The Real Sin City: Amsterdam.

Contrary to popular belief among 20-something-year-olds, there is more to do in Amsterdam than have sex with prostitutes, smoke pot, eat space cake, get drunk under the age of 21 and watch sex shows. Amsterdam, with its cobblestone streets and canals dividing them, resembles something out of a childhood story. Houseboats were merely figments of my imagination before my visit and crooked, leaning apartments were only to be found in Dr. Seuss stories rather than on every single street with people living in them. And the street names are just cute. The letters fit together as though a Kindergartener attempted to sound out the spelling of the word. Sprusstraat – pronounced “spruce – strat”– meaning Spruce Street, seems to have one too many “As” and one too many “Ss.” But what are ya gonna do?

I went for the weekend. This concept of going to an entirely different country for the weekend really gets me. In the States, you plan a vacation months and months in advance. Here in Spain, I wake up and think to myself, “Gee I’d really like to go to Amsterdam this weekend.” Well, gee, who wouldn’t, right? But since other countries are only an hour or two by a plane away, it seems almost foolish to not go.  So on a limb, Irena and our friends, Chris and Jason, and I booked a trip to Amsterdam for three days. Three days. Only three wild and crazy days (because let’s be honest, if I had been there any longer I may have started to make bad decisions).

I can honestly say now that I have been to the prettiest Hell I could ever imagine because everything in Amsterdam is wonderfully sinful. Sinful food (I swear, the town specializes the most delicious “munchie” food). Sinful sights (What? How could I not stare at the perfect girls in the windows or the old man lighting a joint on the street?) And sinful actions (When in Amsterdam, right?).

Since it was Chris’s 21^st birthday when we were in Amsterdam (What a way to spend your 21^st, eh? In Amsterdam. Yes, please!) and he had been craving pancakes since we got to Spain, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to eat at The Pancake Bakery, right down the street from the Anne Frank House. Unlike the prostitutes who tease by dancing in sexy lingerie in their neon red windows, the pancakes left nothing to be desired (they hit the spot, if you will). The smooth, warm, sweet batter was complimented by thick slices of fresh banana baked directly in. Generous heaps of powdered sugar practically buried the single, plate-sized pancake. But even better than my pancake, were the “pofferjets,” that Chris, Jason and I split. Almost like a silver dollar, but thicker and fluffier, these little guys were piled high, smothered in chocolate sauce and heavily dusted in powdered sugar. Though the calorie count would probably be equal to the amount that 500 should consume in an entire week, I quickly learned that Amsterdam does food right.

As for the coffee, well that’s a different story. You can’t walk more than a block in any direction without seeing a coffee shop. But what’s that you say? I can’t actually get coffee in a coffee shop. That’s a new one. You want to sell me drugs instead of coffee? That's cute...not. But even more shocking than this concept were the girls – of every shape, size, color, race and type – parading themselves in crystal-clear windows. And this is how it goes everytime: A man goes in. The woman shuts the red curtain. The man exits 20, 30, 40, or however many minutes later after doing God-know-what (though I probably have a good idea). And then, to my utter astonishment, another man goes in. Repeat. Repeat again.

If I thought men were ruthless and idiotic to begin with, this concept would only reaffirm my notions 200 times over. Not one of them seemed to mind sharing the women (especially the really beautiful, really skinny, really forward ones). But who am I to judge? Whatever floats your boat, I always say.  

Though seeing the prostitutes wasn’t as pleasurable for me as it was (I am sure) for many, I did enjoy taking advantage of another commodity in the city that gets used just as much as the prostitutes: bikes.

Mike’s Bike Tours. Genius. You pay about 20 Euros to rent a bike and be given a tour of all of Amsterdam and Holland’s countryside. A great concept at a great price. It’s just a shame I am not great at riding a bike. Well, it’s not that I am not good, it’s just that I haven’t ridden one in oh, I don’t know about 7 years. Nonetheless, I mounted in the freezing cold peddled my little heart with rigor. Over bridges and canals, past wobbly buildings, alongside houseboats, through crosswalks, passed countryside homes and windmills, and to a family-run cheese mill and wooden clog-making factory. My friends and I were shown how the clogs are made and how the cheese is formed before continuing to ride passed more homes, livestock (including reindeer!) and through a park. As all the rest of the people in the tour sped by everything, my little elephant-trucks posing as legs were feeling pretty weak, so I had to take the position as the caboose of the group. By the end of the tour, I was the last to pull in but the first to pick up on the guide’s proclamation that we had just biked 22 miles – the longest tour he has ever given. So, I can officially state that I, KP, was in Amsterdam and did more than commit every sin practically known to man, though my body would probably argue that it is also sinful to bike ride for more than 20 miles.

By the end of the weekend, I was able to reflect on the beauty of the city and its small size, the flower market, the countryside, the friendly people. And I tried to make sense of how it all fits so perfectly together with the Vie Boheme nightlife. But I still don’t get it. How is it that in some countries there are people who spend their entire lives getting people in trouble for selling and using drugs or for selling their bodies for sex, when in Amsterdam everyone is happy-go-lucky and practically nothing is illegal, yet people are still able to maintain jobs and keep the economy working? It’s eye opening to think that the police in the US would practically have no place in Amsterdam.

It was refreshing to be able to participate in a life so taboo, so wrong by American standards. So while the most devout Christians or Muslims might be opposed to going, which is simply a shame since they would miss out on the beauty, good food and historical sites, I found myself falling for sin.