Like the good tourists that we are Sara and I visited the Red Light District. We knew we had arrived when we started to notice red lit, floor to ceiling windows, popping up alongside the footpath in the condensed, narrow streets of Northern Amsterdam. Each one donned a red velvet curtain pulled back to reveal a scantly clad woman sitting on a stool or leaning out the window. We almost didn't notice them and then when we did, it was hard to look away. Like a car accident along the motor way, our rubber necks craned to catch a lasting glimpse that would explain. The district sorta just creeps up on you, then your surrounded by these windows of women looking out like fish in a bowl.

They come in ALL shapes, sizes and nationalities. Some are beautiful, some are obnoxious, some hang out of windows calling to passing men, some chew gum, others smoke or talk on the phone. But they are all selling one thing on this bright and sunny Sunday morning in Amsterdam.

Sara and I stumbled on a prime seat perched above an alleyway where we watched a drop dead gorgeous young girl in a hot pink get-up for over an hour. After watching her interact with her passerbyers, I am amazed that this place legally exists and in broad daylight. The drugged out prostitutes of the downtown East Side are one thing, but this takes the sex trade to a whole other level. I'm not sure what's worse the desperation or the desire that flashes back and forth in their eyes. They want the men they bargain with yet their smiles are blank and hallow.

The men that pass by have their own classifications. Some meekly roam the streets out of touristic duty. Others are young pros that travel in groups patting the parting friend on the back as he leaves the group and slinks into a doorway, curtains closing behind him. It is clear that some have a habit of coming here, traveling alone through the painted streets and making a calm and discrete offer on the object they desire. As a woman, I don't exist to these window dolls, they look through me, past me, beyond... hoping to see something else, I suppose. Do they envy me, hate me or not even notice me? Not one glimmer of eye contact. We saw countless women.

I could go on, I really could. But I left there feeling pretty grateful for my chosen profession.

This is life, reality for these women and men. It's a tourist attraction, a glorified zoo gone sideways.