The Red Light District of Amsterdam is one of the city’s most famous quarters. In Dutch, it is called De Wallen. My decision to see De Wallen came largely from Shafi’s vivid descriptions. He spoke of palace-like structures made of glass lining the streets—red carpets, red-lit windows, and reflections that gave the place an unusual, almost theatrical beauty.Inside some of these old buildings, I was told, relics from entirely different worlds were preserved: waist sashes, cloaks, and hats once used by Catholic priests; ancient copies of the Old Testament Bible from different eras; and even firearms belonging to warrior kings of the past. These structures felt socially complex and culturally paradoxical—spaces where sharply contrasting values and histories seemed to coexist under the same roof.It was Shafi’s narration, after all, that became the reason I boarded a flight from Mumbai to Amsterdam.When I finally arrived in Amsterdam, I was taken by surprise. It felt as though I had stepped into a massive festival. Unlike the temple festivals back home, where women usually dominate the crowds, here it was mostly men. The women I noticed were largely young and strikingly attractive. Many of them had enhanced lips, likely shaped by Botox injections. Drawn along by their confident glances and gentle gestures, I walked like a moth toward the glass palaces I had heard so much about.Although the district is best known for its red-lit window displays, the coffee shops were equally captivating. Different varieties of cannabis were displayed neatly in elegant glass jars, sold under strict legal regulation. One of the Botox-enhanced beauties beckoned me over with a charming smile. As I sipped cannabis-infused coffee, I jokingly exclaimed—perhaps a bit dramatically—that if heaven existed on earth, this must be it. She flashed a wide smile, her perfectly aligned teeth gleaming in response.Amid all this, the district also housed historic buildings, canals, and churches—quiet reminders of Amsterdam’s layered past. The woman accompanying me was a sex worker. She casually mentioned her rate: fifty euros an hour. Bargaining being second nature to me, I countered with forty and asked if she would come along. She laughed and agreed. For a moment, I wondered if I should have tried thirty, but then an old memory surfaced—an incident from years ago, when a similar miscalculation had cost me dearly during a street-side cabaret show with a friend. I laughed at myself, and she laughed with me.In the Netherlands, sex work is legal and regulated. Those working in the Red Light District are licensed, pay taxes, and operate under legal protection. Like any other workers, they have the right to set and receive fair payment for their labor.To be continued.Dr. Sensual 💙
whisperer 