I spent the next three days going to Eike en Linde, working on my index, wandering through the city, and smoking in the evenings. The first time smoking cannabis after shrooming dulled the radiance of the experience. A disappointment, but I was mostly in good spirits. Familiar anxieties welled upon occasion. An attractive gallery would present itself on my walks and I’d hesitate to enter. I visited one gallery with eye-bending abstracts, but left within minutes because the woman working came to ask me questions. I had taken a few art classes in college, but no art history or theory so I understood almost nothing she said. I smiled and nodded then lied, telling her I had an appointment, but, oh, thank you for allowing me to view these wonderful paintings, goodbye!
Whew. I gulped fresh air outside, a rare sunny day, fairly warm. Many days had been overcast and drizzly. I didn’t mind the weather, though, because it provided a strange but familiar comfort. The cold drizzle made Amsterdam tangible in a way the sunshine did not. When it was sunny and warm the city glowed with vibrancy. I loved that on one hand but it also overwhelmed me. The cyclists smiled even wider, the walkers whistled or sang or bought flowers, and the groups all but skipped in gleeful laughter. The city is lovable in all weather, but on a warm sunny day it’s as if the gates of heaven open and all the angels fall to earth. I wanted to be one of those angels and my awareness that I wasn’t caused me consternation.
The issue was familiarity. I felt comfortable in certain cafés and in the coffeeshops because I knew the protocols. The anxiety spiked when plopped in unfamiliar environments. My awareness of my insecurities was growing and I was gradually understanding how powerfully the divorce had affected my sense of self. What special skill or talent did I have that might make up for anything lacking in status, finances, or appearance? Intelligence, sure, but anxiety crippled my thought in particular settings. I could write and draw, but I hadn’t published anything or shown my work to anyone. What was I going to do, walk into a place that was unfamiliar and pull out a small portfolio of drawings before saying, “Sure, I’m divorced, middle class, overweight and balding, and I work alone, but I have a hidden intelligence I can’t articulate to strangers, a vast knowledge gleaned from all areas of academic study through my work as an indexer, and I write and draw quite well. Please take a look at this portfolio and allow me to enter your circle of friends post haste.”
Smoking pot every day didn’t help matters. Well, it did and it didn’t. Some of my anxieties were relieved just by knowing I had it at my disposal. I could stop at a coffeeshop or return home to smoke to alleviate stress. The daily smoking was putting my thought in a haze that lessened my enjoyment of life in Amsterdam. I didn’t need to smoke every evening but I did so because I knew I wouldn’t be able to back in the States. I didn’t have a connection in Wisconsin to provide me with the helpful medicinal use of cannabis and since it was illegal I couldn’t go to a local establishment to purchase a few grams whenever I needed (this was before a few of the Western states exhibited some maturity and decriminalized marijuana). I didn’t realize it at the time even though I’d been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, but I needed anti-anxiety meds and there are none better in terms of addictive properties and negative side effects than cannabis.
One way around the problem of being in a stony haze was eating “space cakes.” I preferred the lemon bars with ganja in them. They provided wonderful body relaxation without the dulled thinking and feeling that comes from being overly stoned. My tolerance was growing, too, so the hazy stoned feelings weren’t likely to continue to hamper me. When I limited my smoking to the evenings I had better days. Winding down while listening to music, enjoying a glass of wine, a puff from the pipe, and viewing the canal from my living room window satisfied all of my senses.
The fourth day after shrooming, a Friday, I felt compelled to have another go. I finished my second index and I wanted to clean out more cobwebs, find out what else was holding me back. I returned to Conscious Dreams and purchased another dose of McKennaii and a dose of a variety from Ecuador. I could take both doses at once, stagger them, or keep one in the fridge for another night. I was at the three-week mark and while I had only a couple weeks left in Amsterdam I was quite sure I would want to dose again.
I returned home and made the necessary preparations. The cleaning woman had visited and tidied up. The linens were fresh and the apartment smelled like citrus. I opened a window to air out the apartment. The weather was unseasonably warm. I rummaged through dresser drawers looking for my sweats and came across the moe tickets. I had forgotten I purchased them. I looked at the dates and breathed a sigh of relief. The shows were a week away.
I prepared pasta and ate the McKennaii with my meal. I poured a glass of chardonnay from a bottle I had bought at Albert Heijn. The warmer weather begged for a white. A fresh bud of White Widow sat in the bowl ready to be smoked; I often laughed at the names growers gave different strains of cannabis. A selection of CDs sat next to the stereo, but I tuned the satellite radio to a mellow jazz station for pre-tripping relaxation.
I looked at my MacBook. The shrooms hadn’t kicked in yet, but I decided to scope Amsterdam sights in case I felt bold enough to venture out. This seemed highly unlikely, but I wanted to check out the clubs and music venues to see what was happening. As much as anything, I was passing the time. When I started feeling the buzz I stopped surfing, but left the browser open. The website I had been viewing was for a hotel piano bar.
I walked leisurely to the stereo and played a Phish CD. I didn’t have the witty or strange “mind” high at first so I chilled out in a chair listening while drinking another glass of wine. I closed my eyes. No visuals, but the music resonated more clearly. My body vibrated from the sounds.
I couldn’t stand the music after, what, maybe ten minutes? Time was distancing itself from my awareness. I was tripping harder and my body was screaming, “Get me into that fucking shower!” I did as commanded. The water felt great, but the shower did not result in orgasmic ecstasy. Anticipation and expectation likely diminished the quality of the experience; planning lessened the power of the shower. Plus, the sensations experienced were not as potent as they had been four days earlier.
However, I was still tripping when I left the shower. I was in and out in a fraction of the time I had spent during my first shrooming experience. The trip was somehow too light, though. I was bored which is a very odd experience while booming. I saw the MacBook and took a look at the website. I didn’t feel like going to a piano bar; I didn’t feel like music at all. What intrigued me, though, was staying at a hotel. A vacation from my vacation! Yes!
I jumped and twirled in the air. “Ah, movement. I forgot.” I simulated a speed skater while surfing through websites. I came across a review of the Grand Hotel and discovered it was considered one of the top ten hotels in all of Europe. In my trippy state I said aloud, “I deserve to be pampered. I deserve to stay at the finest hotel in the city.”
The prices? A stay of one night exceeded six hundred U.S. dollars. “Meh. It’s only money.” I had been spending money at a decent clip, but I was far from depleting my savings. I had income coming from the indexes I had completed, had one scheduled for December, and more would be on the way. They always were. I was also receiving $2000.00 per month from a divorce settlement. While my income had been at the middle class level my ex was an attorney making well over six figures. During the divorce we both fired our lawyers and worked out a settlement on our own. She agreed to give me some dough every month for two years and then that would be that.
I was trying to remain grounded by analyzing my financial situation. Even so, making financial decisions while shrooming can be dangerous. I looked at the clock and saw it was only seven. I had another dose of shrooms with me and plenty of ganja. One night at the Grand didn’t seem adequate. Most of the day was already gone and I wanted to wake up in luxury—greater luxury than the apartment—knowing I wouldn’t have to leave. From some place deep within me arose an aristocrat. My chest puffed out and I marched around the kitchen. “Yes, yes. An aristocrat indeed. Cut off his head and give me another wedge of your finest cheese.” I went back to the computer and booked a room online. I went to my bedroom, grabbed my wallet, and pulled out a credit card, the one with the $25,000 line of credit. I went back to the computer, entered the specs, and placed my order. Voila. Two nights at the Grand Hotel Amsterdam.
I could see rain falling outside the living room window. I walked over and closed the window I had opened earlier. There was no fucking way I was going to walk in the rain with a backpack to The Grand. That was not the aristocratic thing to do. I had brought only one dressy pair of clothing and changed into it. It wasn’t worthy of the Grand, but it was the best I had with me. I packed clothes, ganja and pipe, the Ecuadorian shrooms, and a few other items. I went back to the computer and looked up Amsterdam cab companies. I thought briefly of renting a limo, but came to my senses. I ordered a cab online. I shut down the MacBook and packed it.
I had been surprisingly functional given that I was tripping. Time remained a mystery so I was surprised to receive a call from the cab waiting out front. I had forgotten that I’d ordered one … and that I’d booked a hotel room! I had lost myself trying to figure out how the couch cushion could be both firm and smushy. I must have squeezed the cushion a hundred times trying to develop a theory before the cabbie called. I walked down the stairs and outside. I locked the door; I remembered that was an important thing to do.
I approached the cab tentatively and lifted the door handle. The sound of the door opening was loud! I hopped inside quickly and slammed the door shut. My ears were ringing from the noises. The cabbie turned around to look at me. He just stared at me. I thought, “Well, this is awkward.” He finally spoke, “Ah, where do you want to go?” Oh. Oh, yeah! I forgot again. I started laughing as I realized I’d forgotten why I had gotten into the cab. My mind said to the guy, “Seriously, you’re asking me where I want to go? And you’ll take me wherever I say I want to go? Holy fuck! This is awesome!” I just kept laughing even while looking into the guy’s eyes. I’m pretty sure he thought I was a madman. He wasn’t wrong. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and calmed myself. I opened them and an entirely new persona emerged, very business-like. “The Grand Hotel, please. Take the scenic route. I have an important meeting tomorrow and I want to bask in the city’s glow before I eat the mint on my pillow. Be a fine fellow now.” I almost said, “Chop, chop,” but some part of me knew it was rude. I quietly pronounced “rude” over and over during the drive to the hotel. I was fascinated by the feel of the particular throat muscles that flexed as I said the word. I have no idea what was going through the cabbie’s mind.
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