Amsterdaming - Day 2

          I wake up early, 7:30. There's a pile driver outside, in the canal in front of my hotel. The noise is loud enough to shake the fillings from your teeth. I throw some clothes on, grab my backpack, camera and a notebook then negotiate a steep and narrow stairway to the hotel bar where there’s a door that opens to the street. It's cool outside, but comfortable below a cloudless Maxwell Parrish sky. I have some breakfast at a little place on Warmoesstraat and then decide to cruise the coffee houses  that are strung along this busy street. A place called, BABA is the first. It's nice, with booths on one end, and a giant statue of Ganesh, the Hindu deity who removes obstacles. Two counters run along the street-side windows. Every table and both counters feature hookas. I warn patrons I'm about to take a photo.  Only one of them has turned away.

             A dealer comes out from behind a glass topped drug bar that displays varieties of marijuana and hashish. The names are fascinating: Purple Haze, New York City Doobie, Dutch Treat, First Lady, American Dream, Silver Haze, Early Skunk, White Diesel, Kali Haze, to name a few. The dealer’s name is Maddy, in her early thirties. Wants a cup of coffee. I just had one but decide to join her. She speaks perfect English . . . sounds like an American. Most people here speak second languages, most often English, also German.

Drug Bar   The PC monitors display requested information behind electric scales.

           “Were you born in Holland, Maddy?”

            “No. I come from Sweden. I moved here when I was twenty. Mom went nuts when she found out where I was working. This used to be one of the most dangerous streets in Europe. If you started out at one end you'd be lucky if you reached the other without experiencing something you would rather have avoided. But all that was long ago. It's nothing like that now. There's very little trouble. Our worst problem here is people falling off their stools. We keep close watch on customers who have their eyes closed, but that doesn't happen very often.

            “How long have you been working here?” I ask.

            “Almost eight years.”

            “You like the job?”

            “Oh, yeah. It's fun.” she says. “Pay's good. The job is easy once you get to know your

way around. It used to drive me crazy weighing out a gram. I'd put some ganga in the scale - too heavy. Take some out - too light. Put more back in - too heavy. Took forever. Now my fingers know exactly . . . only use the scale to show my customers the weight is right.”

            Our coffee comes. I pay for both, five Euros . . . eight bucks if you count the tip, for two  small cups. “You think the Red Light district's changed?” I ask.

            “Oh yeah. I liked it better when I first arrived. It's more commercial now. The politics is crazy sometimes. They keep trying to fix what isn't broken . . . changing laws. I plan to leave here in about a year . . . to Canada I think.”

            “You'll probably like it there,” I tell her as I finish off my coffee and slide off my window counter stool.  I tell her I'll be back, tomorrow or day after as I'm sure I'll have more questions, and she's very friendly, nice . . . and smart. Today I want to wander through this labyrinth of streets and alleyways . . . check out some other coffee shops.

            I find none that are sleazy. All are clean, well kept, and more or less expensive. Single pre-rolled joints can cost as much as fifteen dollars, but are dynamite I'm told. I look but don't inhale. Who said that? Clinton? I decide to take a cushion laden window seat at Happy People and have one more coffee. They sell grass and pot laced brownies here.

              Three girls come in, Americans . . . late teens or early twenties. They have occupied a table next to where I'm at, chattering happily, and constantly as only women do. They're talking about how cool it would be to go to a rave in Berlin. I'll bet! They make me wish that I was younger.

            “Who are those guys?” asks a shaggy brown haired member of the trio who has noticed a large Marx Brothers poster on the wall. None of them know. I feel my age again. All three are gobbling brownies . . . must be good. When they have finished eating one begins to read the label that was on the cellophane the snacks were wrapped in.

            “Oh! Look at this,” she tells the others. “It says we should eat them very slowly . . . ‘consuming too fast may cause nausea!’”

            “What's nausea?” a blond asks.

            “It’s like, getting sick.” one of them answers.

            “Oh, that’s great. You read instructions after we've gulped this stuff down. We might throw up!” one of them says. All the three burst into hysterical laughter . . . happy people.

            I pass other coffee shops but don't go in. This brick paved street once dangerous is now a quaintly antique shopping mall. There are abundant souvenir shops, homey store fronts, coffee shops and restaurants: Chinese, Hispanic, Argentine and German. One establishment stands out from all the rest, glittering newness . . . glass and stainless steel. They sell sophisticated vibrators plus other intriguing  devices who’s forms suggest their function. The designs could double as small sculptures. One apparently plugs into Ipods, and the other end. . . ?

            A photo of a woman with pierced nipples is an excellent attention getter.

            One block further on I pass a condom shop. Sex products and drugs are both best sellers in this area called Wallen, one of the oldest parts of the city. Prostitution has been rife here since the 13th century, but window girls did not appear until the 18th, when the port of Amsterdam was filled with sailors looking for a good time. Some found more than what they had in mind. The window workers all get health checks now I’m told, and they insist on condoms.

            I head back to my hotel . . . the noon shift window-workers on display now. They get very pissed if someone tries to take their photograph. My guidebook warns that doing so could get a person thrown in a canal. I kind of doubt that, even though canals are just a little over four feet deep. I use a telephoto lens to keep me from harm's way.

Amsterdaming - Day 3

I'm walking past the Old Kerk on this sunny afternoon and hear strange music . . . nice. A drifty, fog-soft, different sort of sound than any instrument I've heard before. There's a young woman sitting on the bricks cross-legged with an elf-like countenance. She holds an instrument that looks like two woks joined together, clam shaped, with a series of circular dents that produce an astounding variety of sounds. The tones are mellow, chime like, magical in some way . . . dreamy. Her hands and fingers dance rapidly around the metal dome, tapping it’s circular depressions to create sound. She’s very good. I stop to listen.

 

She plays by memory, with practiced ease, a thin smile on her face, lost in the melody . . . perhaps not lost at all. An interesting face, an almost smirking innocence. Her eyes gaze musingly, seemingly focused on some space in front of her. A small crowd gathers. She plays happily, bemusedly for ten or maybe fifteen minutes, stopping now to take a break – not getting up from where she sits. I have to find out what the gizmo is and walk to where she sits. “What do you call this thing?” I ask her as I drop a Euro coin into the  basket at her knees.

            “It's called a hum.” She spells it for me. “H U M,” she says. “They're made in Finland. Only one man makes them . . . just sixteen a year . . . a master craftsman.

            “Hmmm.” (No pun intended) “So, are you from Finland?”

            “No. I come from Budapest,” she says.

            I want to ask her more, but others come to ask her questions. She responds in German, Italian, or English. Whatever works. She also speaks Dutch of course, and I assume Hungarian. Most who have gathered here drop Euros, sometimes two, into her basket. She has made CDs and sells a couple for ten Euros each as I move off to find a shady place to sit and wait for her to play again. The tourists leave and now a man and woman that she seems to know stop by and show her something they have bought . . . looks like some kind of chain and lock.

            Another man arrives and squats down next to her, a lover or her husband I assume. The four of them all wear loose clothing that looks comfortable, softened by age and many washings. Gypsies, I decide. The husband, or whatever, scoops the money from her basket. Euros she's collected will add up to thirty five or forty dollars easy. Husband stuffs the money in his pocket and pulls out a couple more CDs for her to sell.

            Another friend rolls up on a green bicycle. (I need to tell you more about bicycles later). He has also been spray painted green—completely, all his exposed skin, his hair and shoes. He wears a holster with a plastic pistol in it, also green. He's been around the neighborhood. I've noticed him before—hard not to. I've seen tourists pay to have their photos taken with him. Why, I can't imagine, but perhaps I should have, now that I am writing this. The woman starts to play again. I listen for a while and then move on.

It seems like almost everyone rides bikes in Amsterdam. Note the upper left side of this photo. There are more bikes on that upper deck than you can see below. The city’s vehicle traffic is very light. It seems like that would make it safe for us pedestrians. Not so, although the city's done the best it could. Bike lanes are colored red, as wide as sidewalks in the States, and run beside the lanes marked for pedestrians. It isn't easy for Americans who learned how not to step on cracks as children, but are unaccustomed to bicycle lanes on sidewalks, and both lanes are often crowded. People walking wonder off into the red zones, bikes drift into white, bells tringing warnings as they come up from behind a person. I’ve almost been hit a dozen times, but riders here are skilled. I find my best defensive move is just to freeze when I hear bells, but have been brushed against a few times. I've begun to shout, “Olé!” on these near miss occasions as the bike sails by.

Nine P.M.

Beer drinking at the hotel bar again, a female bartender tonight. Her name is Mary, and she's very nice, good sense of humor. There's four younger guys who came to Amsterdam from England, and myself, all of us watching the quartet of window hookers on the other side of the canal. No business yet . . . as usual.

The windows and the people passing by them are more fun to watch than television, which is on but without sound – a soccer game.

            As Mary serves another round of beer a wise-guy asks, “Do you feel paranoid taking a man home? I mean with all of these professionals around.”

            “I give them more than fifteen minutes,” Mary says. She never bats an eye.       

Sex Shows

There's a sex show next to the four window workers called, Theater Casa Rosso. “A world famous live sex show,” the hotel brochures say. The sidewalk we are watching, on the other side of the canal, has been contrived to titillate the endless stream of tourists . . . a sex Disney Land that they can snigger though unharmed, untouched, returning home with tales of the bazaar.            Perhaps the four girls in the four windows are just props, erotic scenery for the amusement of the tour groups that pass by in herds of twenty-five or thirty . . . one group’s followed by another passing by, or lined up waiting to get into Rosso’s. The admission’s forty Euros, over fifty dollars. I have never gone. My whole life’s been a sex show, but if I was younger, maybe . . . curious. There was a time when I was thirty and alone in Bangkok. . . . I digress

 

Sex Palace, is a few doors down from Rosso. There are several others along this canal.

Window hookers in the narrow alleyways and side streets, where there’s far less traffic, do a lot of  business. Gay, straight or fixed, they will accommodate. Twice now I’ve seen couples go behind the glass together. Hinky! Takes kinds of people. . . .

*       *       *

I walk out of sex-world though a labyrinth of narrow lanes, emerging on the edge of drug-world, bars and coffee shops . . . paraphernalia boutiques. I pass Mr. B’s, where you can get your body pierced, tattooed, or buy that rubber outfit you’ve been dreaming of. The same guy’s standing there in front each day. I guess he runs the place, or tortures people. Maybe both.

I’ve gone inside a coffee shop called, Hunter's, just across the street.

I find a  curvy, stainless-steel bar ending near a glassed topped counter holding an array of pot and some hashish . . . there’s quite a lot of choices. I pull out a stool beside the bar and sit to watch a dealer talking to his only customers, a guy and gal, young couple asking prices and advice. The dealer answers all their questions easily. Do they want to go up, or down? Sideways?

            “Something? asks a barmaid with a colorful tattoo that starts out at her shoulder, winds around her arm, down to her wrists. A skull wrapped in a wavy scarf of smoke, or hair, and other images that I can’t quite make out as she is handing me a plastic menu. At the top it reads:

Smoking Not Allowed

Below that, printed in a smaller font, are details:

In compliance with new Dutch law we have disallowed tobacco smoking in our bar. Cigarettes, blunts and joints with tobacco must be smoked outside. Pure marijuana joints can still be smoked indoors, as can pipes and bongs that do not contain any tobacco. Smoking is allowed. Tobacco is not.

            It’s surreal, and nice here, comfortable . . . Euro-cool and hip. The music’s great, good sound system, and not too loud, just right. One of two bartenders appear when needed. Mine is back. “I’ll have a smoothie, banana and strawberry.” There are piles of fresh fruit, oranges, and bananas on her side of the bar.  They don’t serve alcohol. She nods and smiles, then goes to make my drink. I turn to watch the dealer and the crowd. A backpacker’s at one of four computers lined up at a stainless steel shelf, with some stools below for users. He drops coins into a slot, most likely searching on the internet for places he might stay. The price for thirty minutes on-line is about five bucks. Expensive. There are internet cafes, not many, but with rates about a tenth of what they charge for time at coin machines. Hunter’s is almost high-tech, in a nice way. Stainless steel, and stacks of fruit, computers, flowers, cozy tables, one long booth at the street side window. Seems to be a kind of haze. . . 

The dealer’s customers have made their choice and left him idle for a moment, and he’s noticed I’ve been watching him.

            He asks, “Are you from England?”

            “No. The States,” I tell him. “You?”

            “From England. Here eight years now.”

            “Can I ask some questions about Amsterdam? The Red Light District? I’m a writer.”

            “Sure. No problem, but we’re pretty busy.”

            As he speaks a group of would-be buyers crowd around the glass display case, fascinated and confused. So many choices. Dealer gives them his professional advice. What this does, and what that does, different blends and their associated highs. You can buy ready-rolled, or roll your own. They have a very different way of rolling joints here, using a rolled up, narrow strips of paper as a filter. Someone is at work just two stools down from me. I ask if I can watch, if he can show me how they do it. “Can I take a photo?”

            “Sure, no problem.”

The creation of this joint’s more complicated than you’d think, but I suppose with practice it gets easy, just like people used to roll their cigarettes. I take this photo of his work, then notice that the dealer’s without customers again. I drop my camera in the back-pack that I carry with me; there’s a couple notebooks in it, pens and glasses, tape recorder, city maps.

            I ask. “What do you think is going to happen with the Marijuana laws here? I keep reading that they want to make it legal for the locals only. No more sales to tourists.”

            “Well, that would be stupid enough for them to do. It qualifies as what they think of as an idea. It would turn half of Amsterdam’s youth into illegal dealers, buying drugs for tourists. I really don’t think they’ll do it. But they’re nuts,” he tells me. “They’ve been havin’ a purge on weed in Holland for the last three years, chislin’ away. Changing the rules. There’s a new law every day. They keep screwing with things that have been working very well, for a long time.”

            More customers arrive, and I go back to finish off my smoothie. Then a cup of coffee.

Shoppers are nonstop now, and the dealer has no time for idle conversation. Girl who brought my coffee says that he starts work at 10 a.m. On my way out I tell him I’ll be back tomorrow morning, and return to my hotel. What are the four working girls doing?

           

           

Red Light District - Day 4

Day Four

I’m in the Oude Kerk, in the belfry and the bell is ringing, a tremendous sound, so loud it hurts—a dream. Rudely awakened I sit up in bed. The sound and shaking’s very real and loud enough to shake the fillings from your teeth. I get dressed hurriedly, pull on my socks and pants, lace up my shoes  and then step over to the window I left open last night. It’s been warm . . . mid August.  I look out and down into the dawn’s last purple shadows lingering in the narrow alleyway below.

            Three hooker’s windows are adjacent to my second story room and all three window’s lights (naked fluorescent tubes) are lit. I wonder if the they work all night? From where I am I only see (in full), one window. It’s a blue light window—a gay window. The male prostitute has stepped out from his door with a little white dog that has needed to urinate.

           

 

My frame of reference shifts. This prostitute has been transformed into a human being. He is one of us, with thoughts and dreams and feelings. When at work and posing in his window he seems not quite real . . . a manikin (pun unintended).

            He has had some customers. I guess enough to pay the rent. He isn’t posing in this window for amusement. Sometimes, late at night when all the bars are closed, I hear a drunk or three harassing . . . jeering at him. Cowards with an easy target. The harassers are not Amsterdamers, and intolerant of things that don’t in any way concern them. They want others to be like themselves. A scary thought!

            Enough of this. I take a sneaky photo of him in this early morning light. No flash. He’ll never know.

            With camera back inside my backpack, I pull on a T-shirt and I’m out of here. Tremendous sonic bangs and shaking of this building have not stopped, still rhythmic at about five-second intervals. I stumble down a steep and narrow stairway to the bar. The bartender looks bored, and less than happy. As an employee his is unable to escape this stunning sound. The two of us trade glances filled with understanding. I can feel his pain as I pass by on my way to the landing outside the front door.

            Oh, wow! Amazing. There is an enormous yellow  pile driver perched  on a removable roadbed of  huge steel and concrete slabs that straddle  the canal.

 

Each of the driven steel beams that will soon (I hope) create a coffer dam they’re building. The pilings  are some twelve yards long, about a yard wide, and weigh eighty tons. They will divide this waterway in half. Then one side will be drained, and the canal wall on the dry side be replaced.

 

It’s been five hundred years since this canal was dug. This area is built on sand that was once ocean floor and architecture in the Red Light District rests on wooden pilings that have also been in place five hundred years, some many more. They have begun to shift a bit and decompose.

          More than a few of the wonderful old buildings along this canal are listing fore and aft. The sides are holding vertical as buildings rest against each other without any space between. Eventually I learn that most are built on sixteen pilings (minimum) as a foundation. Sagging, sinking pilings are replaceable, but at about $10,000 each. Some buildings lean a bit. At first I thought I was hallucinating, and I swear have not inhaled—yet!

          

        Hope I haven’t bored you with this techie stuff, but it’s a part of the big picture, cleaning up the Red Light District. It will take two years they say. I hope their estimates are better than the ones we get here in Seattle. Never mind. I’ll take you back to sex and drugs. There’s also rock and roll here.

              I have breakfast, poke around a bit and get to Hunter’s late, 11:30, but the dealer isn’t here yet. I invest ten Euros in computer time to read and answer e-mails—almost fifteen bucks. I pay another two for coffee and six more for my first smoothie of the day.  I have become addicted to the smoothies here. I’m out of PC time in time to see the dealer enter. Almost 12:00 now. His name’s Terry. Terry waves hello and goes behind his counter to prepare for this day’s business, and I wait until he’s free, then ask him, “How’d you get this job?”

            “It wasn’t hard,” he says. “I was a chef in England. There was so much stress, that job. I did some chefing here when I first came over, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I got to know my way around, you know? Met people, found this place. Same money and no pressure. It’s a lot less stress, just selling marijuana and hashish. This is a great job here, you know?”

            He’s got a heavy English accent.

            “People from all over the world . . . bringin’ in their stories,” he continues. “When I was younger, in England, I was very into hash. I always had a little on me, but you have to pay for it, you know? And wages always a bare minimum. Here everybody’s always got a little extra. I’ll be back.”

            He turns away to serve a couple guys who look like college students. They discuss what they might buy. I go back to my stool again, and drink some coffee until they decide—two grams of L.A. Confidential. Terry weighs it out. The student’s walk up front to where the tables are with their new purchase and begun to roll some joints. The drug bar’s empty once again and I walk over to it.

            “Want to try some?” Terry asks me.

            “Umm. It’s been a long time. 1960 something . . . San Francisco, but pot never had that much affect on me. “There’s no way I could roll a joint.”

            “Try one of these.” He pulls a pre-rolled New York City Doobie from his counter.

            I decide to try it in the name of science and research. I go back to take my stool and light it up.  Five minutes pass, then ten, but I feel nothing. Then I notice I cannot recall what year this is. I look around the place. It’s all so cool, almost reserved. The lighting’s softer than it was before and there’s a reddish glow that seems to brighten, then go soft again. A kind of purple haze in places. Music plays constantly.

            I put out the half-smoked NYC Doobie . . . maybe later. Almost 2 PM now. Business is increasing as I drink another smoothie. Dope bar’s hidden by a wall of bodies. Would-be customers  are sniffing plastic sample baggies. A delivery guy comes in with a large tray of Sushi and distributes it to several new arrivals who are at a table.

            Terry’s back.

            I ask him, “Is it legal for you Amsterdamers to grow weed at home?”
            “A single household only gets to grow five plants. So where is all this comin’ from?” He gestures toward his drug bar as the tattooed waitress brings a cup of coffee for him. Terry lights a joint, inhales, then passes it to me. I take a toke that I don’t need. His accent seems more Irish now.

            “It’s used to be kind of a cottage industry,” he says. “But there’s been a big change in attitude. They’re really cracking down and it’s not only the police now, it’s these private security firms, the FEOS. They drive around in little vehicles with 360 degree cameras on the roof. They can take a photograph of a street and see which houses are hotter than others.

            “The police just bought remote control helicopters to look for grow houses with their electronic sensors, and they’ve got machines that can smell—devices they stick into people’s letter boxes. If they find something they kick your doors down. It’s all changed in Holland. There used to be two kinds of growers, somebody growin’ sixteen hundred plants, and little people, growin’ maybe forty plants. Making three or four thousand Euros every few months. The little guys used to be left alone. Police were only interested in the big growers. Now they’re interested in little growers.”

            Six new customers arrive. “Is there a bathroom here?” I ask him as he heads back to the drug bar. Terry points down a short hallway. There’s a poster on the wall.

I’m hungry for some Chinese food. Hope I can find my way. I’m feeling fairly stable. Wonder how the window girls are doing? Almost early evening now. The tourists will be lining up outside Theater Casa Rosso.

Amsterdaming - Day 5

Fate of the Red Light District

Day 5

Old Love. New love. Any Love But True Love.

Days are long this time of year in Amsterdam. It’s still quite light. An old guy (my age) is still drinking beer at the front window of the bar at my hotel.  The bartendress calls him an alcofrolic—always here during the day, goes home around 6 p.m. As usual he’s watching the window girls across the canal.

            “Give him another, one for me as well.” I place my order, lay ten Euros and my backpack on the bar and take a stool. One of the window girls has found some action, or the action has found her. Will he go in? We watch. They talk. He lingers. This is weird. He’s brought a long stemmed flower for her, wrapped in cellophane.

Bazaar!  They spend some time in conversation after which the guy writes something down, or is he texting? Then he walks away. Girl in the window’s left alone to ply her trade. Was he a suitor? Customer? Delivery boy? We’ll never know. The alcofrolic’s also clueless, and he spends most of his life here at the barroom window, watching. Hotel bartenders keep an eye on him, bringing another round whenever they see he has drained his glass—takes maybe twenty minutes. Must have a hell of a bar bill, but never seems drunk . . . as coherent as any of us—speaks English, German and Dutch without difficulty.

            “The girls are fun to watch,” I tell him. “Even if we can’t touch.”

            “Ya,” he grins. “Don’t kick a gift horse in the mouth.”

            It’s funny what the Dutch do with American expressions.

*       *       *

            When darkness falls I make my way to Hunter’s once again to ask more questions of the dealer, but our conversation’s interrupted as new customers arrive. I notice he requires I.D.s from younger looking would-be buyers, and turned two away so far tonight. It’s almost 9 p.m.

            When he comes back he tells me, “Hopefully this government will get voted out and things will swing around. They’ve been in power eight years now. People come and go with their own personal opinions . . . forcing them on others. We’re individuals—all of us. We know what’s good or bad. We don’t need governments to tell us. As an individual it should be up to you to do what you want to do: go out and drink a bottle of whisky . . . shove some cocaine up your nose. Everyone’s different. Some people go to church every week, you know? Whatever. Live and let live, man.”

            Someone comes in with a large briefcase and has gone behind the drug bar where he opens it and starts refilling all the little plastic boxes behind the counter with new stuff. The dealer goes to help him. There’s some paperwork involved. I take a break to let them go about their business—walk across the street into a head shop. Sign says, BABA. There’s a lot of BABA’s here, at least three different ones. 

                Someone is looking at a bong kit. There’s a little metal suitcase, like the ones used by photographers, but this one’s got a blown-glass bong inside, bong cleaner, and attachments I don’t recognize.

                “How much does this thing cost?” I ask a guy behind the counter.

            “Hundred-fifty Euros for the case,” he says. “Four hundred for the bong.”

            “Expensive!”

            “That’s a cheap one. Let me show you.” He comes out from behind the counter to the other side, unlocking a display door. “This one costs eight hundred Euros.”

            Wow! More than a thousand dollars for a bong. I guess you’d want a special case.

            “Hand blown,” he says. “The color’s in the glass, not a decal.”

            Who buys these things, I wonder?

            I walk back to Hunter’s where the dealers are still busy loading new supplies and selling to another  group of customers. I go back to the bar where I am close enough to hear their conversations. Someone buys and ounce of weed they call Amnesia—God, I love these names. Another goes for half a gram of Sour Diesel. Curiosity has got the best of me.

            “What is it that you like about Sour Diesel?” I ask as it finds its way into a plastic bag.

            “The smell,” the happy buyer grins. “It smells and tastes like Diesel fuel.”

“We’re individuals—all of us.”

            I drink three smoothies, finish off what’s left of my NYC Doobie and take a leisurely stroll  back to the hotel. Tomorrow’s my last day an Amsterdam.

Ganga Sadhu - Nepal

When men see Cold Mountain

They all say he’s crazy

And not much to look at

Dressed in rags

And hides.

They don’t get what I say

And

I don’t talk their language.

All I can say

To those I meet

Is

Try and Make it to Cold Mountain.

           

            Han Shan

            9th century Buddhist Hermit Monk

Friday Night

A short walk to the Arab’s

Little corner grocery store

September, 1967 - San Francisco

Counting out my change he says,

“I’m going to a disco . . . pick up a few women.”

I go home to drink the sake purchased

Watch some bad T.V.

It is enough

I’ve already had a few women.