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Girls in the Window

by EMMA KEMPSELL

Amsterdam looks like Paris when it folds back on itself in Inception. You can walk ten blocks and it all looks the same: rows of buildings sighing against one another, lining the canals. But Amsterdam is nothing like Paris, or Inception: it doesn’t take itself too seriously. Paris hides its sex under sheaths of sophisticated black, and tucked away on top of hills; Amsterdam throws sex at you from windows with neon lights. And yes, Parisians smoke, but they only inhale for so long.

The first coffee shop we went to was Susie’s Saloon, which we kept forgetting, calling it Susie's Boutique, or Susie's Parlor, and once, I think, Sally’s House. Poor Susie. We sat at a large wooden table at the back. It was "the best seat in the house", and we bought Cokes sporadically to keep it, passing three joints around at once. I closed my eyes when the smoke hit the back of my throat. I looked up when I exhaled and felt it move through my veins, hitting the top of my head, filling it with lightness. Moving my head too quickly made the world whir past my eyes like a heavily distorted bass line.

Our group was big enough to allow for occasional zoning out. I’d listen to the start of a conversation, and then daydream without fully realizing. It’s like getting to the bottom of a page and realizing that you haven’t actually read anything. After what felt like days, I would rejoin the conversation with an earnest stare and an abrupt, “What?” If I got bored I'd look at Alex and smile slowly until he laughed, then we'd look at Gemma, laughing, until we were all in hysterics. Repeat ad infinitum. Or, for at least twenty minutes.

When we went to rent bikes to cycle to the Van Gogh museum, my stomach looped into knots. I couldn't even consider the pleasant prospect of feeling wind in my hair, the gentle rise and fall of the cobbled streets beneath me, or the exhilaration I might feel afterwards. I was too busy imagining my demise. It would be at a junction or lights; I would panic, fall and cause a huge scene. The small street would suddenly be filled with angry bodies: boys with long greasy hair wearing heavy metal t-shirts, fresh, perfume advert-perfect blonde women with flowers peaking from their bags, men in ties with briefcases and more experienced children on bikes would jostle to shout close to my face in Dutch as my friends doubled over their bikes with laughter.

My bloodied hands would sting, and my face would burn red. I would feel five years old and I might have tried to jump into a canal of my own accord, if only to hide my face. So I didn’t get on a bike, I went to a sun filled rooftop with my roommate, where we had the best iced-coffee known to man and let our heads become clouded with lemon haze and The National.

The sky was blue and bright at one in the afternoon. We walked down a small alley and as I turned my head in what felt like slow motion, I saw three girls gyrating slowly in their underwear. Only a thin layer of glass separated us. I spun my head back to face my friend. Without realizing what we’d walked into, we just kept walking. At the end of the street we took respite at the side of a bridge. It was dirtier than I expected, and less sexy.

For the girls in the windows, there is no pretense of interest. This is not porn, they are not actors. Their hands might move under their red panties, but they don't pretend to enjoy it; some of them look downright terrified. Their eyes are glazed over and sad, but the worst thing is that they watch you watching them. It’s a strange situation to be in because although you expect it to be a removed titillation, it’s interactive, and on top of that, one of you looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. Maybe they act more interested for prospective customers, maybe they just let their guard down to find their own little moments of respite in the eyes of young girls who could just as easily be behind the window, but aren’t. We walked back the way we came, because we needed to see it again, prepared. It was more depressing the second time.

Our group expanded at night as we followed people we barely knew who barely knew where they were going. The fuzzy yellow lights doubled with reflection in the canals, as we snaked around the little streets in packs until we were lost. At the door of a grungy dubstep club, the music searched through the walls and floor to find our feet. It carried us to a corner booth where we sank into a yawning leather couch. It thumped along with our hearts after the first hit. We made our way to the bar under the dropping beats, pale green flashing lights, and the flailing arms of possessed dancers.

The glare of the sun hit our contracted pupils and opened them wide with light when we finally ventured outside. The world looked like the result of a disposable camera or a watercolor. The trees were greener than before, the sky bluer and the water in the canals followed us peacefully down the street. The apartment buildings are varying heights, shapes and shades of coffee and ochre. With no spaces between them, they give the impression of being merely a facade with nothing beyond the slim depth. The building on our corner was green, and like Gatsby's light we would look for it when we needed to find home. Everything was beautifully hazy, yet clear. I felt like I had returned to something familiar but long forgotten.

At 7 a.m. we made our way through the quiet streets to go home. At the airport my friends dozed on the floor using their backpacks as pillows. We all sat in a silent row with droopy eyes eating Callipos at 8 a.m. An old man stared and we laughed at his overly aggressive expression. When it was time to leave I left my unfinished ice lolly to my friends, hugged everyone and walked away to the sound them shouting, "Bye!" three thousand times to my back. My roommate told me later that she nearly cried. I slept fitfully on the way home, waking up to watch the world whir past the window. I listened to The Middle East on repeat the entire time. I bought an apple pie and some ice cream. When I got home I went to bed after my grandmother told me I looked "a little jaded."

Emma Kempsell is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Aberdeen. She tumbls here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

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