After squeezing behind the bookcase and climbing the narrow stairs to Anne Frank’s attic, devouring Dutch waffles drenched in sickly-sweet chocolate and powdered sugar, and people-watching while sipping café lattes al fresco, I stumbled upon a Prostitution Museum nestled between two brothels overlooking the canal.
It was appropriately open into the late night hours and entrance cost me just a few Euros. A viewing room draped in red velvet from floor-to-ceiling looped a short film on the less-than-glamorous lives of the more than 1000 working girls (and guys) in the Red Light District. Many worked 11 hours a day, six days a week. An average client visit was about seven minutes.
Photographs and personal accounts filled-in-the-blanks for those who were curious about the attraction to prostitution. They unsurprisingly revealed an assortment of liberation and desperation.
Entering the museum’s replica of a €150 per shift room rental, I was immediately illuminated in the red hue surrounding the clear glass. Revealing an incredible view of De Wallen, I was also met with glowing pairs of eyes staring back at me, window shopping.
It was unnerving, to say the least.
A ‘Confession Wall’ bid adieu to visitors, allowing them to scribble their scandalous secrets on scraps of paper and tack them up in solidarity with the rest of the unscrupulous. I added mine to the wall and stepped back onto the cobblestone streets with a smile.
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