When I left Eik en Linde I wandered west through the Plantage. I found a beautiful botanical garden. It appeared to require payment to enter so I just observed what I could from outside its walls. I crossed a busy intersection and made my way into the east edge of the city center. Now I was in what was considered by tourists and travelers to be the real Amsterdam. There were gabled houses, narrow crooked streets, beautiful shops, bustling pedestrian and bicycle traffic, and a buzz of amiable busyness.
I found an attractive coffeeshop, entered, and took a deep breath. The aroma was that of quality cannabis. The joint was spacious with a lounge area near the back. Up front, right next to the entrance was a glass-topped encasement featuring perhaps twenty varieties of cannabis as well as a few containers of hashish. I looked at the menu which consisted of names like New York Diesel, Lemon Skunk, Blueberry Delight, Razzberry, Northern Lights No. 5, White Rhino, and so on. I didn’t look too closely at the hash list because I just wanted buds. The list of cannabis strains offered helpful information in the form of THC percentage. I bought two grams of New York Diesel and one gram of Lemon Skunk.
I was informed the Diesel was a stony high, that it would drop my body into total relaxation, and that I might struggle to move depending on my tolerance. At this point, my tolerance was low because I hadn’t been smoking in the States for nearly a year and I’d had just those few puffs of scraggly weed from the shit store near the train station. The Lemon Skunk, though, provided more of an airy high, a bit cerebral and lighter, looser on the body, a “stay-awake-and-function-coherently” high. I had learned on previous visits to Amsterdam that at the better coffeeshops the staff were experts and could explain nuances about their products much the same way winemakers at wineries in, say, Napa Valley could tell you about the details and vagaries of various vintages. I found out later that night that the Lemon Skunk did indeed have a lemony aftertaste.
My first trip to Amsterdam in 1998 was when I was first blown away by the experience of purchasing “legal” cannabis. I thought of past experiences at upscale wine bars in Chicago. The “stoner” reputations of burned out druggies did not apply. There were certainly vagabonds and wanderers but they were often artists, intellectuals, or trust funders who enjoyed living the good life. The Cheech and Chong days had long since passed.
I left the coffeeshop feeling somewhat sheepish. I knew so little and they knew so much. They were kind and patient, though, so I had no reason to feel apprehensive. I realized I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. On all but one of my previous trips to Amsterdam I had been with my then-wife, S. This was my first big exploration on my own since being divorced and it came following a years-long depression. I’d had more social interactions in the previous two days than I’d had in the prior six months. On the surface that seemed hard to believe because I’d spent little more than a couple hours conversing with others about the lightest of subjects.
I walked toward my apartment. The streets were busy with walkers and cyclists dressed in all manner of clothing from multi-colored rags to Armani suits. I felt my anxiety rising. It hit me again that I was really fucked up. Once I was back in the Plantage the crowds thinned and I felt more at ease. When I had rented the place online I was worried because it wasn’t in the city center. I thought I might become bored and miss out on all of the excitement. Now I realized that I couldn’t have chosen a better location. It was less than a ten minute walk to the edge of the center if I wanted excitement and action. Meanwhile, the neighborhood was relaxed while still feeling alive. It was certainly attractive even if not as romantic as the major canals, Vondel Park, the Jordaan, or the Oude Zijde.
I arrived at the apartment early afternoon. I made a good old fashioned PB&J, added some chips, and grabbed a diet soda. I turned on my computer, checked my email, and then decided I may as well start working on one of the indexes. I spent the afternoon working that way, went out for a short walk, then came back and ate supper before smoking a bud of Lemon Skunk. I forgot to purchase a glass pipe so I emptied the remnants of the schwag I’d purchased the previous day. It felt weird flushing pot down the toilet but I could buy more any time day or night. I felt no compulsion to smoke shitty weed under such circumstances.
After two puffs I was high. The person who helped me at the coffeeshop was right on the money: There was a lemony aftertaste. Better yet, the high was light and airy. My body felt relaxed and I noticed the remnants of my earlier anxiety disappear. There had been studies suggesting cannabis helps alleviate anxiety as well as depression and that had usually been my experience—except with the heavy, stony varieties. Those sometimes caused mild panic, but that may have been from the embalming fluids, herbicides, and other crap mixed with the weed I’d smoked in the U.S. In Holland, the cannabis was clean. That’s what happens when plants are legalized; there’s no need to beef up weak weed with toxic chemicals. The purity of the Skunk was noticeable. My lungs said, “Thank you,” and I laid down on the couch, grabbed the stereo remote, found a jazz station, and zoned out.
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