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The first time I visited Amsterdam, I was 19 and touring Europe with a close friend. It was 1992, and we had left our boyfriends at home with many deep kisses—and no promises of fidelity. And so we were off: two free-thinking, backpacking, ready-for-anything girls.

Amsterdam was our first stop. It was jaw-droppingly beautiful. Garbled buildings. Cobbled streets. Romantic, tree-lined canals. Flowers everywhere.

It was mid-summer, the height of the tourist season. We cried at the Anne Frank Museum. We goggled at the van Gogh Museum. We giggled at the sex museum and happily posed for photos in front of a giant phallus.

Then we stepped out of the dark museum to find ourselves on a bright, sunny street, and there we were, smack dab in the middle of a flower parade.

Lovely Amsterdam. City of romance. If only our boyfriends were there with us, we moaned, longing for a strong hand to hold.

No matter. A stop at a coffee shop lifted our spirits right back up. (They're called coffee shops, but the java is replaced by joints.)

In the evening, we took a 15-minute walk from our grungy hostel (where we had each scored a mattress on the floor) over to the world-famous Red Light District, a large area in the oldest part of the city. The buildings were tall, thin and crowded together, overlooking the canals. It was a surprisingly beautiful spot—yet enticingly naughty.

We found ourselves in the middle of a maze of theaters, sex shops, museums, restaurants, bars, coffee shops and, of course, the famous windows (about 250 of them), topped with florescent glowing-red lights, each displaying prostitutes dressed in eye-popping underwear.

We bought some French fries on the street (I can still taste them) and wandered, eyes wide.

Now flash forward about 10 years. There I am, again in Amsterdam. This time, I have a man’s hand to hold. Actually it was the hand of my then-boyfriend now-husband. No stained mattress on the floor this time—no way. We were staying in luxury at a five-star hotel. It wasn’t our usual MO for travel, but we decided we needed some pampering.

What is it about expensive, crisp, white sheets that are such a turn on? Maybe it is that in the midst of decadent elegance, it feels so good to be bad. And we were bad. Between the sheets, on the soft carpeting, in the chair, against the bathroom counter …

In between, we wandered Amsterdam. With no destination in mind, we walked, hand-in-hand, completely relaxed. We unearthed interesting shops, fascinating museums and ate ourselves into delirium at hole-in-the-wall cafes. We indulged in long, draw-out fantasies about living in a houseboat, floating down rambling canals.

And that’s about it. We didn’t do much else. Hot sex and a whole lot of aimless wandering—my idea of a perfect romantic vacation.