Sin City

Shots of naked women smiled from every storefront as I wound my way through the narrow streets of Amsterdam. Droopy eyed from a seven hour overnight flight from Ghana, the images seemed like some sort of weird hallucination but on the outskirts of Amsterdam's Red Light District, I learned that such displays are G-rated compared to those inside the district itself. My hostel, The Bulldog, was flanked by coffee shops where red-eyed stoner tourists lazily rolled blunts and tucked them behind their ears. People dangled their feet over the stone walls leading down to murky canals, where long boats hauled tourists to the city's most popular destinations.

After checking my bags at the hostel, I grabbed a map and set out into the city. The sun shone brightly, but it wasn't hot. For the first time in six weeks, I felt clean. There were no beggars, little pollution and streets regulated by lights and laws. Police officers whizzed by on shiny bikes and big horses, and people walked fat dogs on leashes. The culture shock, needless to say, was intense. There were no goats wandering about, no ckickens pecking the dirt and everyone was fully clothed. Imagine that!

Famished from the long trip, I stopped at a small bakery and bought a croissant. I nearly fainted when the woman charged me €3, but paid her anyway. I guess the days of $1.50 meals are a thing of the past! As I sat savoring my spendy croissant, I heard a familiar tune: sure enough, 'I Bless the Rains Down in Africa' came humming out of the nearby speakers. In fact, there were little reminders of Africa everywhere, from a man wearing a Kente shirt to my sleep-deprived hallucinations of people yelling 'OBRONI!' as I strolled by.

Since I couldn't officially check into my room until 3:00 (it was 9:00 when I arrived), I decided to continue my adventure around the city. I discovered the beauty of getting lost in an unknown city and finding your way back again by looking for the Anne Frank house for about two hours. People in Amsterdam give directions by noting the canals and bridges- 'Turn right at the second bridge and walk to the third canal'- which was confusing but quite an adventure. I finally found the little house, where I waited in line to tour the house and museum. The conditions were utterly tragic, but the history was so interesting and well worth getting lost for. I wandered into a nearby church and took a nap in the back pew after listening to a beautiful organ concert. The ceiling was decorated with cherubs playing big harps and wispy clouds, so when a woman poked me on the shoulder to wake me, I pretended I'd been looking at the art all along.

I walked the opposite direction to the Van Gogh museum and the Rembrandt House, where the artists' collections were displayed for awed tourists to marvel at. I found an inexpensive sandwhich shop, where I feasted on a fresh vegetable sandwhich. The crisp lettuce and juicy tomato tasted absolutely delicious after six weeks without fresh veggies and I happily savored the delicacy while watching the Olympic preliminaries in Dutch.

After visiting a few toursit shops, I wandered into Dam Square, where I watched people at the National Monument for about an hour. A ginat palacce loomed across the street, and I watched children chase pigeons as they wildly spiraled up toward the blue sky.

People in Amsterdam are friendly, but not as openly so as Ghanaians. The Dutch are more reserved, but kind in their own ways. I checked into my noisy hostel and unloaded my things into a small locker. I shared a room full of bunkbeds with 13 other strangers, but it was clean and secure. Instead of staying in the room, I ventured out into town to find Nick's hostel, a friend from Ghana who was staying the night in Amsterdam, too. He and I, along with his father who was also in Europe, explored the Red Light District together.

I've always heard about the Red Light District, its provocative women luring men from around the world, but I never really believed it was real until seeing it with my own eyes. Storefronts that had seemed so innocent during the day lit up in neon lights at night, their curtains pulled back to reveal all types of women on display. Thin blondes in push up bras sucked on lollipops, suggestively eyeing potential customers with piercing blue eyes. Robust Spanish women curled their fingers in a lusty 'come on over' motion, their laquered nails more brilliant in the cruel neon lights. Young boys weaved between people, quietly offering cocaine to those who needed a fix. A bridge lit by neon red Christmas lights signifies the beginning and end of the Red Liht District, and I think twice over that marker was enough for me. I collapsed into my top bunk at around 1:00, falling into the deepest sleep I've had in awhile with the cool Amsterdam breeze lulling me to sleep.