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Angkor Thom, Cambodia

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Bai Tu Long Bay, Vietnam

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Ta Prohm, Siem Reap

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Bai Tu Long Bay, Vietnam

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Angkor Wat, Cambodia

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Backpacker's District, Ho Chi Minh City

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Vinh Trang Buddhist temples #Vietnam #travel # MyTou #exploring

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Mekong Delta

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A nice, relaxing double-drink in District 3 #Vietnam #travel #Saigon #relaxation

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District 3, Saigon

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District 1, Saigon

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View from the Rainbow Hotel, Ho Chi Minh City #Vietnam #travel

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Burlington, Vermont

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Though I set out moments ago to write one post to wrap up my time in Amsterdam, grouping a museum dedicated to the atrocities of the Holocaust with my impressions of Amsterdam's Red Light District didn't sit well with me. So, finally: the last night in Amsterdam (and the bus ride home). After the Anne Frank House, my friend and I found ourselves some dinner. And some drinks. And some waffles. You know, the average night out on the town. By this point, she and I had both decided that Amsterdam was not our preferred city. Much of it is beautiful, with canals traversing the city in a way I've never seen anywhere else. But it also gives a sense of intentional grittiness for the sake of tourism. It's theatrical in an unpleasant way. And believe me, I can do theatrical. So, she and I made the conscious decision to rally for our final evening. Nothing too serious, but at least a real turn about the city (which is quite small). Less sober than we once were, we headed off to go see the Red Light District. Before I jump into this little account, I should start by saying that Amsterdam really feels like a very safe city...during the day. As soon as night falls, the catcalls start - in force. And from locals and tourists alike. My first night there, I started walking just behind the two biggest, burliest men on the street (which made me feel safer than allowing them to fall behind me). When one turned around, however, he decided to nudge his friend and begin a game of 'how many times can we look back at this girl and talk about her in a language she doesn't understand with facial expressions that are expressly meant to cause fear?' It was disgusting. I promptly crossed the tram tracks and found a street with more women on it. Later, that same night, a man walked up to me, growled, and walked away. By the time I joined back up with my friend on that first night, we had a whole cache of stories for each other. For me, I think the truly startling thing about this behavior was its universality. The moment we stepped off the main tourist drag and began to walk the less actively crowded (but still very much populated) canal-side streets, every man or group of men on the street had something to say to us. Whether mimicking our English, calling out for a good time, or trying to be actively scary, the night-time culture in Amsterdam seemed to self-perpetuate. Men were somehow bolstered by others' forwardness, encouraged to join in the game. By the time we got to the Red Light District, the game was (unsurprisingly) even worse. Walking onto the streets literally lined by prostitutes, I had no idea how centrally the district was located within Amsterdam. The rows and rows of women in windows began just next to the Old Church (which we had visited earlier that day, utterly oblivious to what would later be that area's night life) and out several streets over, encompassing two or three passes of the canals. As you step onto the streets, a faint red glow from tens of neon signs gives an eerie warmth to the space, one that doesn't exist on streets just next door. Somehow, in my mind, I had pictured a very different scenario, one reminiscent of images of 60's New York City, women on balconies, somehow empowered or at the very least, in control. But the tourist-driven voyeuristic reality was very different. On the ground floor of each of the buildings on the street, wide, shop-like windows framed woman after woman, dressed in underwear and lit from behind. Red and pink neon light-cord lined each of the rooms, literal boxes containing only the women and their props. My friend thought they were meant to look like boxed Barbies. The rooms looked more cage-like to me, predatory. As we walked through the streets, men ogled at the women (ok, fair, definitely what the show was for), but I felt immediately uncomfortable. It was like we were somehow absorbed into the fun based on our sex and location. If the women behind the window were fair game for gawking, why weren't we? The whole thing became very overwhelming very quickly. The two of us pushed through the crowd to a bar, had a very expensive bottle of water on the terrace, and headed back to our Airbnb for the evening. In the morning, we hopped on a bus, 19 euro from Amsterdam to Paris. We should have known. All was going smoothly, until we made our way across the border into France. At the second or third toll, a man with a dog got on the bus to sniff out bags. Sure enough, the dog found drugs. A lot of drugs. A suitcase full of drugs. After about 20 minutes of waiting for the drug-carrying girl to be questioned, our driver called his supervisor, "Ok, I do not want to wait. I am going and leaving the girl with the drugs here." Thank you, Robin the bus driver. Good bye, Amsterdam.

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The Anne Frank House

I got a little ahead of myself with that shot of Sainte-Chapelle in Paris: back to Amsterdam. If only for a little while. After our afternoon with the camp friend from generations back, my friend and I planted ourselves in line for the Anne Frank House. Having checked throughout the day, we knew it wasn't uncommon for the wait to reach three hours or more. One hour and two roadside-tea-stand trips later, she and I had successfully made our way inside, ready for the sobering experience that is the Anne Frank Museum. The exhibits, which are spread along a pre-determined route through the Frank family's business/storehouse and up into the annex above, are sparse. Otto Frank, the only survivor of the two families who hid on his property throughout the latter half of the Holocaust, had a large hand in the founding and maturation of the museum (as well as the publication of his daughter's diary). In respect for his wishes, the annex itself has been left empty, as it was after the Nazi raids. But the physical space remains open to visitors, with photographs of temporary stagings of the space reconstructed from Otto's accounts. Each of the rooms, from the ground up through the attic, contains artifacts from the families and the business below, belongings, letters, and photos of those in hiding and those who helped them throughout. Quotes from Anne's diary are featured on the walls. The space helps ground her words; they're somehow more attached to the child who wrote them, more profound for their maturity and honesty in her confinement. Along with looped interviews with Anne's father and surviving friends, the museum itself really reinforces the incredible sense of permanence in their situation. It's lived in, well furnished, not temporary lodging. It feels less like a passing horror and more an enduring reality, equally horrifying. By the end of our turn through the museum, having read every scrap of text on the walls, we sat down for something of a debriefing tribute video at the exit of the museum. Though the house itself might feel, at times, like a shrine to one child lost among millions of Jews, the end of the museum helps put its contents into perspective. Though Anne's account is honest and moving, the context is important. It's a story not only of her but of six million, and many more since.

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Sainte-Chapelle, Paris

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Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder , Amsterdam (the secret Catholic Church).