Schipol International Airport feels “state of the art”, like an airport in Asia or the Middle East.  I read in Nudge that this is the first airport which urinals have “fly” on them, nudging men to aim better therefore reducing urine spillover.  No wonder it is listed as one of the best airports in the world. The peculiar thing I saw at the arrival gate was a spandoek (banner) vending machine. You can buy a custom print banner on the machine to welcome your arriving friends. 

We took the train to Amsterdam Centraal and then tram to our first hotel: Hotel Not Hotel, a designer hotel where all rooms are different, thematically and construction wise. “Crisis Free Zone”,  “Secret Bookcases”, “Crow’s Nest”, “Volkswagen T1”, and more (no private bathroom, but the communal bathroom itself is also an artwork). We stayed in the Tram Room, just for one night; we were transiting. Amsterdam was our entry and exit point for our Eurotrip 2017—we took “local” European flights from there to Austria and returned from Malta as the last leg of our trip. 

When we returned to the city, and spent 5 nights  exploring, we stayed at Cocomama Hostel. The hostel building once housed a brothel. We were already too old for the dorm room, so we booked one of the double private ensuite,  “Royal” themed room. Despite it’s a hostel, Cocomama’s toiletries are fancy—the shampoos; soaps; conditioners; and lotions are equal with, maybe even better than most five star chain hotels. Our room is on the upper floor and, since it is Europe, no lift (but the kind Scottish staff helped carry one of our luggages).

When we are feeling social (which is often), we went downstairs to the common area.The living room and the garden are warm and cosy. We met the owner of the hostel: Joop de kat. He greeted us, asking if we have food for him. However, he’s under strict order by the vet to diet; unhealthily fat. So we just paid our respect by petting and playing with him.

True to Amsterdam’s mercantilism soul, Cocomama accepts all kinds of payment from cash, credit card, to Bitcoin cryptocurrency. A kitchen is available if you want to cook. Cocomama delivers the best of the both world: the comforts of a hotel and the warm social cocoon of a hostel.

Just across the street of Cocomama is the School of Life Amsterdam. I am a fan of the institution. Alain de Botton is an influential writer/philosopher to my personal development. His writings helped me make better sense of my secular existence. We took one of the emotional intelligence development classes “Creating Better Habits” by the Happyiologist Susanna Halonen,  in the School’s London HQ. The Amsterdam’s classes, at that time (2017), mostly are in Dutch.

The first conscious effort we have to make in Amsterdam is not to talk offensively in Indonesian as freely as when we usually do in other countries (our favourite activity when travelling is people watching—and commenting on them is inevitable). Many people speaks Indonesian in Amsterdam. The airport security officers questioned me in Indonesian. A senior white Dutchman talked with me in Indonesian. A mixed race girl greeted me in Indonesian. There, we were not protected with by the anonymity of our foreign tongue. 

Amsterdam was love at first sight. It’s like London, but curated and with only the best parts: multicultural, liberal, beautiful parks and canals (and people), and great museums and art galleries. A bit messy but charming. 

We rent student museum passes from the hostel, assumed the identity of the pass holders. We visited the Rijksmuseum, saw the real life Rembrant’s Nightwatch. If the Old Master lived in an era after photography has been invented, would he still chose painting as his medium? There was a collection of Raden Saleh’s paintings. Here he was the European dandy, not the Javanese gentry. Like Yukio Mishima, he built a persona of a westernised oriental true to his heritage. An exotic creature whom westerners can relate to; the archetype of Aouda in Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days. I remember I was also enchanted by Bosch and his descriptive paintings of hell.

We skipped posing before the “I ♥ Amsterdam” at sign Museumplein though.

I learned more about Rembrandt by visiting his house—Museum het Rembrandthuis. Bought Rembrandt’s Bible Stories which, as the title suggests, bible stories accompanied by Rembrant’s illustrations. The stories are somehow secularised, I think, focusing more on human relationships than divinity.

I met up with an airsoft mate, as well as his Indonesian friends living in Amsterdam. The meeting place was Leidseplein, the Oxford Circus of Amsterdam. If it’s up to me, I would not choose that. I guess most people assume that Indonesian would always prefer shopping centres. However, there was a Banksy graffiti there. Plus my friend bought me beers and lunch.

We had a social education at the Red Light District. Took a tour organised by the Prostitution Institution Center. Our guide wore a low cut dress, she has a tattoo on her left boob. I didn’t ask if she is also (or was) a sex worker, but she has a Master’s degree in history. 

Prostitution is not just decriminalised but legal in Netherlands. The window brothels and the sex shows are legitimate businesses. They pay taxes— there are accountants, finance and tax advisers opening their offices in the Red Light District catering the sex industry. Therefore, the sex workers have rights and the industry receive government’s support. 

Legalising prostitution is a way to mitigate exploitation of the sex workers. I saw the ladies inside the windows look healthy (unlike sex workers in places where prostitution is criminalised, e.g. Bangkok or Jakarta, where they look skinny and underage). It is not a perfect system—illegal prostitution still exists, partially because you have to comply with complex rules and pay taxes to be legitimate. 

The sex workers come from every races and their operating areas seem to be clustered. It is not by regulation, people tend to flock with people who look the same with them—homophily. The police are actively patrolling the area. It’s not that there are many crimes, the police presence is a way to send a public message that the prostitution is also under the protection of the law. The sex establishments also employ bouncers. So it was pretty safe environment for the sex workers and the guests who are coming to have some fun.

Pimping, however, is a crime. No one should have the right to take the sex worker’s income. Sex workers can and have the right to refuse clients. 

I read in Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work that when sex workers work in a club, they work under profit sharing arrangement with the proprietor.  While working the windows provide the best independence: the sex worker simply rent the space on hourly basis from the landlord. They just offset their income with the rent; any profit or loss is theirs. Therefore, they can decide where and when to work. 

We also went to Casa Rosso, a live sex show theatre, which Lonely Planet describes as “couple friendly”. They have varieties of shows: burlesque, smoking vulva, pole dance, male stripper, lesbian, even actual intercourse on stage (no male on male though). No-photography and no-videography are strictly enforced. The performers would stop the show and yell at any offender. The bouncers would warn you (not nicely). 

We came in when it was smoking vulva show (the performer smoked a cigar with her vagina). Then it was the live intercourse. A group of tourists came in just at that. Some of them were shocked and froze, even when they were ushered to their seats. In certain shows, the performer asked for a member of the audience to volunteer to be a part of the show. 

It would have been more fun if we came as a group and one of us volunteered. However, I found live sex shows are not like porn films. I was not aroused. It felt silly instead or downright disturbing (is it normal to feel this way?). Also I found it impressive that the male performers can maintain their erection despite all the distractions on stage (he does the show in hourly cycle from 7pm to 1am—without coming).

Our conclusion from the Red Light District: sex work is definitely a work. And a hard work. Imagine servicing 5 to 25 clients in 8 hour shift or performing non-stop sex show for 6 hours! That debunks the myth that prostitution money is easy money. 

Anyway, if you want to employ the sex services, the Prostitution Information Center is a reliable place to get referrals.

I don’t like buying oleh-oleh (travel gifts), but Condomerie is the perfect place to acquire Amsterdam souvenirs. You can buy utilitarian condoms in any shape, size, and colour and/or decorative condoms (but strictly not for use). I giggled like a teenage boy peeking at porn magazine upon entering. Bought two decorative condoms for my friend. Useless trinkets, but fun (and I got complimentary coloured condoms).

For World War II enthusiasts, the Anne Frank House is the obvious must see. I’d recommend  to read her diary prior visiting. The house is small, we spent much longer time queuing than seeing the museum (if you want to avoid the queue, you’d need to pre-book tickets on the website at least a month before) . The attic’s Secret Annexe, in which the Franks were hiding, gave us better of sense of Anne’s sufferings to be restricted in a confined space.  From her diary, we can see how Anne matured rapidly during her exile. She was a happy popular flirty teenage girl before the occupation which took her freedom (and later, her life).

Verzetsmuseum (the Museum of Resistance) is the lesser known museum about World War II, but a definite top sight on the era. It houses well curated artefacts related to Netherlands during the war. The main exhibitions focus on the Nazi occupation, under which Amsterdamers must choose between adapting, resisting, or collaborating. The Junior wing is the most fun—the interactive installations playfully narrates the experience of Dutch children from different family backgrounds: resistance fighters; Jews (Anne Frank’s neighbour); and fascists NSB. 

The Dutch East Indies wing was particularly interesting for me. I was taught the partisan nationalist historical narratives of the Indonesian revolution at school. The museum’s narrative is more nuanced, although antagonistic to the Imperial Japanese occupation (maybe rightfully, Indonesian senior citizens who lived through the colonial times testified that the Japanese were very brutal). 

There was a temporary exhibition of “The Gulag: Terror and Arbitrary Rule in the Soviet Union”. It was the first time I realised that Stalin was worse than Hitler (at least in terms of kill counts).

The Sex Museum is a quirky museum with silly exhibits: puffing condoms, erotic decorative artefacts, dioramas of sex scenes—flashers; backstreet handjob; the inside of red light district’s window; oriental brothel; and sex icons such as Marilyn Monroe and Mata Hari. The museum’s restroom is also a part of the exhibitions: vulva shaped urinal and water closet. The wash basin mirror projects a sensual animation about Alfons Mucha on the loop. The final exhibit is a historical narrative reel about sexuality of the [western] society: how the moral pendulum swings from  time to time. Europeans were sexually liberal during the pagan times, became uptight due to Christianity, and then liberated again after the Enlightenment. 

Of course, no Amsterdam experience is complete without a visit to their infamous coffee shops. It has been ages since I smoked weed. The first coffee shop we tried was Bulldog. Bad choice, it’s a tourist trap/ I can feel it the moment we came in, but against our instinct and under peer pressure we bought their joints anyway. We smoked two pre-rolled joints and didn’t get high at all. On our second try, we went to Dampkring. The retro psychedelic interior convinced me that the coffee shop is a real hippie den. Bought the herbs, the grinders, and the rolling papers. However, I just remembered that I never roll joint myself (in Indonesia the dealer would give such value added service, gratis). My partner never rolled a joint too. I was about to ask the guy at the next table, but his eyes seem to say “Fuck, a tourist who disturbs my high time.” So I learned from YouTube. I acquired a new skill in Amsterdam.

Amsterdam’s coffee shops are prohibited to serve alcoholic drinks, in case you didn’t know. Maybe to prevent double effects of alcohol and tetrahydrocannabinol. But, unsurprisingly, they serve coffees. Not sure if it’s good to mix the sedating effect of marijuana with caffeine, but rules are rules.

We smoked the joints by the canal. There was no immediate effect. We thought we’ve been duped again. So much for the winner of Cannabis Grand Prix. We decided we were hungry, so we went to Hostaria, an Italian restaurant. It was fully booked, but the maitre’d made a room for us. After the wonderful dinner, suddenly we couldn’t stop giggling. The wallpaper patterns seemed so funny. Our mood skyrocketed.

Our cannabis induced happiness seemed to be contagious. Other than using basic Italians, such as “Buonasera! Mi scusi? Grazie mille! Prego”, we did’t remember doing anything special. However, the maitre’d seemed to be happy seeing us. He gave us tap water (in Amsterdam, not all restaurants serves free water), extra red wine, and complimentary tiramisu. Even the chef went out from the kitchen and gave us a hug when we left. Maybe we did something silly without realising it.

Multicultural Amsterdam allowed to have the best foods at the best climate. We had Thai food at Bird, several times—they are as good as in Bangkok (not quite at the same level with Krua Apsorn, but very good). The wonton soup at New Kingand the Indian curries at Koh-i-Noorare also excellent. Imagine hot rich Asian spices in a cool European climate. The best of both worlds. We skipped the Indonesian restaurants. While I heard the quality is top notch, all of them are expensive restaurants. 

We also had Peruvian at Casa Perú. The last time we had Peruvian was at the Camden Market, 2015. The highlight, as always, was the ceviche.

Our first initiation of truly local cuisine was at Albertcuypmarket, we had some kind of meatball at Cafe de Groene Vlinder for a lunch break when traversing the Europe’s busiest open air market; vendors and shops selling cheese, smartphone accessories, kitchen utensils, locks, fridge magnets, colouring mat, and flags (we bought an Amsterdam flag for souvenir: the red-black stripe-and triple Xs are appealing hues—like the Soviet and Nazi flags, but of the opposite ideology). We had pannekoek at  Pannekoekenhuis Upstairs. Dutch pancakes just the way my grandma made it (she lived through the Dutch and Japanese colonial times), only better. The queue was worth the wait. 

English cuisine may be on the lowest tier of European food culture, but they do breakfast alright. Therefore, we had one at the Breakfast Club. We had classic burgers at the Butcher in Albertcuypmarket. Another western food highlight is De Plantage, a greenhouse turned into restaurant by the zoo. We sat on one of the tables outside.

We enjoyed the true bliss of European summer in Amsterdam. The gentle breeze and warm sun on a virtually trafficless cosmopolitan city. People walk, cycle, or take the tram. The locals moved their dining table outside their homes and dined on the streets. We strolled the Vondelpark under its full summer glory. Little humidity allowed us to sit comfortably on the grass. Napped, talked, read, and watched people go about leisurely.

Dropped by Int ’t Aepjen, the “monkey bar” in the Medieval Centre. It’s not a calisthenics gym, but a bar housed in a 16^th century wooden house. It was frequented by sailors from the Orients with monkeys on their shoulders. Captain Barbarossa style. Drunk beers under candlelights. Gezellig.

I am not much of a shopper, but the shops at De 9 Straatjeswill test any self-proclaimed minimalists not to consume. Photogenic designer stores, vintage clothing shopes, and eateries—the equivalent of London’s Seven Dials, only better since the 9 streets have canals. I saw a discounted off-season Barbour winter jacket, good thing not in my size so I didn’t buy it. We went book hunting at the American Book Center and Universiteit van Amsterdam. We acquired brand new Barthes’ Camera Lucida and Mythologies as well as Sontag’s On Photography, the reading list for street photography course by Erik Prasetya. Bought secondhand Nassim Nicholas Thaleb’s Black Swan. All those books gave me conceptual shifts, so the overall costs of acquiring them (including travel to Amsterdam) yielded handsome existential profits. 

Amsterdam is the most liberal city in Europe. That’s high liberalism. Represented first and foremost by sexual freedom, because— as Oscar Wilde said—“Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.” After all, the independent Netherlands was born out of an uprising against the anal retentive Spanish Catholicism (literally, with their Inquisition). 

But of course, Amsterdam is not just “Disneyland for college students.” (Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo—funny film when I watched in 2005, but a bit sexist, homophobic, and racist for 2017 moral standards). The Dutch mercantilism, detached from the aristocracy and the clergy, created an independent judiciary. This allowed them to compete with Spain, the then Christendom superpower. This is where the first multinational corporation was established, the VOC. Amsterdam became so rich that they became the patrons of the art and culture, from Rembrandt to Vermeer to Van Gogh (whose museum we missed, unfortunately). The intellectual enlightenment allowed them to see further and higher of sapiens’ existential conditions; they were aware of and horrified by the exploitations and sufferings of the indigenous people in the colonised lands ergo the Dutch Ethical Policy and the subsequent progressive policies. 

No wonder Amsterdam is Oliver Sacks’ favourite city. The canal city was where he popped his cherry (England, even London, was relatively conservative and homophobic when he was young). But also, the city is not just about vulgar distractions and sexuality.  Here you can have intellectual stimulations by immersing yourself in high cultures and satisfy your basic instincts, tumbling into abandon. You can have both Apollonian and Dionysian enchantments within less than 30 minutes walk or cycle.

On the last day in Amsterdam, also our last day of our Eurotrip 2017, we had breakfast at Little Collins. It was Saturday and, seeing the ease of Amsterdamers—how they walked and cycled around, sitting and talking and drinking good coffee with friends—made me happy but also envious. The modern citizens of the Old World (therefore old moneyed societies) know how to live. However, the queue was long for the check in of our return flight to Indonesia. The aircraft was full of Europeans with flip-flops, shorts, panama hats, and surfboards in pursuit of tropical beach for summer holiday.

To see and choose the part of the world we inhabit, despite for a brief instant. A reminder of how privileged I am—we are—to be travellers.