“Don’t dress like you’re for sale”

IT’S the last night of our weekend-break in Amsterdam.

Today, my friend and I have walked backwards and forwards past the museums, ignoring their reproach as we browsed in and out of shops. Now we’re heading back to our hotel through the red-light district.

I look at the prostitutes, smiling from their booths as I pass by, and contemplate the oldest profession in the world. I think the thoughts that I thought I’d think before coming here: that prostitution, like oxygen, is always there but you never see it — not where I live, anyway.