My Brief Trip to Amsterdam: Red Lights, Go and Biblical Flirting

The winter in Brussels was finally ending and my mood would start to get a lift soon, but a project due in about 10 days was poking my brain so hard I could not help but feel stressed and angry. The stress was not so bad, after all that time fighting for a degree in engineering I was used to having a barely sketched project just one or two days before the deadline. The tough aspect of the whole situation circled around the attitude of my partners; I was the only one who had made something work by then and it did not seem to activate one single neuron of guilt or gratitude of my Belgian or Chinese colleagues. They surely had their chores and tasks to do, but you cannot use that as an excuse to the 100-page manual of an electromagnetic simulator written in an old programming language. I was starting to believe they had implicitly quit, something I would later learn is even a legal term, and my plans on going away, more specifically to Amsterdam, were, out of helplessness, rapidly gaining life again.

One day later and I was already inviting my friends to come with me to the city well-known for its red-light district, but they would all refuse, blaming it on similar projects and study sessions. The need for traveling was much bigger than the one for friends though, and I decided to go anyway. The distance was short and I would be there for one or two days only, I hoped it wouldn’t be that much of a problem. Actually, I hoped it would be that much of a problem, I wanted my diminished efforts to incite my colleagues to do something — and it worked… sort of.

A few days later I wake up excited for the trip but get a quick slap to the face from looking at the typical concrete cloudy day in Brussels; even though I love its people and the overall feel of that city, I must confess they should do something about their background, just freaking shoot some fireworks or give free LSD injections to the people already. Gray is the color only the English and the Belgians can live by, I won’t ever understand — I once made that remark to a Belgian and he said he had not realized such lack of sunlight until I had stated it. After consulting the weather forecast app on my smartphone, I find out that, luckily, it will be sunny in Amsterdam the whole weekend, so let’s cheer up and get to the station.

The start of the trip is at the Gare du Nord­ — North Station — in Brussels, which is a copy of a station in Paris… or in London… or maybe it’s an original bruxelloise piece of architecture, since the biggest aspect of the city’s beauty is the mix of different types of works, a phenomenon, called brusselization apparently, that only works there, or at least according to the locals. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter, I guess, not to me, and seemingly not to the Belgians either, since they put their red-light district right next to the station. Weird. Upon visiting their red-light district once — to know what the fuss was all about with these human meat displays — I saw some families with children getting out of the station and having to deal with the explicit show across the street; a friend of mine even told me she had to go through that street every morning when going to school. And they say the Germans are the weird ones. On the other side, we find a more sober lane, where sleepy students and low budget travelers find their universal solution for the transport problem in northern Europe: the Megabus. It goes everywhere for at most the price of two big cheap meals, close to 20 euros. You could easily get one to Amsterdam for 5 euros or less if you monitored the prices and promotions on their site — which I didn’t though: I was feeling more like a rich bitch and didn’t bother to pay the steep fee of 12 euros. Probably the main problem we humble bus travelers face there nowadays is with these European stations: due to the ever higher salaries, there are less and less people taking care of them, so it’s very confusing to know exactly where to go, or if the bus is late or not, you have to rely on being deceivingly empathetic with strangers, especially with compatriots — Brazilians are everywhere… —, to be sure not that you’re in the right place, but that you’re not the only one hopelessly lost. This time, it was more or less ok, a slightly late bus, some hours of mild discomfort and we arrived.

As usual, these international buses do not get exactly to the main city, sometimes it’s a peripherical neighborhood, like in Brussels, but this time it was in a place that reminded me of the stereotypical zombie movie. Sloterdijk is a station that seems, at least from the outside, to have been built to support a gigantic flow of people, but what I witnessed was a billion bicycles, the chilling noise of chains in the wind and the bus passengers rushing for the station. Inside, though, the plot was as expected from a train station, it was full of people. Some minutes later, I finally arrived at the center of the onion that is Amsterdam.

Every time I visit a new city I like to wander around, get lost in its charm. And this time was something very special, very different, the architecture felt cozy, although it bestowed a paradox on the capital: the clash between its cosmopolitan routine and the tiny buildings and village houses was made with a steep and yet unnoticed transition. This contradiction is mainly due to historical reasons as usual; the houses we see today stayed, the rhythm changed. That type of architecture reminded me of my trips to England, Germany and especially Antwerp. Belgium, albeit a single country, is in reality two different societies, with two different languages also, and one can sense a very sharp transition when crossing the middle and passing into the Flemish side.

In southern Europe, the rules are, from my experience, anthropomorphically seen as annoying bureaucrats, these necessary evils; but in that region of Europe, more specifically the former region of Flanders, they take a whole other level, I dare say they are their sovereigns, their deities, not only respected, but a source of strange devotion. This worldview yields a strange flow to society, the beauty of everything working properly is something foreign to people who come from Latin countries, here things are a lot messier.

After all these observations, I realized I was in fact lost — to err is human, I guess. Being relatively tired, I decided to go to the place I would stay in for the next two nights, which I chose because it was the cheapest and most different: a catholic hostel in Amsterdam. They did not disappoint me, upon entering it I was confronted with a mass made by a young priest and his even younger assistants, which were from all over Europe. Right next to the small ritual was the diner where God Almighty friendly snacks and meals were prepared by a team of young apostles of the McDonald’s doctrine; their chief of staff managed to fuse together the figures of both the ruthless boss and the forgiving father, a slap-and-kiss master. I left my bags in the typical hostel bedroom full of people snoring and quickly exited the sacred place, definitely wanting to go the red-light district after the catholic relapse — one needs to balance one’s touristic diet.

Again, I would get lost many times before arriving in the famous show streets of Amsterdam. But it was nonetheless pleasant, this time I was able to enjoy the historical center with its ornamented historical buildings, which felt timeless and powerful, a deeply ingrained image in my memory I associate with efficient work. Half an hour later and finally we are there, the legendary red-light district. And… nothing. Disappointing. It was bound to happen of course, after all I didn’t like the Brusselian version. It just seems so odd this ultimate objectivization of the sexually desired… Would you like to fuck a doll? No? How about a doll that kind of dances? Still nope. Never have I witnessed such indifference as the one in the eyes of the young prostitutes on the other side of those shop windows. These districts were originally an attempt to concentrate all the prostitution in one place, to ease policing the crime scene origins of society — which was very successful and spread throughout Europe —, but nowadays it feels like a food court, with most of the establishments going for the fast food approach, even though they do not quite understand that it should be a different business model: it should also be quick and expensive in their opinion apparently. In Brussels, the prices were at its cheapest 40 euros per 15 minutes with a lot of restrictions and a room that seemed too tiny for two people not to suffocate — I guess that if you book more than 15 minutes, that’s what will start to happen. The only ones taking the deal, both in Brussels and Amsterdam, were mostly Arab immigrants who apparently were so in need of a sexual companion, anything seemed to work. The government programs of social integration in Europe work in mysterious ways.

After roaming around looking for entertainment, I headed back to the hostel, praying for some sweet catholic silence. In a room filled with 16 people, the odds were against me. Scratch that, they actually wanted to punish me: the only guy snoring was the one right next to me. I tried to kick him softly just so he would turn sideways and hopefully stop the musical act, but it didn’t work, he was playing Peter on me. Luckily, I was getting so tired, I soon fell asleep.

The next day I woke up earlier than usual (who knows why?). During last night my college colleagues eventually came out of hibernation and started to try to decipher the code I had written — nothing spectacular, my lines had only the basic features of a simulation working. I helped them through my phone but didn’t pay too much attention. This morning, on the other hand, I tried to compensate by spending some time making it easier to understand, before I went out to explore the city again.

Blessed breakfast, clean conscience and off we go. First stop, the Anne Frank museum. I didn’t get a chance to go in, too big a line, maybe next time. Next stop, my typical favorite, the public library. This one was huge compared to the size of Amsterdam, I think it had 7 floors, in a complete maze. They were inspired by their city’s paradox and created another one, because there were signs everywhere and I was lost every time, and worse: I couldn’t find most of the books. Resigned, I settled for a weird chair in a corner and made a point of finishing my L’écume des Jours. It took me some hours and some nearby coffee, but I made it, not an easy read for my level of French at the time, however, quite enjoyable, one of the best books I’ve ever read for sure.

The last stop of the day would be related to my Go passion, the game that gave me a lot of entertainment and a lot of friends. I could not miss a taste of the Amsterdam’s style of Go, especially considering many of the older strong European players came from there.

Like most of Europe, they would gather in bars — something I had come to love, since it lightens the sometimes tense atmosphere —, although it wasn’t exactly a bar. People could play in the bar, but the serious fighting happened in the back, in a very dark room. Upon entering it I had the impression the Inquisition had used that same room to interrogate sinners — the wallpapers seemed medieval, dark red and gold ornaments drawn repeatedly on all walls —, a tense atmosphere of people eager to smash their opponents suffocated you and the clacking of stones pumped your heart to a racing pace. I sat down in a chair and my legs frantically bounced up and down as if indeed I were racing, one of my characteristic tics. The club’s leader told me I could play in their weekly league and so I accepted, registering myself as a 1 kyu. My match would be against a 2 kyu and, to my surprise, the format had me giving him 2 handicap stones with komi in my favor, a very unusual setting. In spite of having an hour of main time, I knew I was bound to suffer, giving a 2 kyu such a board advantage was a first for me. Time for some special tactics: trick play after trick play and I started to gain an edge, the byo-yomi almost gave me a heart attack and a misread could have stolen me the win. Thankfully, my opponent did not see it, and I won by more than 15 points.

In the end, the frightening part was the beginning, to remain calm against that never before experienced obstacle. Later, my opponent pointed out that, had we finished the game a bit earlier, we could have gotten a review from veteran Rob van Zeijst 6d, a pity it didn’t happen. Overall, it was quite fun, but I was relieved I could exit the dungeon. Next, I ate, drank some beer, and went back to the hostel: my colleagues were finally getting something done.

Prayer in, prayer out, and I was always there, watching with the omnipresence of my online chat. Despite bonding and getting some work done, we couldn’t get much further from my initial lines, only the most rudimentary simulation was working. There was an external attempt at helping us with some mysterious Chinese code, but, alas, it was a fake, it did not work. Late into the night and I was the only one left in the lounge area. Except for the janitor.

Unexpectedly, the janitor was about my age and female. After an hour of boredom and my furious concentration on the task, she asked me what I was doing. I tried to answer in a nonchalant manner to convey that I wasn’t really wanting to chit-chat, but, damn, being a janitor late at night is too lonely a job, she just couldn’t stop talking — and in a very thick English accent, something I wasn’t used to. You’ll find that a British expat girl working as a janitor in exchange for a place to stay and food in a catholic hostel in Amsterdam is very likely to be needy, as she suddenly stole my computer, lied down on my lap and started to show me nonsensical videos on Youtube. Surprised and not knowing what to do, I followed along her monologue, and her intentions were becoming more and more clear — both to me and to her. Soon after, though, my declaration of disbelief in any superior beings gave her a sigh of sadness, nevertheless she wouldn’t quit so easily. She manufactured a bible out of nowhere, opened it in a random page and read the fateful line: For one man has faith to eat all things while another, who is weak, eats only vegetables (Romans 14:2; apparently, not all bibles have this line, only some versions of the English one have it, I believe). I couldn’t help but give it a good and resounding laughter. Who knew vegetarians were bullied even back then? Having many vegetarian friends made it even funnier. The Brit, unfortunately, did not share my sense of humor, she was quick to scorn and give me goodbye.

With owlish eyes, in a room full of people snoring, after being expelled from the lounge due to the late hour, little did I suspect the assignment that worried me for so long would be cancelled by the professor on Monday, arguing that nobody had managed to complete it.