Walking through Amsterdam’s red light district, we reminisced about the three months we lived at the Krasnapolsky, around the corner. As we wandered, Bob wondered if some of the prostitutes on display behind windows and glass doors actually liked their work. Maybe they felt desired and good about themselves.
I said that that was a totally male fantasy view, and that the women must feel demoralized and dehumanized, having to be intimate with drunken, stinky strangers for pittance, and worse. And on top of that, most of them were slaves to pimps and could barely pay off their “expenses.”
We were both surprised at how great looking some of the girls were. I decided to try to talk to one, a perfect Barbie doll in a white micro-bikini with long blonde hair, freckles, and a friendly smile. When I approached her glass door, she opened it and said sure, we could talk. She invited me in, but I just stayed in the doorway. She was Dutch, 28ish, and spoke perfect and smart English, like most Dutch. She said she did this work because she liked it, and the others who didn’t like it were just stupid. She said there’s always a way out, people to help, safe places to go.
So Bob was right. At least one of these women liked her job.
After I left, Barbie stuck her head out of her door to call to a good looking man in a group: “I want you, pretty boy.” The man went to her door and talked for a while, then left. We meandered. A block away, Bob stopped the man and asked (in German) why he didn’t go in. He said she was too expensive. It was 50 euros ($65) to go in, then extra. I imagine that means a 50-euro cover charge, then a menu depending on what you want, which could get expensive. But as I was completely wrong about the woman’s attitude about her job, I’m probably just as wrong about the pricing.
During dinner (Malaysian) Bob wondered if Barbie would allow him to take a picture of me next to her. I didn’t want a picture like that, but finally agreed to do it if she’d allow it. I felt safe in that, thinking that she wouldn’t. After dinner, we went back to her doorway but her curtain was closed. We waited for a while, then I finally went up to the dark-haired girl behind the next glass door of the same house. I asked if the thin blonde was still around or if she’d left. Sure, the other one said, and called “Sabrina, a frau for you!”
A man left through the Barbie doll’s door and the doll herself appeared in her white micro-bikini with a spray bottle of disinfectant in her hand. I beckoned Bob over to make the request for his photo, because I didn’t really want it. He started to introduce himself when she suddenly lit up and said she’s seen him on television. “You’re great!” she said. But no! No photos. She had allowed a woman to film her once from the neck down, but the woman filmed her face and it was shown on ABC. Her American regulars told her about it. Bob asked, isn’t that good for business? No, she said, she has family. She doesn’t want to be filmed.
