'If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women. Don't take pictures of the women, it might get you in trouble.'

Amsterdam Visitors Guide 2004.

Leidseplein

Saturday

I mount the bus that will take me to London Heathrow with a slight sense of worry. It's not for the upcoming flight -- which will be my first -- but rather my guts. I have caught a bout of Austrian Flu from my flatmate and it's doing interesting, if not exactly kind, things to my stomach.

My consolation is that I have fifteen days of holiday ahead of me; even a bout of flu shouldn't be able to hit me hard enough to ruin my entire holiday, I think.

I'm struck by the scale of London Heathrow -- you have to remember this is the first time I've even been to an airport. I was wise enough to leave plenty of time before my flight, so I spend an hour or two wandering around the concourse lounge, trying not to look like a goggle-eyed tourist. It'll be good practice for when I arrive in Amsterdam, although I fail miserably.

There's a duty-free Burberry store in the concourse lounge. I stare, open-mouthed, for a moment, but somehow manage to avoid outfitting myself as a pikey for my trip.

The flight to Schipol is uneventful, although I'm silently disappointed that I have to watch my first take-off around the back of some Dutch guy's head.

We land somewhere in Belgium, and taxi for about twenty minutes to get to arrivals. We actually cross busy motorways, which just baffles me.

Schipol strikes me as clean, organised, and quiet after London Heathrow. I'm reminded of a Stephen King story I read, and wonder when the Langoliers are going to arrive. My fellow fliers seem to know where they're going -- and seem to be in a hurry -- so I keep my mouth shut.

After checking in, I head to Leidseplein, which I'm told is the centre of the city's nightlife. The square's full of people, a jostling, smiling mass heading in all directions. Numerous bars, cafés, and coffeeshops line the square and the roads leading to it.

In the centre of the square a large group of tourists are gathered around a British guy who has been . . . well, it isn't exactly juggling, he has these glass balls that he was spinning around in his hands. As I arrive, he's talking to the crowd (and he talks a lot over the next 15 minutes), telling him that this next act is the most difficult, so please give generously. It would be impressive, had he not dropped one of them and had to run across his circle to catch it. More impressive was the fact that the ball didn't shatter.

His finale consists of rolling a ball of fire around on his body without getting burned. He pulls a member of the crowd out to hand him the ball and stand by with an oven glove in case he dropped the ball, which he promptly does. His audience member had since returned to the audience, so the guy was forced to run across the circle once more, screaming 'Sean!' and trying to stop the ball from setting anyone on fire.

I passed an Irish bar called Dan Murphy's on the way in, so I return that way to see if Guinness travels to Holland well. There's a band on, playing passable rock music. The only thing of real note is that the keyboarder looks like a cross between Robbie Coltrane and Jim Royle.

It's hard to get a feel for the place, as it's decorated heavily in Halloween orange and black (as is most of town), but the Guinness isn't bad.

I head to another bar/café, hoping to continue my night, but my stomach starts playing up again. I begin to wonder if drinking two pints of Guinness was such a good idea. I beat a hasty retreat to the hotel, unwilling to throw up in a canal, then feel fine by the time I get there.

As I walk to the tram stop at Marnixstraat, I notice for the first time the number of cyclists in Amsterdam. In particular I notice two hot young dutch ladies slowing down as they cycle past me. I say hello and, although my Dutch accent is laughable, I do get a smile or two.

The Red Light District

Sunday

I pass through the Red Light District en route to the Oude Kerk, but when I found the church I found it closed. I was too early in the day to see much in the RL district; the only prostitutes I did see were two old, fat, black women who looked like the last thing they wanted was to entertain.

The pavements are the biggest trap -- you can be walking along, trying not to look like a tourist or a pervert, when a bump in the pavement will catch you unawares, make you stumble, and announce to the world at large that you were having a good old perv.

Never happened to me of course, but I saw it happen to others . . .

I head to the Sexmuseum, which is located on Damrak, the main avenue heading south from Centraal Station. The museum charts the rise of pornography, prostitution, and attitudes to sex across the globe. Some of the stuff is certainly interesting, from porno movies from the 1950s to S&M photos from the 1920s (albeit slightly disturbing), but it has to be said that parts of the museum do get boring. Room after room is given over to old pornographic photos and you begin to wonder why they need to show quite so many. They all begin to look the same after a while.

(I had a similar sort of feeling when walking through the Red Light District later in the week; after looking through so many glass doors you begin to get bored of seeing women in their underwear. A woman in something else -- a costume or a short skirt and shirt, frex -- is special enough to make you look twice.)

Anyway, back to the museum. There is a room about the RL District, with pros and punters dressed accurately in period dress (interesting for a couple of seconds). Finally there is the Marquis de Sade Zaal, a room dedicated to specialist or fetishist pornography. Intended to shock, the room covers S&M, scat, gay and lesbian, transexual, bestiality, etc. Again I wonder at the effort, because there's nothing here a serious-minded person couldn't hunt down given an hour or two to play on the internet and Dad's credit card. By far the most disturbing are the pictures of fat-on-fat porn. I leave the museum slightly confused, but far from aroused.

My second trip through the Red Light District, is as much of a let-down as the first was. I'm beginning to think Coops may have lied to me when he said the whores in Amsterdam were all hot.

The Oude Kerk is located, rather unfortunately, in the middle of the Red Light district. From the outside, it doesn't look all that impressive; it's hard to get an idea of the scale or age of the building as it's surrounded by a ring of low houses. Neither does it take all that long to walk around the outside. It's when you get inside, however, that you realise how deceptive this first impression is. Oude Kerk is vast inside, peaceful and humbling. You walk on a floor of tombstones and can see the final resting places of Vincent van Gogh's wife as well as some notable figures from Holland's military history. It's easy to forget that you're surrounded by smut and drugs and after walking through that the church is quite restful, an enjoyable break.

The Old Sailor is a bar located in the Red Light District, with good views of one of the brothel-lined canals. It's Dutch-run, and whilst the guys behind the bar weren't the friendliest, the locals were quite talkative. Because of its location, it's ideally suited to lure in the groups of English tourists walking the streets of the RL District in the hope of a laugh. It makes it quite busy even though it's a Sunday night -- I wonder what it'll be like on a Friday or Saturday when all the weekend trippers are there.

I visit two more Irish bars over the course of the night: Molly Malone's and Slainte. Malone's is located out of the way, filled appropriately with ex-pat paddies, and is less welcoming than Slainte. Surprisingly the Guinness is better in the second pub.

My third walkthrough the Red Light District is better than the first or second. A lot of the fat ugly prostitutes are gone, and whilst there are still one or two old ones out, the majority of the girls (and there are hundreds of them on show) are fit. Some you would even go so far as to say were hot.

The girls stand behind glass doors that lead to small rooms for the dirty deeds. Curtains drawn across the door, I come to learn, mean that either a woman is entertaining or the room is empty. As you walk past the occupied windows, you are followed by a barrage of tapping -- nails on glass -- as the women try to get your attention. Look for two long and the girls either start gesturing or open their doors and start calling to you.

The thing that puts me off visiting one of the women isn't the fact that it's just an expensive form of masturbation. It isn't even the shame or embarrassment associated with paying for sex (because, let's face it, I'm in another country -- I could do it and no one would be any the wiser unless I actually told them). No, the thing that puts me off is walking past a girl I thought was particularly cute and seeing a guy old enough to be my grandad in there kissing her on the cheek. Put simply, I don't want to fuck a woman shortly after someone's grandad's had a go. There's something wrong about that.

So, I keep on walking and save myself a few euros.

I'm a little disappointed that everyone in Holland is willing and able to speak English. It feels almost like cheating if I can get by in a foreign country without learning any of the language.

Can't Get Enough of That Wonderful Gogh

Monday

I'm really beginning to crave fruit. The takeaway food here is plentiful and unhealthy, and I'm finding it hard to eat healthily. I'm reluctant to get a table for one in a crowded restaurant -- silly I know -- so I'm forced to eat from an unending supply of pizzerias, kebab shops, and burger outlets. Breakfast consists of cereals and bread with sliced meats and cheeses. A couple of glasses of OJ each morning is about as healthy as it gets.

The Rijksmuseum, located off Museumplein in the museum quarter, is currently undergoing major renovation work, but is still worth a visit. Whilst some exhibits have been loaned out to other museums around Amsterdam, the vast majority of the collections are still here, and worth the entry fee.

The first half of the museum is dedicated to artefacts from Holland's rich military and trading history. The treasury contains large collections of silverware and Delftware. The second half of the exhibits are located on the first floor, and this is where many people's interest lies (and a surprising number of people do head straight upstairs, bypassing all the interesting stuff on the ground floor).

The second half comprises the collection of paintings and sculpture, including a large number of Rembrandts. The exhibitions culminate in The Night Watch, the biggest and perhaps most famous of his works on display. Never too familiar with Rembrandt's work I was surprised at how impressed I was with this piece.

I sit on Museumplein, drinking a cappucino from one of the parkside vendors. It feels very autumnal here, with the trees lining the square holding on to the last of their leaves and a newly chill wind blowing across the open space.

I'm surrounded by a startling array of attractive young locals (you can tell them from the visitors as they're not the ones not holding the maps). It's amazing; I haven't seen an overweight or ugly one yet, and it seems every girl that cycles past me is prettier than the last.

I'm developing a real thing for that blonde look.

Just down the road from Rijksmuseum, The Van Gogh Museum hosts the largest collection of his paintings, sketches, and letters in the world. It also has large collections of works from Van Gogh's era on the ground and third floors, as well as holding exhibitions in the new wing (although there is nothing on at the time I visit).

There's airport-like security at the museum. All that is needed is a frisking, and the museum would be harder to get into that Holland was.

I'm not a big fan of Van Gogh's work, so I don't enjoy this museum as much as the Rijks. I find him to be a bit of an acquired taste, and a lot of his stuff I just don't get.

It's not all bad, however, and it's quite interesting seeing how his work progressed from his early days to the time he went loopy and shot himself. I quite liked his pictures of trees in blossom, and a piece I believe was called Landscape at Twilight. Decamps' Shepherd was good, but Breton's Peasant Girl with Hoe was my favourite painting in the museum.

I lean on railings on a bridge over Prinsengracht, admiring the beauty of the canals in the early evening and thinking all of this is pretty cool. A young couple -- pretty people and very much loved-up -- ask me to take a photograph of them on the bridge and remind me that, even though this is pretty cool, yeah, there is something missing.

Hoopman's is another Irish bar. I have a couple of pints of Guinness and plan the last two days of my stay in Amsterdam. I read until one of the bar staff turns the lights down.

This is the first time I've ever been begged to in two languages. The guy must have assumed I was Dutch when he first approached me. On realising his error he switched smoothly to English.

I'm back at Leidseplein, but it's still early evening so it's a lot quieter than last time. I feel a bit out of place in Café Kooper -- I'm the only one speaking English here -- so I only stay for a pint.

Café Alto is a jazz bar just off Leidseplein. It was recommended to me by my Rough Guide to Europe as a place that has live music every night and is 'big on atmosphere, not on space.' The band they have in tonight are pretty good, although I'm informed that the best nights to come are Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

I spend much of the evening in here, talking to one of the locals and the barman. Friendly guys, and the conversation's good. A large chunk of the evening is spent chatting up a Polish woman who I conveniently placed myself next to at the bar.

A lot of Amstel is sunk, and I get very drunk.

Gevonden

Tuesday

You never feel more alone and subject to events totally beyond your control than when your passport is stolen in a foreign country.

I'm boned.

Life is about lessons. Things happen to you, and you can choose to learn from them or not.

I learn not to have my passport and flight tickets stolen from my hotel room.

Yeah, you think I would know that already.

I was out all day yesterday, and since leaving after breakfast, I didn't return to the hotel until I left Café Alto.

I return to my room to find that my hand luggage bag, with my passport and flight tickets in it, has been stolen from my room. It's not in the room. I search it thoroughly. Panic kicks in.

I report it to the laughing night porter, but there's nothing else I can do until morning, so I go to bed.

I'm so boned.

Amazingly, somehow, I oversleep. Panic reappears, and I feel even more that I should be getting this sorted. Thankfully, the laughing night porter is gone. Fucker.

I go to the Politiebureau in Slotermeer. The silver-lining on this particular rain cloud is that the police officer who deals with me is stunning; 5'10", pretty (if a little too heavy handed with the eye-make-up), large breasts. She tells me that her English isn't very good. I tell her it's bound to be better than my Dutch, and get a smile from her.

I'm stressed, worried, and really angry. That I can even find the desire to flirt with the attractive cop amazes me when I think about it later. I truly do have a one-track mind.

Hot Blonde Cop tells me to come back tomorrow, so I can get a crime report. I'll need this to get a letter from the British Consulate.

I phone the police lost and found department, just in case, suddenly grateful that everyone in Holland is willing and able to speak English.

I'm still boned.

I head into town. I'm determined to let this inconvenience ruin my holiday as little as possible. I've got to stay upbeat, I've got to try and complete as much of my itinerary as I can (when not doing passport or holiday rearrangement stuff).

Despite this, the afternoon is spent floating around, walking the canals and shopping streets of Amsterdam and ticking few items off my itinerary.

Theo van Gogh, the filmmaker and relative of loopy Vincent, is murdered in one of Amsterdam's streets. I learn nothing of this until I return to the hotel and catch an English news broadcast, although during the afternoon there is a more noticeable police presence on the streets.

(Of course, one officer on the streets would have constituted a more noticeable presence, as you don't normally see any of them.)

I've resigned myself to having to cut my trip short and head back to Britain when my stay at the hotel's up. The plan had been to continue to Prague and Paris, but as people keep telling me, you can only travel back to Britain on a temporary passport. This is the only thing that really annoys me about the whole affair -- that I'm not going to make it to the 2nd and 3rd legs of the trip.

Memorial

Wednesday

The Anne Frank House is, rather obviously, the house in which the wartime diarist hid during the nazi occupation of Holland. The neighbouring building has been converted to a museum, whilst the original house and 'secret annexe' remains largely as it was between the years of 1942 and 1944. The furniture of the period has been replaced with displays of Anne's diaries and her father's letters, along with other items recovered from their years in hiding. Pictures decorating Anne's room are still visible on some of the walls, in another marks showing the children's growth during the period of hiding can be seen.

I thought that it would be hard to get a feel for the place with a couple of dozen Asian tourists snapping photographs (a bus load had just appeared from Westermarkt as I queued to get in), but I was wrong. The Anne Frank House is amazingly moving, upsetting in a way that I hadn't anticipated. It is definitely worth a visit.

What struck me most was learning that Anne desperately wanted to be a writer, but never got the chance. All we have is the prose of her diary, and thoughts of dreams denied.

People keep assuming I'm Dutch. So far I've had three women with clipboards start talking to me in Dutch -- You know how survey people like to get all of their rehearsed spiel out before you get a chance to speak -- and it's only when I've interupted them and said, 'Sorry, I'm English. Didn't understand a word of that,' that they've realised their mistake. I've also had a couple of people asking me for directions; of course, I've always known the way, but it's still funny.

I thought I would look like a tourist, but obviously not. Looking like a local isn't too bad, I suppose, but it's a bit of a bummer when it happens in The Red Light District. I know what the locals look like up there, and that's just bad.

There's a memorial to Theo van Gogh at Dam. I guess this is what the mourners were partying about last night. I wasn't going to check it out -- I didn't even know about the guy until after he was shot -- but I head over because I'm nosy.

On the way, I get stopped again. I could tell them I'm not local, but it's just a lot less hassle to point them in the right direction.

Flowers, pictures, and poems. Some nice words said, but I wonder at the public out-pouring of grief. I mean he hardly seems like a saint. Is there something I don't know about him, something I'm not catching in the news reports? Is this typical of the Dutch attitude, or is this another Diana-like over-reaction?

I return to the Politiebureau, and Hot Blonde Cop tells me I should have gone to the Consulate first to get my passport number. She tells me to come back tomorrow and ask for Mandy.

I go back to the city centre, and hunt down the British Consulate. It's located in a residential part of the city south of the museum quarter. After a lot of sitting around I get a passport number and a letter that -- when accompanied by a crime report -- will allow me to fly back to the UK.

I spend the rest of the afternoon arranging a flight back to Britain and cancelling flights and hotel bookings.

Amsterdam's famous Blumenmarkt, located on one side of the Singel canal, is less impressive than it could be, because it's November and there are less blumen then you'd find earlier in the year. Still, if you like looking at bulbs (or buying bulbs, for that matter) I imagine it's great.

I walk between Leidseplein and Damrak again, watching street theatre and debating going back to The Red Light District. I manage to find a bookshop to replace the book that was stolen with my passport. I'm back at the hotel by nine.

Politiebureau

Thursday

Despite asking for her by name, Hot Blonde Cop is not available. I give my report to Cute Brunette Cop instead. Damn, you got to love Amsterdam's police force.

Cute Brunette Cop has a real hard time getting over the fact that my house has a name.

'No number?'

'No. Just a name.'

'Just a name?'

'Yes.'

A pause, and then, 'Ohhhhkay.'

I go straight to the airport, wanting to leave plenty of time before check in. I end up waiting at Schipol for two hours.

Oh well.

Time to go home.