In my over two years of stay in Brookings and in my travels across the U.S., I learned a few things Filipinos and Americans don’t have in common.

In the Philippines, the family is the center of the social structure. That includes the nuclear family – aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins. We have close-knit families where godparents, sponsors and family friends are called “tito” (uncle) and “tita” (aunt). We have a high respect for elders and high-ranking officials and we always use “sir” or “madam” in conversations. We learn more courtesy before we are old enough to go to school.

Not here in the U.S. A 10-year-old child can call an 80-year-old woman by her name. Students address their gray-haired professors not by their academic or honorific titles but by their first names.

Filipinos have a different concept of shame. We believe that we have to live up to the societal norms of conduct, and if we fail to do so we bring shame not only to ourselves but also upon our families.

That is why we are willing to squander more than what we can afford on a party rather than be shamed by the financial conditions. In America, people only spend what they can pay for. In parties I had been to, a few drinks and a bowl of finger foods are enough to keep the partygoers happy. A party is defined not with a food feast but bottles of beer and tortilla chips.

Filipinos are known to be very hospitable people. We always offer the best to our guests. If you happen to be in a Filipino house during dining hours, expect to be invited to the family meal. Regardless of what food we have and how much, regardless of who you are, we always invite and share.

It is a far cry from the American culture. Most Americans do not know the line, “Wanna share with my snacks or food?” or “Do you wanna have a slice of this?” They just eat. Too seldom you hear an offer.

Filipino Time is the coined phrase for the embarrassing problem of tardiness among Filipinos. We have developed this culture to arrive at parties or events an hour or so late. It has been tested. Any American who has been to the Philippines would say this is true. Try having an event stating an arrival time of 1 p.m., and invited guests will start trickling in at 2 or 3 p.m. In the United States, punctuality is so highly esteemed that the Filipino Time appears like an eye sore. Americans value time. Filipinos value extra time in almost everything. (That explains why we are late all the time.) By the way, we are not proud of it.

Americans do not visit their neighbors often and converse. Filipinos do. We constantly stop at each other’s abode to say hello and just to know how life has been. It is fair to say that everybody knows everybody in a town. Americans are satisfied with just mowing their lawns and (sometimes) exchanging smiles at their neighbors.

Americans love to read during their spare time. Filipinos love to go to “malling.” While Americans bombard themselves with books, Filipinos delight in watching movies. Promotion of reading in my country is a problem that stares Filipinos right in the eye. With poverty becoming a barrier for people to buy and own books, it will take ages for everyone to see the pleasures of reading.

There are countless differences. The list is long. I will share more once I learn more about why Americans love fast foods.

While having my daily dose of coffee mocha at Cottonwood, I gazed upon a couple who also frequent the shop, just like me, but for their evening tea and slices of sandwiches. She is not the usual lady who bends her head on her partner’s shoulder. Neither is she the one who smiles constantly and flirts. He is not the man who winks at her when trying to make a point. He does not hold her hand. He sips his tea without pretensions or fear of not getting a good impression from her. She is his wife. He is her husband. By the look of her gray hair and his balding head, they are on their late 70s or maybe even early 80s. At their age and still enjoying the regular Cottonwood visits and the sips of tea, who says this is a young world?

There are people I know who find aging so astonishing. I smile to myself whenever I hear someone say, “You have visibly grown older.” It gives me the impression that we live in a world made for and of the young. With the way we view youthfulness and revere youth above one’s ability, knowledge and experience, who is to blame? Our mind is partly corrupted with the idea that aging is a no-no in our society.

Watch TV the whole day and count the number of commercials advocating beauty products, anti-aging creams and diets that will make you look 10 years younger. Have you heard about the buzz created by the rejuvenation pills or Human Growth Hormone (HGH) pills? We have now created a trend of youth. Go online and read scientific papers on “stopping age” supported by the National Institute on Aging.

A recent study published in the FASEB Journal found the reason why our hair turns gray (or white) as we become old. The culprit for gray hair – the Catalase enzyme! Scientists think that by knowing what causes the hair to change color, an anti-aging hair supplement can be made. Now we can start imagining a world without gray hairs and what a boring world that would be.

Since aging is inevitable, there are many times that we spot opportunities only at a later age. Those times we wish we were young again. A friend told me she would do whatever it takes to look younger so she could be this and she could be that. Even purchasing the anti-wrinkle pillow is one of her options. Yes, you can buy a copper oxide pillowcase that irons out those face lines. The company that sells the fabric so far has sold about 10,000 pillowcases online, in the U.S. alone.

Aging is wisdom increasing more and more. Even though this is not true all the time, we notice that as we get older, we begin to see things – life in detail – clearer. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “The years teach much which the days never knew.” Aging is not negative, and when Father Time comes to carve those cracks on our faces and to paint the hair on our head white, we should take it like a million-dollar reward. We just reflect that every time a year is added to our age, a spark of wisdom is also superimposed to help us appreciate the true colors within and around us.

Right now, we should not take for granted the forte of our body and the luxury of time presented in front of us. We must not feel lost in the vast splendor, sorrow, thrill, passion and confusion of youth.

When I started blogging at the end of January three years ago, I never had any great expectation at all other than to write my daily ranting in a fashion different from what I used to when I write my newspaper columns. Frankly, I never thought it would be exciting and challenging. Exciting, because I cannot wait to be online every day, write a post, and feel in my heart the effect every entry has to every blogger/visitor/online wanderer reading it. Challenging, since even in the early stage of my blogging existence, I had changed layouts thrice and learned HTML and scripting to somehow compete with the rest of the impressive designs around.

I do not know the percentage of SDSU students that blog; maybe a lot, and secretly doing it. But why do I blog? A few reasons. There is fun to it. If you are a persisting writer, the blog can be your emotional outlet. Since a blog is interactive, you know what others think and their opinions, most of the time, matter. Blogging lets you get in touch with the lives of friends who have started the online journal as well. In my three years of blogging, I gained virtual friends – blogger friends I met through blog forums. They are real people who interact with your every entry, leave comments and give you inputs. They are your regular visitors who love what you do online, but oftentimes critique your posts. They complete your blogging life. They also maintain blogs and write crazy things about their crazy lives.

Once you get the feel and excitement of blogging, many at times, you would find yourself in a situation where you do not exactly know what to blog about. It is called a “dry moment.” Should you post an entry about the sexy lady neighbor who steals a mysterious look at you while you mow the lawn? But you just could not seem to organize your thoughts for a worthy girl-next-door blog. You wish for her to do more serious flirting before you can create a good story for a daily post. That moment you are simply left wishing and thinking blank.

During dry moments, do some random blogging. It is just like running your finger to a book article and whichever word your finger stops, blog about the word. Random selection for your confused mind is the easiest solution. Write about the best bloggers of the century, or the longest-running Weblog on the Internet. Online browsing would also reveal facts that would lead to other interesting information.

Pause. Warning – blogging can be very addictive. The Mercury News blog writes, “What starts out as a hobby for some can end up permeating their lives and minds. Some of the diarists post repeatedly throughout the day and juggle several blogs and feel anxious if they don’t write. Most dedicated bloggers say the endeavor has enriched their lives, but some worry about finding balance and keeping their obsession in check.”

Therefore, once you feel these blog symptoms: you have more blog friends than ‘real life’ friends; you cannot sleep without writing a post; tracking back blog comments is your medium of knowing family whereabouts info; you cannot stop pinging; you visit Digg or Technorati countless times a day; you monitor numbers such as feed counts, Twitter followers, blog rankings, blog unique visits and pageviews, and then you worry when you see them decline; or once you feel you are already out of touch from what is ‘real’, stop. Blogging should be fun and not control you. In the blogosphere, everyone is equal and you can even stay anonymous. This does not mean isolating yourself.

There are more things that you should know about blogging that would make you sign up for a domain name and get a hosting service. I will share my thoughts about it in my coming articles.

For those planning to live a “happy” life, relocating to Utah, Hawaii, or Wyoming may be the best options. Rethink if you wish to live in these states-Arkansas, Ohio, Mississippi, Kentucky and West Virginia. What about living in South Dakota?

According to the latest survey numbers released Wednesday last week by Gallup in partnership with Healthways and America’s Health Insurance Plans, South Dakota ranks as the 39th “happiest” state in the U.S.

The title of the “Happiest State of America” goes to Utah. Utah ranks high in almost all indices of well being: life evaluation, emotional health, physical health, healthy behavior, work environment, and basic access. On the list, Hawaii comes next, followed by Wyoming. South Dakota ranks very poor in “life evaluation”-the factor that measures a person’s present life and the anticipation of the next five years. Ranking 43 over 50, most South Dakotans are unhappy with their lives and are unoptimistic of what lies ahead of them in the State. In terms of “basic access” (food, shelter and healthcare) the state is way below the rankings.

South Dakota rates very low in “work environment” too. This factor answers questions like: Are you satisfied or dissatisfied with your job or the work you do? At work, do you get to use your strengths to do what you do best every day, or not? Does your supervisor at work treat you more like he or she is your boss or your partner? Does your supervisor always create an environment that is trusting and open, or not? The score of 41/50 tells me how negative the perceptions of people are about their work environment.

What is surprising about the survey results is that South Dakota is surrounded by states that rank way higher. Minnesota is 5th, Nebraska 16th, North Dakota 28th, Montana 12th, Iowa 27th, Wyoming 3rd. If you look at it as a map, South Dakota is the only state that is colored red while the rest surrounding it have blue tints.

Should this be a reason for South Dakotans to frown? I don’t think so. In fact, there is a bright side to this, which I find contradicting. Among all indices, the state of South Dakota rates higher (9/50) in “emotional health” compares to Utah (10/50). “Emotional Health” asks how people felt yesterday, from the morning until the end of the day -who they were with, what they did, and how they felt based on responses to these items: smiling or laughter, being treated with respect, enjoyment, happiness, worry, sadness, anger, stress, learning or doing something interesting. It is safe to say that South Dakota is home to some of America’s happiest people.

The West has the highest sense of well-being, while unhappy states are clustered more in the east than in the Midwest, the survey says. West Virginia is ranked last among the states, with Kentucky on the 49th and Mississippi 48th on the list.

The survey may have put South Dakota on the 39th place in its well-being index, but being on top or not, there are a few things that make the state attractive: the happy character of the South Dakotans is one saving grace. More info can be found at the Well-Being home page, www.ahiphiwire.org/wellbeing.

Say you found a stranger very attractive (however you define attractive). Would you want to have sex before or after gulping bottles of beer?

Sex under the influence of beer is common and easy. All you need to do is get yourself drunk (10 bottles will suffice) and in a matter of hours you’ll find yourself on someone else’s bed, most likely with the stranger you often exchange smiles with in the bar, whom you lusted or dreamed so long to be with. Make sure that both of you are extremely intoxicated so that the alcohol will do all the thinking, talking and the strategic planning of where and how you would perform the sex escapade – hmmm, in the car, at the park, beside a big rock, behind a pine tree, in the garage or just to make it sound so nice, in the comfort of your own room.

Under-the-influence-of-beer sex with a stranger you have just met once has a tag: risk, big risk. Take for instance the case of Lance Cpl. Daniel Smith, a young U.S. Marine who went to the Philippines as part of the Philippine-American war games or also called the RP-U.S. Visiting Forces Agreement (VFA). Just one night of drinking and then quick sex with a Filipina in a van changed Smith’s life forever. Daniel Smith was charged with rape. He was with other American soldiers at that time but all, except him, were acquitted.

Nicole, the rape victim, testified that she was drunk and too weak to stop the assault by Smith, as the other Marines inside the van laughed and listened to loud music. Nicole further testified that the incident happened after a night of drinking with Smith.

Smith had testified that the sex was consensual and this idea was supported by a number of the Filipinos, especially those who knew who Nicole was. Why would any woman in her right mind hook up with a group of young and, let’s be honest here, horny soldiers in a bar called Neptune (of all places) and late at night? The family of the girl insisted she was no prostitute and that Nicole has a college degree (which of course is no guarantee of not being playful and nasty at times). Here enters another question: What happened to her common sense that night when she agreed to join the Marines in their drinking spree? I am sure she was aware of the consequences she could be getting into by joining a group of men. When she said she trusted the men, damn, no way that you can trust anyone, in this case a gang of men, in just an hour! Upon joining them, alone, she had already voluntarily offered herself!

When the Philippine court handed down the verdict – GUILTY to Smith, a lot of Filipinos cried unfair and stirred emotions in the country. Many believed Smith did not take advantage of the victim and that the latter was fully aware of the events.

The controversial case happened over two years ago. However, recently, the case has resurrected. This time it is regarding the custody of the convicted rapist. Smith is detained at the U.S. Embassy compound and Nicole’s lawyer wants him to be transferred and serve out his sentence in a Philippine prison. If the transfer pushes through, it will be the end of Smith. I tell you, Philippine prison is beyond hell.

Nicole had sex with a stranger, Smith, after getting drunk over beers. It seems the intention of the two was casual sex and to satisfy a night of lusty craving. Whatever happened that night, why Nicole suddenly cried for rape, was still not certain for most Filipinos, even up to now.

What we know is this statement from Nicole after the long delay of Smith’s transfer to Philippine prison: “If I had the choice, I would like to be a U.S. citizen now because they [the U.S.] would defend a citizen, even if he is a convicted criminal, while the Philippines would not defend someone who is fighting for her rights.”

So what really is Nicole’s intent?

Do you believe in destined love? Do you believe that someone out of the billions of humans alive is predestined for you, like it’s already written in the stars, and all you need to do is watch, wait and wait more for the right time to present itself to you in the right place?

I am thinking: how could destiny take place if the person you are predestined to be with is imagining the same way as you do and is also closely watching and waiting for the right time to present itself in the right place? Two parallel thoughts remain parallel unless one deviates and looks for convergence. Would you ever catch a shooting star if you just run along its path instead of towards it?

Destiny takes a lot of time before you realize its occurrence. Or is destiny just a simple disguised coincidence; that the meeting of two people or thoughts or hearts happens because of coincidence or luck and not destiny. Destiny cannot be forced into you. It just happens, they say. When it does happen, you will know, they say, too. But what if destiny comes too late and its full realization will not mean anything anymore? Where is destiny delivering the goods in there?

Someone said to me that if a very surprising event transpires in your life that you don’t anticipate happening, like meeting a friend you haven’t seen for 10 years, it is coincidence. But if the meeting transforms into something worthwhile and changes your life forever, it is destiny. In the movie Serendipity, was it luck or destiny playing for Jonathan and Sara? It sounds like destiny. Jonathan said, “Life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences, but rather it is a tapestry of acts that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan.” The plan, that pattern of the universe, is the one defined by destiny.

Young Juan meets young Maria. Juan courts Maria. Maria says yes. Juan and Maria enjoy their relationship for three years. Juan leaves for greener pasture abroad. Juan falls into temptation and finds Elena. Maria, left in desolation, finds Pedro, a shoulder to cry on. Juan marries Elena. Maria marries Pedro. To cut to the chase, Elena dies of terminal disease. Pedro commits suicide. Fast forward: Juan meets an old flame, Maria. At the age of 35, they fall in love the second time and finally marry. Pause: at this point of the story, is this destiny fulfilled?

Play: Juan and Maria live their lives happily together, but not for long. After a decade the two decide to call it quits, file a divorce due to irreconcilable differences. Both now live in separate lives. Is this still destiny? If it is, then where is the predestined love destiny promised all along? If it is not, then how will you call it, failed destiny?

If indeed there is someone out there predestined for each one, I want to know what to do to connect with that someone. If destiny needs a scratch on its back and a helping hand, then I am willing to lend mine if that is what it takes for destiny to happen at the right time. I want to see how Juan and Maria manage to see their soul mates — the beings destiny assigns for each of them for forever.

Huh, what if destiny is never destined to occur? Tell me.

Fried food is part and parcel of an Asian cuisine. Red or white meat, fish – finding a dish that is oil-fried on the table is no surprise by any means. In my country, lard, a type of oil coming from pork, is vehemently adored. Oh boy, the moment our neighbor starts frying dried salted fish deep in lard, I wonder if he’s going to wake up the dead. Dried salted fish, or bulad (boo-lad), even in its raw state, smells terribly unspeakable. What more if you fry and combine it with the reek of burning lard! For foreign nostrils, it sure is out of this world. While it spells heaven for almost all Filipinos, it is extreme hell for those not immune to the aroma.

Never a rose without the prick, indeed. A single frying event, when I was living in the Netherlands, had gotten me into thinking of the possibilities of being killed by flatmates for no other reason but dried salted fish. In a flat with nine others – six Dutch, two lady Russians and one Pakistani – stupid me, I should have known that frying was a big no-no. But for a tongue that had been deprived of the taste of the “Philippines Best” for quite some time, a quick visit to the Asian store for a pack of bulad and boiling oil in a pan were all the necessities to satisfy the urge. Holy smoke! My flatmates might have possessed the most sensitive chemical sensing system; it only took few seconds of bulad hall domination for their olfactory cells to stimulate in perfect unison. Eight of them (where is the Pakistani?) rushed to the kitchen to reprimand a poor, hungry Filipino, plus the Russian girl said without batting an eyelid “Are you trying to poison us?” That was the awakening slap. Adios, dried salted fish. ‘Til we meet again in the Philippines.’

I promised to spare myself of the same fate here in Brookings and to avoid every enticement of buying the salted fish. Each time I passed that section of the Oriental store in Sioux Falls where it is displayed like it is calling my name, I think of my four male housemates: the tall Ukrainian, the fierce-looking Ethiopian and the chubby Bolivian and the likelihood of me turned into bits and pieces by them. So far, the evasion strategy is working flawlessly.

The smell caused by frying and using native spices in food can be viewed from two contrasting perspectives. From the familiar side (our side), the smell is the product of love and devotion to cuisines we grew up eating and smelling. From the unfamiliar side (not among us), it is smoke from a belching car, or worse, the putrid odor of a cow’s dung.

Those living alone in isolated houses, lucky you. Nobody ever cares what you cook. Those in the Family Student Housing are fortunate lifeforms too as they can always contain the smell of their food to the periphery of their apartments alone. There is one advice, however, that I would like all international students, whose passions revolve in frying and using strong spices, to know. Keep your clothes away from where you are cooking. Store them somewhere that is tightly sealed. The smell of food could easily get stuck on clothes if you are not careful enough. The only way to know whether your clothes smell bad or not is to ask someone not from your household. You will only realize that you are a walking advertisement of a “cow’s dung” when people around you start covering their noses or begin frowning at the mere smell of you.

This is reality. We, Asians, or foreign students in general, have to come to grips that no matter how we worship the smell of our fried food or spices, there are “others” whose nostrils are trained only to smell sandwiches, pastries and green leafy vegetables. Respect their smell. My clothes smell good. Start smelling yours.

Do your friends take your childhood disappointments and misadventures seriously? As for mine, sadly, never mind. In a conversation I had with close friends yesterday, never have they been sorry about my stories spiced up with sour remembrances of days past. Am I inadequate with attention? Fine if they laughed. It was worse when those moments I wanted them to hear didn’t seem to have significance of sorts. Not meaningful enough.

Maybe, it’s funny for me to be forlorn over spilt milk. Come on. Is there really no sense in looking back and basking in the afterthought that I can still dignify, by dint of memory, even the foregone moments I once detested but now merrily summon. Like when ?

? I graduated a notch lower from the honor roll after my lady adviser in sixth grade favored a classmate less deserving but much better-looking than I was (she never missed admiring his white-as-a-sheet shirt during classes).

… I became the talk of the school campus after my classmates learned I didn’t vote for my own party in the election for the student council in high school owing to a secret disagreement with our class leader’s platform.

? My mom figured in a verbal tussle with my Electronics teacher because she thought, like any mother who claimed to know better, I deserved a grade higher than 90 (someone else got 98, by the way).

? I saw big brother’s butt full of welts from grandpa’s leather belt, which only happens once in a blue moon, after I squeaked on a grave misdeed my brother and I promised each other to keep secret (sorry, bro, for my selfish breach of trust so I could be spared from grandpa’s fury).

? Papa bellowed so loud after I accidentally hit his crotch while executing a newly learned karate jab. How I weaseled away from the house, but failed to outrun a good spanking comeuppance.

? I joined a hometown amateur singing contest and lost. Eating humble pie wouldn’t have been a big deal if only it was not my little sister who won the first prize and my big brother finishing second best while I failed to get the nod of the judges for, at least, the best in attire or stage presence. If only Mom did not insist I sounded like the old Matt Monro!

? Trying to live up to my mom’s belief that I could sing, I fell flat on my face while performing during a PTA meeting even as I felt that the audience tried to cast a spell to pop me off the stage. Oh, if only the guitar wasn’t tuned so perfectly!

? I had to wake up at dawn to collect ripe mangoes fallen from the late-night frolic of bats only to find out that being delayed by a mere second of sleep meant going home empty-handed. Too late for me to realize that kids in the neighborhood also harbored my mango principle: “Sweetness is surely reaped from prompt sacrifice of early morning dreams.”

? I sent a playmate scurrying home in tears after hitting him with a stone from my slingshot. All the while, I thought my target was on cue only for sparrows and chickens I tried to shoo away from Grandpa’s rice fields.

There’s still a whole archive of memories about my boyhood misadventures. For now, I reserve the other stories for the times when my friends would be open enough to consider that recalling those “detestable” moments could be entertaining as well.

Did he just ask that?

“Are you a terrorist?” Jeremy threw that question at me as I was about to part my jaws for a big sigh of relief for completing a stressful day at the office. Caught in an awkward situation, I answered, “NO” straight to his face.

Jeremy is no friend. Neither is he an acquaintance. He merely saw me going out of Wecota Hall at around midnight last weekend after I finally called it a day from work. Suspecting that he was waiting for a friend to come out from the back door of the Wecota student dorm, I calmly strode past him with one thing in mind: to get myself home. Such was my luck that when I started pacing fast, he shouted, “Hey!” With only the cacophony of the snow drifts between us, I knew he was trying to catch my attention.

I stopped. I looked back at him with my hood still covering my head. “Were you the Vietnamese I saw in the bar?” he asked. “I’m afraid I am not,” I responded while trying to gesture with my hand that I wanted to leave. But he walked closer to me and asked which country I was from. I gladly answered that I came from the Philippines.

He seemed to be like a red-butt fly that my mother used to tell me has an itchy bottom that just cannot stop hovering around your head and pestering you. Jeremy was sort of like that, a lost ball in the high weeds. The word Philippines flickered like a cigarette lighter inside his dark matter and ignited the probably long kept question he would want to ask someone: “Are you a terrorist?” The association of the Philippines with terrorism may have a little sense of truth, as in a few past cases leftists from down south of the country created world headlines with acts of unlawful violence and war. However, labeling me as a terrorist is beyond any intellectual capacity and forgiveness, especially if you are someone I happen to meet one midnight outside Wecota Hall. You can say any off-putting and discreditable things about the Philippines, but never call me a terrorist.

After saying my “NO” to a question I found so offensive, I tried to compose myself. “If you are a terrorist, I tell you I can kill you right here.” Lo and behold! That was the moment I was about to raise a fist and start a boxing brawl. Then the back door opened and an Asian-looking lady peeped out (a Vietnamese, I figured). I have seen her before, and she probably is living in Wecota dorm and Jeremy is her friend. I said my hello.

Jeremy was not planning on cutting the conversation short while his girl watched us from the door. He asked how I viewed the plane crash at the Hudson River a few days ago, which made big headlines online and on TV. Since I have been following the news, I told him it was a tragic experience for the 155 passengers. Although no one was badly hurt, the mere fact that a commercial plane had gone haywire and landed on a river and not on a runway meant the passengers had already cheated death. Without the heroic act of the pilot, everything could have turned disastrous. But Jeremy viewed the incident as something cool. He said it was never tragic, but “cool,” yet he never elaborated his stand.

Tired of standing out in the cold, I told Jeremy to go inside. He extended his hand for a friendly shake. I gladly accepted it. Before he finally reached for the door, he said “sorry” to me and uttered this, “America is the land of the free.” As I walked home, I thought of a short story of what has happened: Jeremy went to a bar, had some booze, met a Vietnamese girl, followed her to the dorm, saw me as I was about to go home, called me a terrorist, argued that the plane crash was cool and not tragic and then said sorry to me (this part somehow pacified me) before he finally decided to spend time with his girl.

To Jeremy: wake up and smell the coffee. If by any chance you will meet someone from my country, remember that Filipinos do not act like undomesticated animals. We are peace-loving people who consider life like a bowl of cherries. I will give you a free trip to the Philippines, and you will realize that, just like Americans, we also live in the land of the free.

Amsterdam brothels are those places where women pose in windows, so men (or women) can simply window- shop for women they want to have sex with. Having lived in the Netherlands for two years, I had been to those brothels many times, seen the women in all their grandeur, admired those with Coca-Cola figures and silently booed the grannies. I was not there for sex tripping, by the way. The locations of these legalized Amsterdam sex arenas, popularly known as “Amsterdam red light districts,” are strategically set up so that whenever I had to go to the mall to shop, I would never miss to pass by them. They are everywhere.

It is like your regular window shopping on the sidewalk. However, instead of mannequins in fashion wear that are being displayed behind the clear glass windows, half-naked girls and fat old grannies in varied skin colors stand or sit (they do whatever they like) on small chairs with desire to ensnare locals and snooping foreigners for some “short times.”

It was not allowed to stop and stare, but you can take a quick look, of course. If you are interested when flawless girls wink at you while licking their lips and touching their private parts, just enter a small door. Once the window curtain is closed, then you are on your way to fulfilling your sexual urges. Just don’t forget to pay.

Prostitution in the Netherlands has been legal since 2000. Ergo, you have nothing to worry about for renting a “lady” by the window. Be concerned about your health, however. The girls may have health permits, but you’ll never know how many sick men they’ve had before you that very day.

Last weekend, Amsterdam unveiled plans to shut down half of its famed brothels as part of the major cleanup of its ancient city center. The Dutch legalized these brothels, initially, as a solution to the myriad problems associated with the sex industry. They were wrong. Lately, they noticed that legalization had been a failure. Exploitation and abuse of women in the sex industry continue to increase. In 2007, Dutch Ministers came back clear that the dilemmas of illegality and abuse are not solved by legalization.

Part of the cleanup is to reduce the number of businesses related to sex trading, including peep shows, sex theaters, sex shops, mini supermarkets, massage parlors and souvenir shops. By the way, the Dutch are good at naming places. For instance, “smart shops” are those that sell herbal treatments and “coffee shops” are places where marijuana is sold openly. When you hear “mini supermarkets,” it does not relate to a mini Wal-Mart.

For the prostitutes who may lose their jobs as a result of the plan, Dutch officials will “bail them out” and help them find other work.

Most likely, they will be relocated to the proper sex trade center. When the plan is implemented, prostitution will be allowed in only two areas, of which one has been a center of prostitution since before the city’s golden shipping age in the 1600s.

Now, it can be said that legalization of prostitution has been far from being successful in defending women’s health and safety. There is good evidence that it has failed to stop the illegal sex trade. What is your idea about legalizing prostitution in your country?