Amsterdam is the smart alternative to Paris for a romantic European break – it’s charmingly easy to get around by tram or on foot; most of the residents speak English, and the central area clustered around four concentric horseshoe-shaped canals has a jaunty antique elegance, beautiful even in the dead of winter.

Of course, for those not swept up in the discreet madness of love, there’s always the lure of legal prostitution and freely available cannabis.

But if you think that Holland or its capital is a monument to state-approved licentiousness, think again. This ain’t the Rive Gauche. “People think we’re huge liberals,” said one local journalist I met in a bar. “But actually, the Dutch are really quite conservative. The sex and drugs are for tourists only.”

In late January this year, I went to Amsterdam, not for hedonism, but for work. A play I’d co-written about my great aunt, Rebecca West, was to appear at a series of three theaters in Amsterdam and the Hague. So I was more inclined to succumb to the intoxication of mild success than marijuana. All the same, the Dutch producer of my play was Xaviera Hollander, the former Manhattan madame-turned-author of her 1972 autobiography “The Happy Hooker,” so the trip promised to be more than strictly business.

Ms. Hollander runs a B &B simply called Xaviera Hollander’s Bed & Breakfast (Stadionweg 17, 31-20-673-3934, www.xavierahollander.com; room rates $156) in a large 1930s suburban redbrick house in an amorphous sea of other 1930s redbrick houses 10 minutes’ tram ride from the center of town. Part of the deal with the play was that everyone involved in the production would stay at Ms. Hollander’s place. I wasn’t sure what to expect – breakfast in bed with a light spanking?

The reality was harmless, even mundane. Ms. Hollander herself is what New Yorkers call a piece of work. She’s like a galleon in full sail – her clothes are a riot of fuschia, scarlet, leopard prints, fringes, and scarves; she favors liberal application of neon-bright lipstick, and refers to her live-in helper as “the houseboy.” She’s a tough cookie with a million lewdly brilliant stories to tell (I particularly enjoyed one that involved a large woman and an air mattress), and she really doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of the exotic life she’s lived.

Her guesthouse, however, turned out to be a rather dull environment, even if the halls are festooned with scarves and sarongs that hint at an invitation to rapid changes of clothing. One large guest room, called “Goliath,” is decorated in tangerine and candy stripes; a smaller double room, “David,” is decked out in a more conventional pink. A separate cabin in the garden can also accommodate guests, but only at the expense of throwing out the houseboy, which seems a little harsh.

But what you get for $156, apart from a room for the night, is unclear. Ms. Hollander’s Web site mentions “house parties” and promises “never a dull moment in this Madame’s house.” Certainly there were some interestingly arty guests after hours occupying the black leather sectional seating in the rangy living room, and wine flowed freely, but things stayed on the level of intellectual conversation. I don’t recall anyone disrobing, or passing out on the sofa.

After a few days I came to the conclusion that staying with Ms. Hollander was more interesting as a concept and source of anecdotes (“I stayed with the Happy Hooker in Amsterdam!”) than in itself outrageous. It was a bit like going to stay with an empty-nest suburban aunt. Only, of course, one who’d made a living for years as a prostitute, lewd raconteur, and brothel madame.

My recommendation is to stay somewhere elegant and old, such as the Hotel Seven Bridges (Reguliersgracht 31, 31-20-623-1329; room rates $120-$220), a very pretty restored 18th-century townhouse looking out over a maze of small canals that cross the Keisergracht and Herrengracht. Or you could get a room with a key to your own front door off the canalside tow path at the Ambassade Hotel (Herengracht 341, 31-20-555-0222, www.ambassade-hotel.nl; room rates start at $200), which consists of 10 17th-century townhouses strung together into one lovely hotel.

The great museums are mostly in a cluster, a short tram ride or a 15-minute walk from the center. Try the vast, gothic Rijksmuseum (Stadhouderskade 42, 31-20-674-7047) for enough Old Masters to fill most appetites for a lifetime. There’s also the Van Gogh Museum (Paulus Potterstraat, 7, 31-20-570-5200) and the more distant Rembrandthuis (Jodenbreestraat 4, 31-20-520-0400).

If you really need to investigate the seedy side of the city, try the Sex Museum (Damrak 18, 31-20-622-8376), where you can marvel at photos of Long Dong Silver and sit in a vibrating, penis-shaped chair. Or you can wander round the red-light district, a cluster of streets around Achterburgwal that offer shop-window type displays of seminaked women lit by gloomy neon.

Food is not the main reason for coming to Amsterdam, so don’t expect to be uttering lecker, the Dutch word for delicious, very often. The only adventurous cuisine comes from the Dutch colonial history in Indonesia, but it’s not easy to find a good Indonesian restaurant. Try Kantjil and de Tijger (Spuistraat 291-293, 31-20-620-0994). Or, for good soup and salads with a unique canalside view, try Banks Bar/Restaurant (Keizersgracht 465, 31-20-638-8980). Still, you won’t starve to death (although vegetarians, as in most of Europe, are surprisingly ill-catered for, and those who object strongly to cigarette smoke will find themselves severely limited). Many of the museums have nice cafes, including the Foam Photography Museum (Keizersgracht 609, 31-20-551-6500) and even the Anne Frank House (Prinsengracht 263, 31-20-556-7100).

Anne Frank’s house really is worth a visit, even if it feels in prospect like something you’d do for a high school history project. What her situation says about humanity’s capacity to kowtow and yet also to adapt to almost anything really comes alive as you pad around this creaky canalside building propped against its neighbors, taking in the sheer tedium of Frank’s life. A row of gardens beckons from a back window, and yet she could never go outside. It’s grippingly sad.

Amsterdam becomes more compelling the more time you spend in its solid, ramshackle old center and begin to absorb its history as once the most powerful place of international commerce in the world. The skewed wonkiness of the buildings seems comical at first, until you realize that they’re amateurish because they were prototypes. The Dutch were pushing at the limits of grandeur, progress, and engineering. No one had ever had to build a long row of warehouses on such a grand scale before, so they just made it up as they went along.

The bald fact is that the Dutch, who pretty much invented liberal humanism, are a fairly serious bunch, and Amsterdam, for all its tulips and titties, is not a frivolous city. It’s a place to walk and reflect, take in great art, and go to bed early. Hopefully with someone you brought with you.