smell of vast quantities of marijuana wafting into the street from some places.  It was too early, still, to go to the Red Light District; absinthe was considered (if not by me, because I am a wimp), but beer was settled on, and we sat in a cloud of smoke in a sports bar and watched a football game (or soccer match, if you're so inclined).  At 11:15, we went back out into the buzzing streets and found Oude Kerk, a church that Andrew had been looking for all day.

Standing in the square, looking up at the steeple, I suddenly heard Andrew mutter, 'Whoa, 6:00.'  I turned.

There was a window behind us, better classified as a door made entirely of glass, with a red light over the top.  A heavyset, scantily-clad woman sat inside.  I realized, suddenly, that there were more red lights over glass doors all the way down the street, dead across from the church.  The women varied.  Some were trying their best to be sexy; shaking their breasts, sitting with one leg up, smiling out at passersby, tossing their hair.  Others looked tired; sad.  Inside a few windows, groups of women in lingerie stood together, talking.

We went up and down the narrow twisting streets, packed in like sardines with people.  I didn't know how to react.  I didn't want to stare, so then what, study the cobblestones?  I don't know if Megan or Andrew knew quite what to do, either.  Every few seconds, one of us was nervously laughing or babbling.

We saw one balding, middle-aged man walk up to a window, get greeted by the woman inside, and the curtains close.  One woman had her door open, and she was ruffling the hair of all men who passed within arm's reach.  One door was open, the woman standing outside and talking to a friend.  She was young and beautiful, slim, Asian, with thick black hair, a silver thong-and-bra set, and caked-on makeup.  She winked at people as they passed.  I saw every type of lingerie imaginable.

Andrew said it best.  "I thought I was for the legalized system [of prostitution], but now...'

I felt sad, mostly.  This was how these women had to make a living: shaking their breasts for gape-mouthed tourists and darty-eyed businessmen?  Putting their bodies on display like material goods; like the regular stores beside them with pyramids of marmalade in the windows? It was disorienting and surreal and ultimately sad. 

We were unanimously ready to leave pretty quickly.

We walked Megan back across the city to her hostel, afterward, passing strange little roadside stands involving herring to-go.  It was a beautiful night; cloudy, but no rain, and just warm enough to be warm without being hot.  Andrew and I got lost on the way back to our hostel, but we made it, where we found Virgil asleep on the bottom bed  across from mine, when he was supposed to be in the top bunk.  Andrew and I swapped beds, and then, well, I guess I can't mock Mom for making me take a portable air horn to Europe anymore, because I slept with it under my pillow.  On the one hand, I might have been overreacting, and on the other -- I had looked into this guy's eyes, I had felt how strong he was when he proved that he had no compunctions about grabbing me, and I wasn't about to take any chances.

That was a pretty sleepless night.

* Rough translation: "What a shame.  Oh, if you were alone, I know that these clothes aren't very nice, but I'll buy nice clothes and take you out to dinner, and then--"  It is, for the record, terrible Spanish, thanks both to my memory and his difficulty in speaking the language.

** I was trying to say: "I like talking to you, but -- that's it."