Green Light Red Light

Patrick decided was time for me to experience the Red Light District. I politely told him no matter how “famous” said place is; I was not keen on viewing windows of half naked women and porn shops sober. So the plans for the evening were to meet up at a bar and then hit the notorious district. Since Ingmar and I are practically neighbors, he offered to pick me up – great, no dealing with trying to find the meeting place on my own. When he arrived at my apartment – I asked how we were getting to the bar and he responded with “by bike”. Not really understanding what this meant, I donned heels (thinking minimal walking would be involved) with my outfit and I was ready to go. I quickly learned that “by bike” means you ride on the back of the bike when one doesn’t have one’s own bike, which I do not. There are two options when riding on the back of a bike: 1. the straddle 2. the side sit. Since we all know I have zero sense of balance I opted for the straddle – not a smart decision because you don’t start on the bike with the driver… you have to run behind then jump on the bike once it is already in motion. And if the driver has to stop the bike, you (as the passenger) must get off the bike, wait until the driver starts riding again, and then jump on the back. Better yet, with this option you also have to have enough muscle control to hold up your legs so your feet do not drag on the ground. Given my shoe choice for the evening I had to lift my legs even higher. Yes you can see where this is going – it spells disaster all over it and I’ll get to that later. But for now on with the evening…

We met up with Patrick, Lisette, and later Bas at De Kroon, a fun place that proved to be quite the playground for Lisette and me to play fashion police. After a few rounds, it was time to change locations, something that I had been delaying for a variety of reasons first and foremost because I did not want to have to get back on the bike. Much to my dismay upon our exit to the street everyone hopped on their respective bikes and I was left to scurry after Ingmar (in heels no less!). During this second ride, I was really beginning to feel pain in my legs. Our second location put us closer to the final destination but left enough distance to enjoy a few “proper” cocktails, which in Dutch terms means a fruity drink with a crazy straw. I opted for a more traditional vodka tonic but looking back probably should have indulged in a more festive cocktail.

It was show time… we entered the Red Light District which really means we crossed the street and passed the church. Yep, I said church! Right smack in the middle of the land of prostitution is a church – interesting dichotomy. We strolled along a few of the streets. Well, really I wasn’t strolling as much as walking briskly and clinging to both Bas and Ingmar for fear that I would be left to fend for myself, if even for a moment. Now, I am making this out to sound like it was truly a petrifying experience, which it was not, unpleasant, yes, definitely, certainly. It is extremely odd to be walking down the street and glance over at a window to see a woman half naked and doing her best to persuade any passerby to come in and indulge. I think the highlight of my experience came when we walked through the “museum” (which is basically a house that you walk through rather than walking on the street so you can preview a bit more clearly). As we walked by one of the women said, “how about all of you?” At this point, I was done with the Red Light district and lucky for me so was the rest of the crew. So we did what every other tourist does when they realize this whole thing is much less than it is cracked up to be and hit another bar.

After several rounds of Jaeger shots (thanks Ingmar) and last call by the bartender, we all headed home. I had been so distracted with the whole experience that I had forgotten about that dreaded bike. But I was up for tackling it now, call it liquid courage or call it my desire to get to bed either way I was ready. Earlier, perhaps while the boys were “window shopping”, Lisette had kindly explained to me that the feminine way of riding on the back of the bike was the side sit. I was ready to give it a try. Ingmar started on the bike, I jogged after and gracefully sat sideways on the back. So excited that I had actually accomplished this feat, I turned back to give a cheer to the rest of the gang – big mistake! Huge! This caused the bike to become unbalanced and its passengers (i.e. Ingmar and me) to fall very ungracefully to the ground. But wait it gets better… so I’m sprawled on the street, Ingmar is tangled in the bike. He manages to get up and help me up in fairly short order because a car is now rapidly approaching us. However I realize that a button is missing from my jacket (not a regular button either) so I did what any girl would do and went out into the street to get pick it up. This caused Ingmar to lunge into the street to pull me out of the way from the car and consequently cause my ankle to twist in a non-uniform way and the bike to fall on us yet again. When it was all said and done, we WALKED home a little bruised and battered, ankle swollen, but button in hand!

The next morning, actually next afternoon (thank goodness for all these mid-week holidays) I awoke to a VERY swollen ankle – I going to go ahead and say it… I had a kanckle! Not only that but also my inner thighs were black with bruises from jumping on the back of the bike and I’m not exaggerating… there was no purple, no blue and certainly no yellow in these bruises. Maybe the Dutch just build up a tolerance to slamming your legs on the bike repeatedly throughout the evening or maybe that’s why they all have their own bikes!