Dutch entertainment and more

Unfortunately for me, I was not able to obtain access to any other computers with Microsoft Word during the rest of my stay in Europe. As a result, nothing further about my vacation in Europe was written. I have almost gotten over my jet lag (I’m still waking up at 1:30 in the afternoon) and I, once again, am in the company of my trusty Macintosh. I can finally start to finish the conclusion of the Belmonte family Euro trip.

Day 3

The Belmontes split up for the day, half going to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, and the other half going to this obscure sex museum. A number of us also take a stroll through the famous Red Light District.

After a short 10-minute walk through Amsterdam, we had two options to choose from: Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, which is considered to be the best non-xxx tourist attraction in the city, and a sex museum which was nearby. There are about a gazillion different sex museums in Amsterdam. We split up. I opted for the wax museum since I had never been to one before, and anyway who wants to see a bunch of stone-age dildos anyway? Certainly not me. Most surprisingly, my mother went to the sex museum. Madame Tussaud’s had three sections: politicians, famous people, and a horror house. We marvelled at the size of J.Lo’s butt, Kylie Minogue’s height, and how freakish the Sex Pistols looked. Ethan and I had an argument on whether a certain figure was Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson. There was a name plate on the wall behind it which said it was Britney Spears, but since it was dressed in cut-off jeans, a top which looked five sizes too small, and was holding a mop, Ethan concluded it must be Jessica Simpson. It also was cool meeting famous personas such as JFK, Lenin, Pope John Paul II, and dudes like that. I was sort of expecting a wax figure of myself next to George W. Bush, but they must have kept it in the basement for restoration. Right outside the entrance to the horror house sat this ragged, dirty wax guy with an unsettling stare and sunken eyes. Only it wasn’t a wax figure, I saw his eyes flicker in an attempt to keep from blinking. I was just telling my cousins that it was really a guy after all when he jumped up and frightened everyone else out of their pants. I must say, I was the only one who wasn’t the least bit surprised. The horror house had an age restriction of 12, and this I can understand. The kiddies probably would have had recurring nightmares for a week if they had been allowed inside. So, while they slipped through a brightly colored tunnel to bypass the horror house, the rest of us crept forward into this dark and dismal dungeon full of chopped-up bodies, seizure-inducing strobe lights, madmen rattling their cages, goons hiding in the shadows waiting to ambush unwary tourists, and grisly scenes of torture. Most of the people here were real actors. But not the ones being stretched on the rack or who were in little bits here and there. Reggie was clinging to the back of my shirt like she was an extra appendage, and no one wanted to be the last one in the group. Turns out that the walls were soundproof, so the rest of the museum couldn’t hear us screaming in terror. It was a good experience. On the other hand, the sex museum turned out to have nothing on the history of sex. Rather, it was like this one great big giant porn magazine you could walk into. A disappointment to everyone who went there but Mikey. We also took a walk through the Red Light District. There were some really beautiful scantily clad prostitutes you could ogle at through the windows, but for some strange reason there was an equal amount of fat, overweight ones. Apparently they cost more, too, because they had more flesh.

Amsterdam is one of the only places in the world where the prostitutes are on display along the street. Tons of porn DVDs and paraphernalia, too.

Day 4

The family heads to Cologne in Germany, and takes a cruise on the Rhine.

I left my bag of dirty clothes in Amsterdam. That was a pair of jeans, three pairs of socks and jockeys, three shirts, and a pair of jogging pants. I discovered it upon arrival in Cologne. Just my luck, eh? My dad reckoned at the rate I was going, I’d be naked by the time we got back to the Philippines. The Cologne Cathedral has one of the tallest steeples of any cathedral in Europe. For 30 minutes, Ethan, Mikey, and I slogged our way through 509 steps to reach the pinnacle. Of course, when I got to the top, my vertigo kicked in and I was forced to hug the wall in a crouching position. Mikey didn’t help, either. He kept trying to push me within three meters of the edge. What an a$$hole. The view was great, though, but I saw it only for a few moments as I took a quick glance then rushed back to the safety of the stairs. I was particularly troubled by all the graffiti. Oh, that’s right. Who would expect graffiti at the top of a few hundred years old gothic church? It was sickening, with all the names scratched and sprayed onto the stone. We arrived at the bottom to discover that the waiters in the restaurant we were eating in were possibly the surliest waiters I’ve ever encountered. Not lax, they definitely weren’t lax. But they gave every dish grudgingly, like it was a pain to serve us Filipinos. Later in the afternoon, we rode a ferry along the river Rhine. And it was a pretty funny cruise, too, since Mikey and Ethan’s little brother were fighting over an obsolete Gameboy color instead of enjoying the view and the many medieval Teutonic castles in various states of use. But what really made an impression on me was a church. It’s probably the only church in the world to be connected to a pub. What’s more, you have to pass through the pub to get to the church. Rumor has it that the priest is also the bartender when he’s not serving Mass, but it is unconfirmed.