More than half a century after Albert Camus wrote that Amsterdam’s concentric canals resembled the circles of hell, parts of the historic canal district had become a dingy warren of brothels, kebab shops for the suddenly hungry, and tacky souvenir emporiums selling ‘Stoner Simpson’ T-shirts and bongs. As a friend who lived in the city centre once texted me: ‘Amsterdam on Friday night is hell. Nothing but drugged-up Englishmen and Italians looking for the nearest dealer or whore.’
