I’m leaving on a jet-plane. DAY 21 MARCH 9: AMSTERDAM TO HAMBURG

It was all sniffles and sad smiles today as we waved off those on the Contiki who would be going all the way back to London. The rest of us were left behind to fend for ourselves amidst weed-smokers and red-light swindlers. Lord, have mercy.

I paid no mind to my alone-state. My roomie left her bottle of Absinthe on the table. What a girl. It apparently does not fit into her bag; well, I am always here to help, what a good friend I am. I lugged my bags down a flight of stairs into the so-called basement of the hotel where I could store them for a while. A sign on the door said that they don’t take any responsibility for goods lost/stolen; it seems to me that in generally they don’t take responsibility for anything in this hotel, period. The day we arrived, some random bloke or blokess decided to blow chunks in the hallway. Management’s solution? Throw a little towel over it. That was the first day. Said towel has since not been removed. I am not kidding.

Atleast the hotel is right across from the tram stop, so that makes it easy to travel away from the place. See? They had a plan from the start: make people try to get away from them as fast as possible! Sjoe, I am mean. Well, I am sure that having a pillar in the middle of your room is all normal, because that was the state of our room, and I still have no idea why. Strange, the way Europeans do it. Have sex live on a stage, but build a room with no obtruding structures in the centre, nah, why do it?

Enough with my hotel-hating. So, tram to the Van Gogh Museum, wandering around, up the street and looked for a hotel where my cousins are staying. They didn’t pick the same shabby hotel our Contiki people did, no sir, this place was all posh and hoipaloi. But I shall not go into any more details, you cannot force me and begging won’t help! One must not turn green with envy for it is an unsuitable color for the face, dear. Plus, I don’t want to embarrass my poor cousins; they were, after all, on their second honeymoon.

While I shuffled into the hotel lobby looking like something the cat dragged in, all ears perked and eyes darted to my poor figure (and when I say poor, I mean, MONEYLESS). Quickly a man came up to me and asked (very politely) what I was looking for. Oh, only my long lost cousins!  Just kidding, man, those guys were actually really nice, and they helped me out, no judgement (ha, until they got back into the employees’ lounge and could giggle at my clothes!). Making myself as comfortable as I could on a shiny leather sofa, I looked around me. Oh goodness, everyone else looked so chick. Well, not to worry. Evidence of my un-beggar like qualities did yet exist: my beautiful Mac laptop. I pulled it out of my backpack and sat it on my lap, just so’s everyone could see I wasn’t a complete hobo. Shame they asked a password for the free internet. I do love free internet.

Not too long after I began to bring down the place with my un-coolness, my cousies showed up and we traipsed to the Van Gogh Museum for a little cultural indulgence. Not long after that we were done with culture and wanted more of a digestive indulgence. To the “Dam” we went. A little table on the pavement, three beers on the tabletop. Smiles on three faces. A lovely get together. And plus: they paid. Woooooooh!! Happy birthday to my purse!

I could continue with the sort-of domestic details of how my day went from there, but quite honestly they are not even worth writing let alone reading, so I’ll spare you, man. What I will say is that on my way to the Central Station later that day, I got off at the wrong tram stop and had to lug my baggage there by foot, on a half-an-hour long walk. Not my best moment.  Got on the train, had no way of contacting my cousin in Hamburg (yeah, I know, I have family like its going out of fashion), so I just had to hope for the best. My train was delayed at one stop for an hour, but like I said, I couldn’t contact anyone, leaving me to either freak out completely or chillax, and in the end I just sat down and read a German magazine.

I arrived safe in Hamburg. I called my other cousin back in Amsterdam, the phone booth stole all my money, but at least the word was out that I was safe and sitting in the McDee’s.   At almost Midnight my cousin Chrisna’s beautifully shining face popped up in front of me. I was home.

City of the Bicycle. DAY 21 MARCH 8: AMSTERDAM

Amsterdam is an absolute amazing place, I’m sorry to use such a cliché’d adjective, but here you go. It is. Everywhere you look there are bicycles chained to the bridges, to railings, or just chained generally to anything possible. People here are bike crazy. The amount of people living in Amsterdam equal the amount of bikes in Amsterdam. Talk about equality. The song should have been “There are nine million bicycles in AMSTERDAM…”

I didn’t take a bike on my trip around the dam, though, that would have been too easy. No. Instead I made like a tourist and walked. Pablo, Ignacio and I were up and at  ’em bicycles early and so walked the curly path to what is the Anne Frank Museum. No bicycles were inside the reconstructed-hidingplace, but it sure was depressing. I don’t know why I keep doing these holocaust things, man, they just make me sad. What is it about history that makes me think I need to investigate its evidence, as if enough other tourists don’t do it already. And they sure don’t walk out of museums crying a little. No sir, no more holocaust for me, this is it. I can’t take it anymore, I just can’t, its just much too sad, man, much too sad. Someone else will have to care about the world from now on; let me live in happy oblivion.

My sad moment transformed into alcoholic bliss when we exchanged a place of history for a place of beer. Off to the Heineken Museum we went. What a friccin’ cool place that was. You walk in, get a little history of the brand, take pictures with three boards to choose from, walk around the old-school breweries themselves, taste a bit of the beer before it gets fermented, become a beer by taking part in a little ride and even get to taste of the art of drinking a beer. And at the end of it all you are completely brainwashed to forever love Heineken. With the green wristband that one receives at the entrance you can get two beers or choose to rather pour your own beer and get a certificate of the feat. The Chillies’ chose the certificate; I chose the beer.

At the bar I met a guy who could actually speak Afrikaans and he made my day. He was an employee at the Museum, but he had played Rugby when he was younger in South Africa. He was rather tall and big, so no wonder. One of the girls on our tour is kinda tall, and she says she wants to come to South Africa, because I keep telling her they guys are so huge there. Well, when I saw this guy I wished she was here. Wonder if tall men have “tall guy syndrome”? Just a thought.

With my thoroughly boozed-up we started speed walking back to the meeting place, with only 20minutes to spare. Then we came to a point where we realized that we would be late anyways so we just took the tram instead. Once at the hotel, though, all three of us were so tall that we made it to our rooms and took a nap. I set my alarm for dinner but slept through it, and only woke up when my roommate came in and flopped down on the bed herself. Then, when she got up about an hour later I saw the writing on the wall and came out blinking. At about eight I joined a group (we called them the “back row” group, because, roomie included, they always sit at the back of the bus, but then again, the rest of us sit at the front of the bus, so I guess that makes us “front-of-the-bus group) and took the trap to the meeting place, where we all met up with the rest of the gang for our little rendezvous on the river: our last excursion together, a boat ride. It was supposedly like a sight-seeing tour, but what it really was was just a great get-together and last party for the Contiki group. Plus, all the drinks were free. They didn’t have any bicycles on board, though.

I can’t believe its over. I never even rode a bike in Amsterdam. But I did have a fantastic time, and in the end that’s what counts. I’ll try not to be sad, I’ll just keep remembering the good times, and not dwell on the bad.

Why are all the lights red? DAY 20 MARCH 7: RHINE VALLEY TO AMSTERDAM

Sjoe, I’m finally here. Its the last little leg, no the last foot of the journey. Only tonight and tomorrow, that’s it. Well, the group spent our first hours here wisely; on the agenda: a sex show.

Now, to be frank, I was not very into the idea of a sex show. Really, I mean, why on earth would I want to watch random people having sex on a stage? It sounds disgusting to me, honestly. My cousin’s friend, who went on this trip in December, and who is way older than me and thus much wiser in these matters, visited a live sex show and did not seem all too keen about the idea. And not just because my parents were present! She said that it had made her slightly sick. After my gag-reflecology at the Sex Machine Museum, I have to say I didn’t have any high hopes for a “sex” “show”. What could it possibly show that would be entertaining? In the end, though, peer pressure won, because I wondered what I would do by myself for an hour in Amsterdam while I waited for the rest of the group. So no, I didn’t stick to my guns. I went like a weakling and gave in to my FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).  I went to a Live Sex Show.

**THE SEX SHOW**

Boy, was it interesting. Now, if you do not want to hear about what happened, skip ahead. Because, yeah, I am going to go into detail; I wanted detail when I tried to make my decision, so this is for anyone interested, man.

Okey, so when we got to the theatre, we were handed tickets and genital  lollypops (penises for the ladies, boobs for the guys [how do you make a lolly out of a vajayjay?]). We were ushered in like the mindless sheep we were, “Contiki here, over here, just move into the row, go”. A show was already going on on the stage: two bodies, clad in nothing but stage light, light brown as if sun-kissed by the spotlight, moving around on a revolving platform. I looked, yes, I did, how could I not? It was very eye-catching, coming into the theatre and all you see is nudity on stage. Meanwhile, though, we were seated, and ordered to place orders for drinks. We were allotted two free drinks (me and the guys chose bear, the safest I think). Admin finished, all eyes were averted to the stage.

Yes, it was sex. Not fake, you could see the needle-eye and the thread. Definitely not fake. But also, not at all erotic, not at all sensual. I was keenly aware of the fact that these two people were doing something that they probably did everyday night, and probably practiced more than once a day in this same theatre to this music. You could see it in the way they looked at each other, the way every movement was planned out and choreographed (not like Ballet, you know). There was no passion what-so-ever. If I was some porn-loving guy (sorry, males, but stereotypes you know, they have truth in them), then, maybe then, I would have found it sexually interesting. But for the most part, it elicited only technical interest from me (all the positions they get with their legs, friggin amazing!).

After the first little routine (shock that it was, we survived to the next one), there appeared on stage a domi-matrix, clad in black leather and with a whip in hand. She did a little rhoutine, before walking into the audience, eyeing us all. I laughed, I couldn’t help it. She’s a person after all, a performer, yes, but I could see through the performance, because it was after all no Oscar-movie; I laughed because I imagined how hilarious it must be for her, all these silly young people, scared s-less and not wanting to even make eye-contact. She did pick out someone from the audience, someone from our group. She made him kneel like a dog. I will not describe the other things she did, but it was all hilarious; perhaps not had his parents been in the crowd, but for us, his entourage, it was extremely funny, seeing him being so shy and uncomfortable. The woman didn’t make him do anything strange, it was all just a ploy, it was just make-believe. I’ve heard stories about what happens when a volunteer joins in on a sex show, but this was rather clean (she wasn’t wearing any underwear, but other than that, yeah, clean).

The woman who did the Domi-matrix act was the same one who would continue to do a few little dance pieces throughout the night. It just so happened that in one of these acts she wanted five volunteers from the audience again, specifically from the Contiki group, and shock and horror, I was picked. I was already comfortable in the situation that I hardly hesitated. No, I wasn’t jumping for joy, I was rather curious, but not over-eager. So, we went up to stage, my four friends and I, where the lady told us that we would all dance Samba with her one by one, with a “surprise” at the end. And that’s what we did. Then she peeled a banana and asked each one of us to bite a piece of it off, while she held it on her cupcake. I was first. We were not allowed to use hands, so I did it like a lady. Very much like a lady. I shuffled over (like a lady), bent down (like a lady), averted my eyes (like a lady) and took a small (ladylike) bite. The woman laughed, disappointed I guess, but still, I was not going to allow anyone making me do something for the pure pleasurable entertainment of others. I was not getting paid for this, man. I cheered as the rest of the group on stage went through the same actions, three guys and a girl (she was last and very nervous, poor thing). Then we did a little train, dancing along the stage, but the woman told me to go at the back. Ha, she had a plan. Out of nowhere comes this person dressed up as a guerilla, dancing up behind me, starting to grope me. Not a bad grope, though, I know, I know, it sounds weird, what is a not-weird grope? Well, first off, it was only a performance for the audience: oh, shock and horror. They just wanted to embarrass me for a laugh from the audience, so I played along, fained shock and threw my hands in the air.

The highlight really was the pole dancer at the end; she was really good, man. Like, skills like that I have never seen. No, never, ever before, but still, it was impressive. She hung from the pole using nothing! Like, no ankles, no hands, nothing. I don’t know how she did it. But she seemed really friendly, and afterward when I found her outside smoking I told her what amazing technique she had, and she was rather very genuinely modest but said thank you with a smile.

***RED LIGHT DISTRICT***

It is the strangest thing to walk up an alley way and look into windows where girls are reading the paper, clad in nothing but a little bikini, all made up and ready to go. Sometimes the curtains are close, which either means that they are busy inside, with a client, or that the space is not presently being rented out by anyone. Skinny alley is where the “most beautiful girls” pose in the windows. Honestly, they were all beautiful in their own ways, man, but maybe its because I’m a girl that I say this. Some had glasses and knee-highs, others barely-there knickers. Others looked 40 and wondering what the hell they were still doing in the window display. It came as a surprise to me that the windows were right on the ground; I had always thought that they would be posing in windows on the second story, and that there would be far more tourists. Perhaps most of the crowd were tourists, but what made me a little uncomfortable was that most of them were men. It changes the whole atmosphere, puts a sense of the predatory in the air. I didn’t let it faze me; there were police officers around most corners, and the area is after all a tourist destination. The girls who looked really cool got my attention; I showed them a thumbs-up, and they smiled laughingly back at me. Even prostitutes appreciate a compliment, man.

***The Strip Club***

Yes, man, that is how my night ended. At a strip club. Wow, what an experience. When in Rome, after all (I was in Rome, and I just feel like mentioning that they never used that one on me, but it would have been very funny if they had!). Ignacio, Pablo and I, the only three in our group who did not want to smoke some weed, had decided to go off by ourselves and find a bar. We had followed the little alley-ways and ended up in front of a topless-bar. We went inside. Again, only woman (not working) in the place was me; it was a little awkward at first, with all these men standing on the walls, drinks in hand, acting as if they were having serious conversations when really they were checking out the dancers. The boys and I placed ourselves at the bar and ordered beers. I found myself again smiling at the working women, laughing when they flirted with the men to elicit business out of weeping mother’s boys. Two came over to us and wanted to give the boys a lap dance each. Like men, they agreed. I cheered them on. It was really nothing weird. Perhaps my generation has been so sexed-up by all the movies we watch, all the music videos that we see, that this kind of thing does not even bother us any more. Well, it bothered the men around us, I can tell you that much. All eyes were on us. I hoped they thought I was a working woman, too, because at least that meant they knew not to mess with me for fear of my Union, or the government (perks of legal prostitution).

Ignacio had a little crush on the bartender, who had a little geek-chick look going on. I called her attention and told her; she found it cute and laughed, and that’s how we started talking. How strange it was that I was in a strip club having a very lovely conversation with the bar-tender, one of the only other women in the place.

At one point a rather middle-aged looking woman came onto the bar/stage and started dancing. I felt a little sad for her, what with her dimpled legs and cellulite, so when she tried to seduce me into buying a lap dance, I thought “What the hell?!” and agreed. What a weird experience. Not awkward, just like having a friend on your lap, but not sexy AT ALL. I mean, I like men, and they are NOT wriggly. They are not SOFT. They do NOT have boobs (the boobs, euw, it was scarring, man, seriously, wtf?!). I prefer men, they are not soft and they do not wriggle. Period.

So that was my night. I can’t say that anything I have just written is meant for the conservative of soul. I wouldn’t want my granny to read it, but maybe she’s been to a sex show herself, who knows? All I know is, I spoke Afrikaans to the taxi-driver and the bouncer of the strip-joint, in a Dutch accent, and both of them understood me. Now, THAT was an achievement. As for the rest: they were experiences. Would I do it again? Nope, probably not. Do I regret doing any of it? Not at all.