Wanted: Lady of the night for conversation

If I had met Brigitta on the street and asked her for directions, I would’ve never known or even suspected what she did for a living.

Speaking more with her eyes than her voice, she exuded a polite reserve, contrary to the boisterous confidence I would’ve expected from a sex worker in Amsterdam. Although her appearance — scantily clad with stick straight hair and caked makeup — was an immediate giveaway of her profession, it provided only a superficial understanding.

During my last night in the city, I left my hostel naively thinking that if I knocked on enough doors and smiled as innocently as possible, I could convince at least one prostitute to take a couple of minutes off work to tell me her story, or at least bribe her to meet me after for a cup of coffee.

What I saw as an opportunity for an enlightening conversation, they saw as a waste of time, another minute they had to spend propping the door open for a penniless miscreant.

Even on a Sunday night, the cobbled streets of the Red Light District were bustling with people: groups of men standing outside dimly red-lit doors debating which ones to enter, girls giggling nervously as they quickened their pace past sultry women and even couples walking hand in hand trying their hardest not to point.

Like Brigitta, Amsterdam’s Red Light District transforms after sunset. Although even by day, you never forget that you’re looking at the physical manifestation of human vice, you get the distinct impression that there might be something more.

Walking through the neighborhood, I couldn’t ignore the shops filled with sex toys and the films with not very subtly nuanced titles like Soaking Wet and Liquor Store Lady, or the posters advertising peep shows for 2 euros ($2.69). But unexpectedly, there were also a good number of cafes and, ironically, at the heart of it all, a church.

Oude Kerk, translated as “Old Church,” got its name from — you guessed it — being the oldest church in Amsterdam. Back when pirates dominated the city, priests would forgive the seafaring rogues known for their proclivity to adult entertainment of their sins in exchange for a lump sum of money.

To the untrained eye, this unquestioning acceptance of vice might seem confusing or even shocking. According to our walking tour guide, however, the city’s liberality stems from a history built on three unofficial rules governing behavior.

Whatever extracurricular activities you choose to take part in — whether legal or not — should first and foremost be good for business. Your actions should not hurt anyone, and you should also practice discretion.

For the most part, the business that goes on inside the city’s Red Light District complies with these rules.

In terms of prostitution, the women pay their taxes, work with condoms and rent private rooms for the time they need, usually around four to six hours. When a shift is over, the women draw the curtains and close up shop until they feel like working again.

With a friend trailing closely behind, I walked up to the first window on the main thoroughfare where a blonde bombshell stared back at me in confusion, probably because of my gender. After a hopeful introduction and brief proposition, I was stiffly rebuffed.

The next window proved no better. As soon as the woman saw me approaching, she yanked the curtains closed in a practiced motion. I can only assume that she received my casual smile and unassuming wave as a boorish grin and an undesired entreaty.

After about 10 minutes and a nasty rejection from a portly black woman, I quickly learned that if I wanted conversation, I would have to fork up the money.

In general, if you want to hire a prostitute for a baseline 15-minute session, prepare to invest 50 euros ($67.28). Anything more than just the usual, and you’ll have to pay an even higher price tag, depending on the complexity of the act.

The women in the red light district are of all nationalities, shapes and ages, with the youngest prostitute I saw being 18 years old and the oldest, who comes with a waiting list, being 72 years old. Many don’t speak English and most, understandably, don’t like to talk about their work during their off-hours.

As I walked off the main road into a quieter passageway, I tried, yet again, to work my powers of persuasion. Finally, I met Brigitta.

At 20, Brigitta left her hometown in Hungary with her friends. Until her funds ran low, she never imagined that she would end up being one of the women tapping on glass window doors, hoping to catch a man’s attention with a flip of her hair and a seductive smile.

But before I could prompt her for more, she told me she was still on the clock and suggested that I come back after her shift was over.

About an hour later, I went back, finding only a locked door and darkness peeking from beneath the drawn curtains. Although I knocked, no one came out.

Though I felt slightly disappointed about my failed rendezvous, I can’t say I was surprised. If there’s anything I’ve learned in Amsterdam, it’s that you might be able to look through the glass doors at any given time, but it’ll take more than just a kind smile to be invited inside.

Melissa Leu  is a junior majoring in print journalism. Her column “Across the Pond” runs Mondays.