Book Review: Amsterdam Exposed

I’ve been to Amsterdam and like most tourists, I curiously wandered to the Red Light District. And then quickly wandered back out. I was like so many tourists David Wienir describes in his travel memoir AMSTERDAM EXPOSED who excitedly want to take a peek, but are soon uncomfortable with the seediness of the women beckoning men from their windows.

I probably only saw five or six windows before I turned around. Wienir, on the other hand, strolled through the Red Light District almost every day of his stint as an exchange student in 1999 Amsterdam.

Fascinated by the women in the windows and determined to learn more about them as human beings, not just sexual objects, Wienir embarks on a quest to befriend some of them and write about their forays into the world’s oldest profession. He is immediately met with scorn as he tries to talk to the working women. Door after door is slammed in his face. Until he meets Emma, who reluctantly agrees to talk with him.

She stands him up over and over again, but he persists in trying to connect with her. Finally, she agrees and Wienir talks to the Dutch prostitute for hours one night at a bar. He has vowed not to have sex with any of the prostitutes in Amsterdam as he doesn’t want to taint the story he tells. Not surprisingly, though, he falls in love with Emma. He deems her a hooker with a heart of gold, much like Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman (though Emma is not just starting her career in the sex industry, and she freely uses drugs). I think Wienir wanted to make her out to be more wholesome than she was — which ultimately fulfilled his fantasy of what the backstory of a prostitute might be.

He freely admits that Amsterdam’s prostitutes succeed because they entertain the fantasies of their customers. That is what they’re selling: fantasies. And Wienir realizes his fantasy by the end of the story.

I found the descriptions of Amsterdam to be spot on. The scene he paints of 1999 Amsterdam is exactly how I remember it. Wienir often takes groups of his fellow law students through the RLD and observes their discomfort as they wander through the narrow alleys just steps away from many of the working women standing half-nude in their doorways. If you’ve ever been to Amsterdam, you’ll feel like you’re there again. And if you haven’t — here’s your first glance at this timeless European city.

Despite Wienir’s predictable infatuation with Emma, there were several observations he made that were very insightful about the sex industry and the human psyche. For me, his comparison of the desensitization of sexuality and nudity to noncommital online dating today struck a chord. Of course, Wienir describes it much better than I can:

When you live in a city where you can have sex with any number of beautiful women anytime you want, for $25, something changes on an evolutionary level. With such easy access, even if one doesn’t indulge, the pursuit ends. There’s no glory in the conquest. There’s no chase. The mind is allowed to go elsewhere…

…The necessity and urgency for sex fades. For others, it’s the opposite. Their mind goes into overload and unleashes a veritable feeding frenzy. The phenomenon is similar to what happens to many guys on the Internet, through sites such as match.com and others like it. They just can’t get enough. Women become disposable…

I found this insight fascinating. There were many passages and observations that Wienir made in AMSTERDAM EXPOSED that drew me in. I read the book in a single day. I knew he would fall in love with his prostitute, but I didn’t know why. But maybe that’s because it’s not my fantasy, nor my story to tell…

Mim

Travelers and tourists are advised to ask locals for insight on what restaurants to go to and what to see or do in a particular city. I’ve done this often, usually with mixed response. Sometimes the locals guide me to hidden gems that I might not have otherwise discovered. Sometimes I’m steered toward activities I already know about. And sometimes, I get the impression that the locals don’t really know much about their own cities at all.

Such was the case in Brussels. I was there for work and collaborated with a group of Belgian colleagues. We headed out one night on a city scavenger hunt, which I was all-too-eager to do. I thought surely, here was my chance to learn more about the city than I’d done on my own. I put on my walking shoes and got ready to roam.

The organizers of the event were an outside company who specialize in team-building activities such as the game we were about to play. They gave us our instructions: figure out the clues and use the handheld GPS to find the items pictured or described. We were to go to those spots, take a picture of the team and answer some questions. It sounded like fun. I was ready to start.

And that’s when I learned that I knew more about the city than any of my colleagues who worked there. They read off questions that only I could answer since I’d poured through guidebooks before traveling the Belgium. I’d already covered miles, walking around the city sight-seeing. In fact, we cheated a little and skipped some spots because I already had pictures of them on my camera. It seemed that I was the authority on our team; the only American, and the most knowledgeable about the sights to see in Brussels.

Then, as we walked, we passed the Museum of Musical Instruments (Mim).

“Have you gone there?” one of the women asked me.

I hadn’t. I’d read about it, but hadn’t given it much consideration. We have something similar in Cincinnati.

“You should go,” she continued. “There’s a nice café on the top floor where you can have a meal or a drink and it has beautiful views of the city.”

The next day it rained, and I followed her advice.

I paid my 7 Euro admission and the woman at the counter gave me a headset. “When you get to an instrument you want to hear, just plug this into the jack. There is only music, no commentary.” Which is perfect, is it not?

I headed into the museum and began with the woodwinds. Since I play the flute I was immediately drawn to them. I plugged my headset into the jack and heard the beautiful lilting sound that I expected. And I thought – this is the perfect museum for a person traveling alone. With your headset on, you are isolated anyway, and have no option other than to enjoy the music on your own. It was one of the few places where I didn’t miss having a companion. I was content to listen to some instruments for a few seconds; others until the recording had completely come to an end. I only wished that there were benches to sit on. I might never have left.

What surprised me was the instrument the pleased me the most. It was one I would not have expected: the accordions! Crazy, I know. I circled back to that display a few times.

I did also venture to the top floor café. It was still raining, but the views were no less stunning through the rain-spattered windows. If the weather had been nicer, I would have enjoyed my Kriek on the terrace. I made do sitting at a table by the floor-to-ceiling window.

I’m not sure I would have gone to the museum if it hadn’t been brought to my attention by my colleague. I am often too restless to see things that I could see elsewhere in the world when I visit a city. I can see musical instruments at home. But it was a perfect diversion on a rainy day and a quiet place to wander. It seems odd to call a musical museum ‘quiet,’ doesn’t it? But it was just me alone with my thoughts and the music in my ears. The accordion music and me.

The Dolphins - Part 3 - Mike

“I want to see the dolphins.”

This was the response I received when a cruise excursion was offered to my daughter.  I am sure there was a noticeable hitch in my breath and a look of panic flowed across my face. Not because I was afraid of these loveable creatures. Not because of the cost. (Although that too is insane.) Rather, I was hesitant because of a documentary that I had seen about the dolphin industry. It is called The Cove. And it almost turned me into an animal rights activist. Almost. The documentary won an Oscar in 2009 and is perhaps one of the most disturbing things I have ever seen. It centers around a Japanese town where there is a dolphin industry.

We arrived at the dolphin “farm” and were herded into an open air room along with a hundred other people, all eager to get their chance to kiss a dolphin. We squeezed onto wooden benches and noticed the signs on the walls, explaining about humane treatment of dolphins and environmentalist suggestions to help save the seas, dolphins and other marine life. On either side of the posters were two televisions, looped to show past dolphin encounters. Maybe this place was a humane business.

Then in walked the head dolphin trainer. He proceeded to tell rules and about the dolphins. To tell the truth, I immediately started recalling the documentary and wondering if he was in it, choosing his “prized performers.”

After the easily forgotten presentation, we were separated into groups and hurried to our “pool,” a concrete deck with a pool in the middle of it. We all sat around the water as instructed and put our feet in. It was the coldest water I had felt since visiting Maine.

The woman running this part of the excursion spoke and told us a little about the dolphin and what he could do and then she instructed us to walk through the pool, one person from each group crouching down and receiving a kiss as we did so.

Now, in all honesty, if you read Izzy’s blog and saw her picture, you only got half of it. Standing to her left (conveniently cut out) is Julie and myself. We show how cold it truly is. Julie is frenetically clenching her fist and looks insane. I stand next to her, unable to touch her because the frigid water has briefly frozen all movement.

In comes the dolphin and we are quickly posed for a picture. Izzy got kissed, I fake smile and we quickly exited the pool, grateful that the air outside was in the 80’s that day. This goes on and I immediately notice the routine. The dolphin kisses, receives a treat and jumps back, kiss, treat, jump. Over and over and over. I look around, the people are loving it. Everyone.

I notice the rake marks on the back of the dolphin. These are from other dolphin’s teeth and happen during play time. I wonder if any are from mistreatment though as the line of people moves through the pool. Kiss, treat, jump back.

We are instructed to enter the pool again to continue our encounter.  I notice this time when we walk into the pool that  we are stepping onto a rusty walkway that “our” dolphin must flop onto time and again. Humane? Does it hurt? Can we even tell?

We step into it and the majestic mammal again appears with a perpetual smile that can be so misleading. They only smile so we do not know what they are truly feeling. We are instructed to walk to the edge of the rusty platform and receive a kiss from our friend. We all do, but I look down and notice the edge is still four inches away.  Plenty of room for him to scratch his stomach on, I think, and push Izzy closer to the edge.

The dolphin comes in and rises up to give kisses. All the while, I think of how many times he must have scratched himself on the platform. He raises his beak and kisses Julie. I push Izzy closer to edge. He kisses Julie again. I nudge Izzy closer, taking steps forward myself. He kisses Izzy. She smiles and I am happy the she finds this so enjoyable and she has gotten her wish for this cruise.  He rises up to kiss me. I look into his eyes. Can it tell that I do not want to do this? That I feel bad? Can it understand? Does it feel exploited? It is a living creature after all. I notice that its mouth is wrinkled and soft, not smooth like the rest of it. How many people have kissed this thing, with cold sores, cuts, bad breath, colds, the flu, etc.? Can it catch our illnesses? Could it die from it?

He moves down the line.  Next come the hugs from a dolphin. I notice that Izzy and I have moved back from the edge again. I move us closer. We are instructed on how to kneel so he can hug us. If we do not, he could hurt himself. He starts to move down the line. Julie, Izzy and then me. He almost leaps up and places his weight on me. It is a massive feeling. I feel his head on my shoulder and think of our dog back at home, knowing I would not want him exploited for a profit. I look in his eyes as he moves on to hug Mac and then Chelsea, making his way down the line. All of us kneeling and making this majestic beautiful creature come out of the water and place its body against our bodies and bathing suits. The dolphin has moved down the line to the last woman who refused to listen. She is standing as he rises up to hug her and she is knocked off balance, taking him with her against the rusty grate. Idiot.

The dancing is the second to the last part. He makes his way down the line and we are instructed to grab his fins and dance with him. I can’t bring myself to clasp his fins, thinking that if we hold too tight or yank on them, it will hurt him. I turn in circles like he does, dancing with him.

At this point I do not care what the keepers say. Everything from The Cove is coursing through my mind. The mistreatment, the hacking to death of dolphins, the taking of dolphins from around the world, removing them from their natural habitat and placing them in tanks.

How can we keep fooling ourselves and think that the way they are kept is humane and helping them? Is it kind to subject the dolphins to at least two shows a day for weeks on end? Make them deal with idiotic humans who can’t follow instructions? Can we really convince ourselves that they enjoy the attention? Do they really enjoy being kissed, hugged, groped and stroked by hundreds of strangers?

I have to admit, I loved the feeling of the hug by the dolphin. But it was almost like one of those guilty hugs as you say thanks for the memories, I am sorry that you have to stay here and go through this again, but I have a boat to catch. I had his weight on my shoulders for those brief seconds and still do.

I went into this experience hoping to make my daughter happy and give her a lifelong memory. I did not want my opinion of what I had witnessed in The Cove to influence her experiences and keep her from making memories.  I walked out of it more resolute in the fact that even my daughter’s happiness and memories were not worth the cost. I had just paid hundreds of dollars for five people, myself included, to exploit another living creature for enjoyment. Not humane. And as happy as it makes others, I will not, cannot do it again. Maybe the dolphins do enjoy it. I don’t know. I just think of whether I would want that for me, my family, heck, even my dog. And the answer is no I wouldn’t and I don’t want it for any living thing.

Online Reservations

I was going to post this picture and write a fictional piece about a family who plans a vacation (finally!) and are greatly disappointed when they arrive at their budget motel only to find that the pool looks like this.  But then I thought, wait a minute. Isn't it actually more horrific that we actually stayed at this hotel in real life?

Thank God we weren't there to swim, but what if we had been? Imagine if we'd planned this as the place to stay on a family vacation. Luckily, this pool was at a motel that we pulled into late one night during a road trip. We spent less than 8 hours at the motel and certainly weren't there to swim.  I'll just let you imagine what the rooms looked like, based on the pool. (Hold your nausea. They weren't really that bad.)

But there have been times that we've booked accommodations only to discover that they weren't what we'd pictured in our minds. For instance, the hotel I stayed at in China looked incredible online. The facade was absolutely beautiful and looked 5-star deluxe. Once I got there, I realized that the picture was taken from quite a distance away. In truth, the hotel was surrounded by construction, parking lots, and mud. There was a sewer-ish smell down one wing of the hotel that other people later told me they'd smelled, too, when they stayed there the year before.

Then there was the "mountainside cabin" in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Doesn't that sound perfect? You're imagining it right now, aren't you? Is this what you pictured: a mobile home crammed in with other mobile homes butted up against a hill where there'd been a forest fire a couple of years ago? There were blackened stumps and plenty of ticks, and yes - a mountain. Still, not quite what we'd imagined.

Luckily, we're the sort of family who finds humor in the unexpected. The South Dakota trip was incredible and the "cabin" just added to the fun. Actually, what I love about travel is the element of surprise; the experiences that we don't plan for and that provide stories later. So we stayed in motel with a brackish green pool. My fictional family's vacation might have been ruined. But I just chalked it up to part of the adventure on our road trip to Florida where we swam in the ocean instead.

Kindness to Strangers

This is not the woman in the airport, of course, but a flower seller in Paris who looked something like her.

She sat in a seat near the gate; an archetype of the immigrant woman in her dark blue skirt, blouse, coat, heavy shoes, and blue scarf tied on her head. I sat near her as we waited to board the plane to Germany  and pulled my book out of my carry-on bag.

I'd barely opened it when she tapped me on the shoulder and held a piece of paper out to me. It was tucked into a protective plastic sleeve and on it was typed:

I do not speak English. Could I please borrow your phone to call my daughter in the United States. (616)###-####.
(I don't know the actual number.)

She held this in front of me and waited. Inside, I cringed. Why me? What was it about me that projected the word 'sucker', 'gullible', or 'mark'? Was this some type of scam? Was there some ulterior motive? Was she going to use my phone to charge thousands of dollars somehow? Her typed paper and plastic sleeve seemed too rehearsed, like the "mutes" who come up to people in tourist areas in Paris and San Francisco, with cards telling us they're mute and asking for donations.

I wanted to ignore her and pretend that I couldn't help. I wanted her to give up on me and go away. But there was something about her and her request seemed so simple. I decided to take a chance and hoped that I wasn't about to learn a costly lesson. So, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number on the paper. I heard the line ring on the other end and handed the woman the phone. She began talking rapidly in Russian while I sat near her and opened my book. It seemed legitimate after all.

Then suddenly, she handed the phone to me.

"Hello?" I said dubiously.

"Hello! Thank you for letting my mother use your phone! She doesn't speak any English and is trying to get home. Bless you. Can you find out where her bags are? She doesn't know where her bags are."

"Well..."

"Bless you. God will surely reward you."

At this point, the woman was holding a baggage claim sticker in her hand and thrusting it toward me. I looked at it and saw that it was marked with an airport code.

"She has her baggage claim ticket," I said to the daughter on the phone.

"But she doesn't know where her bags are. Please, can you find out?"

"I'll see what I can do," I said reluctantly, kicking myself for getting involved. I felt that I was somehow responsible for this woman now when all I'd wanted to do was be nice and let her use my phone and sit back and read my book until we boarded the flight. Instead, I found myself going to the ticket counter and explaining the situation to the ticket agent there. He listened to my tale and then walked over to the woman.

"She doesn't speak English," I told him. So he looked at her claim ticket and then asked for her boarding pass. She stared at him blankly and didn't respond. He looked around at the other passengers and asked whether anyone spoke Russian. One man did, so he came over and translated. He told her the ticket agent wanted to see her boarding pass and she answered in a fast, anxious flood of words.

"She says the boarding passes are in her luggage and that someone took them from her before her flight here. She says they gave her this ticket." (The baggage claim form.)

Dawning passed across the face of the ticket agent. He knew exactly what was going on. Knowing that the woman didn't speak English, the agents at the place where her flight originated had sent her carry-on bag ahead for the other agents to handle. He had her boarding passes at the gate and went to retrieve them. I called her daughter back and let her know that everything had been taken care of and that the agents had her bags.

"Bless you, bless you," she told me. I handed the phone to her mother so that they could say their goodbyes before we headed off to Europe. She smiled at me and grasped my hand in hers. I was suddenly so grateful that I hadn't let cynicism and skepticism keep me from helping this woman. It would have been so easy to have walked away, or feigned ignorance, or to have pretended not to understand that she was asking me for help. My initial reaction had been to shake my head and pretend I didn't have a phone. I didn't want to get involved. But afterward, I was so glad I had. I have relied on the kindness of strangers many times in my travels and it was finally my turn to reciprocate. I set out on my journey a little less jaded. I wish I could have thanked her for that.

Where Was This?

Mine

Hers

 I love to travel. Luckily, so do my husband and kids AND my mother. She's come with us on our vacations the past few years and we always have a blast! I was just visiting A Dangerous Business travel blog and Amanda's post there got me thinking. She wrote about traveling with her 86-year-old grandmother and how it changes the experience for the better. I knew exactly how she felt. Traveling with my mother does somehow add a different dimension to our trips. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly until I thought about the pictures we share after our trips. It doesn't seem to matter that we were in the same places at the same time, doing the same things together. Her pictures are always so much more interesting.    

 

Hers

 

I think it has to do with perspective. I spend my vacation time trying to cram in as many sights and experiences as possible. I drag my family around on a pell mell whirlwind of "must-see's" and they go along with me. But I think my mother would probably take a different approach. She is more about soaking up local color; observing people and lifestyles while I'm focused on the place. Simply put, she sees things I miss. Then I leaf through her photos and scrapbooks and want to ask "Where was this?"



In Paris, I was taking pictures of scenery. She was taking pictures of interesting musicians and dogs. In San Francisco, I was capturing the fog across the Golden Gate Bridge. She was taking pictures of ornate doors. My pictures are vacation pictures;

hers are works of art. I take trips; she sees the world.