In Amsterdam the girls wait behind glass doors and the men walk from door to door and look at the girls and then they go inside and pay and they go behind a curtain and this is how they get prostitutes. The girls are lit up from behind by red lights and this is why it’s called the red light district. I thought it would be something less literal. Something vague. Something more like a feeling.
On every bridge over every canal there are bicycles tied to railings and bicycles fallen over and bicycles piled on top of other bicycles and sometimes you trip over something and when you look down it is just another bicycle.
Nobody wears helmets and little babies on bicycle seats do not wear helmets and so I say something, offhandedly, to my brother, and he makes fun of me. For thinking of their safety, maybe. For thinking of their tiny baby brains.
The line for the Anne Frank house is hours long but my brother buys tickets online beforehand and we are buzzed in another entrance. This is where Anne slept. This is where they cooked dinner. In the daytime, they can not flush the toilets. They must not move the curtains. They must always be very, very quiet.
In the coffeeshops weed is passed around like candy. Now I can smell it on my clothes, smell it on my jacket, smell it in my hair.
photographs taken in Amsterdam with a Minolta X-700