Why did Amsterdam's Red Light District go from being the coolest thing to being disgusting?

Twenty-five years ago, I visited Amsterdam for the first time. It was summer, warm, and the canals glittered in all their beauty in one of arguably the most beautiful cities in the world. I remember the usual tourist route—Anne Frank House, Van Gogh Museum—seasoned with what you do in your twenties: coffee shops, bars, drinks, music, and the nightlife. Only once in your life do you turn 21 and the next morning there's no hangover, no pain, and no disappointment.

I also remember that one of the city's biggest attractions back then was the famous Red Light District . It's just two very central streets, parallel to each other, between canals, where four or five other streets intersect perpendicularly. We all knew it was the famous prostitution district (since time immemorial), with its brothels with windows where scantily clad women offered themselves to clients. Mixed in between were also peep show venues, live sex shows, and so on.

And off we went with our analog cameras to enjoy the attraction. Because that's what it was like back then: the women in the windows seemed like the height of modernity. Of course, we also emphasized how civilized it all was. These women were paid for their work, covered by social security, and had health checks so they couldn't contract HIV or any other STD. It was the Disneyland of brothels . They must have been happy.

Because for us, prostitution meant marginalization, Casa de Campo , Parque del Oeste, Colonia Marconi, and Montera Street. It meant illness . It meant abandonment and exploitation . It meant (marginal) clients we boasted of not knowing (I wouldn't write that sentence now). It meant women who came from other parts of the world, sometimes deceived, other times with the hope of a better life. It meant risk, drugs, and ending up shattered in a ditch.

If we compared them, there was no doubt: the Red Light District was paradise. Why didn't we copy that model? If prostitution was the oldest profession in the world, we weren't going to change it, so it was better that they were well cared for and looked after. It was something young men and women alike thought about. Or at least those are the conversations I remember.

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The thing is, the years went by, and with them life and other experiences, both individual and collective. A quarter of a century later, the world had changed, and I had changed myself. And I had the opportunity to return to Amsterdam.

In addition to the usual sightseeing—except that these days you can't get tickets for the same day and have to plan your trip weeks in advance—I returned to the Red Light District. I found myself again in those two central streets between the canals, with the windows where women displayed themselves, and the peep show venues. It seemed to me that there were many more windows, and also many more people... but above all, what struck me was that the neighborhood no longer seemed so wonderful, so modern, so heavenly. It seemed repulsive.

What had happened to us? Well, obviously, many things that have to do with women, their freedom, and certain movements.

I don't know if anyone I saw it with 25 years ago feels the same way today, but I've heard this same reflection from other people today. What had happened? What had happened to us? Well, obviously, many things that have to do with women, with their freedom, and with certain movements that have taken place in these two decades. Because even if you're not a leading voice in them or even a champion, everything sinks in. And when you start seeing things, as has been said on other occasions, you can't unsee them.

And I no longer saw a well-served and cared-for prostitute. In the window, I saw a woman who sold her body to any man who would put a wallet in the way. It will be argued, I know, whether I'm sure she didn't do it freely. Obviously, I don't know, but the (incomparable) setting of that meat market took me back to the Casa de Campo, the Parque del Oeste, or the Marconi neighborhood. There were no longer any differences. These were women practicing prostitution. And they were clients—very young—who came in groups, knocked on the door, and, like someone entering a cocktail bar or a nightclub, asked "how much?"

After this trip, I remembered Michel Houellebecq 's book Platform , which I also read at the beginning of the century. I liked the way the Frenchman wrote (and I found him charming the day I interviewed him a few years ago at a poetry festival because he's also a poet). And I liked the story of this disoriented man who, in order to focus, goes to Bangkok to consume prostitution. The fin-de-siècle man, they said. Later, he manages to establish a more or less serious relationship with a woman to whom he sells the idea that the business of life (if the radical Islamists don't mess it up) is in sex tourism . I haven't read it again, but rereading the synopsis of the copy I still have at home, at first all I could say was, "Really, Michel?"

I recently read Caledonian Road by Andrew O'Hagan , which I think is one of the books of the year. It's a magnifying glass on today's society, in which, as Balzac did with The Human Comedy , there's a whole array of characters with all sorts of morals. It's a moral novel, as O'Hagan himself said, which recognizes that there's a rather large crisis of masculinity that's barely being discussed. And it's a novel in which, precisely, Houellebecq's protagonist would be out of focus, marginal.

It's a fact that in this quarter of a century, women have changed. We no longer buy into the "red-light districts" of Amsterdam. In this time, we've had readings, role models, discussions, and reflections. We've spoken with other women and also with other men because we also need them on our side (stop allies, though, your intentions are obvious). There's certainly something palpable out there: will a male role model emerge at some point who goes in the opposite direction to Jordan Peterson ? It would be very useful for all of us.