The Sleeping Beast

Eight hours ago I was walking the streets of Amsterdam, just me and my camera, and once again enjoying that wonderful feeling of tiptoeing around a sleeping beast.

Twelve hours previous to that I was walking those same streets and the beast was awake and alert, but still unaware of my presence.

As I walked the brightly lit streets under the pitch black sky I observed as groups of young men from all over Europe, and beyond, travelled in packs from bar to coffee shop to prostitute, and back again, watching their behaviour as they succumbed to their drugs of choice, be they alcohol, weed or women.

For despite their language and culture, they all behave the same in Amsterdam. The pack mentality is a strong one, but among the groups there is always, by necessity, the runt of the pack. The one who is the last of the followers, the last in line, and the most easily led.

As I walked the streets and canals, the cold night air desperately trying to work its way through the layers of clothing that I wore, I drank in the atmosphere, for it is itoxicating, but as with my previous visits, which are an extension of work commitments, I always find myself there alone, and so can indulge the writer and photographer in myself and just watch.

I have no need of the drugs or the sex - the former I have no desire for with the exception of alcohol and nicotene, the latter I have no need of thanks to my current relationship being so very fulfilling - and so I am there for the spirit of the place, for the atmosphere.

Last night I stood on a canal bridge, feeling the wind try to blow through me, smoking a fine cigar, and watching as a group of young men stood at the open door of a prosititute in the red light district, clearly trying to persuade one of their number, no doubt the aforementioned runt, to indulge himself.

I smiled as they ultimately walked away and the girl, dressed in a dazzling white bra and knickers combination, went back to flicking through her magazine, waiting for the next potential customer to come along.

The city was truly alive, and by experiencing the one side of it, it always makes my early morning strolls through cities all the more satisfying, as I savour the contrast.

It was already light by the time I hit the pavements, but whereas last night had been acompanied by a constant low humming of conversation and laughter, this morning was as quiet as the grave.

As I walked along the same canals I could actually hear the beating of the seagulls wings as they flew over me, scanning the ground for the remnants of last night's fast food on the ground.

For ninety minutes I walked, and in that time I saw barely a hundred people, which sounds a lot but is nothing for a city of the size of Amsterdam.

The shops, bars and red light windows were all quiet and empty, and if I paused long enough I could almost hear the city breathe as it slumbered. As I walked I felt, as I always do on my early morning city excursions, a feeling of peace and tranquility, something I've felt walking the streets of London, Paris and Nottingham many times.

If you've never done this, then do try it. Take a trip into the heart of your own home town or city as the sun comes up and just walk. You'll be amazed. I always am.