People asked why I was going to Amsterdam, and I’d jokingly tell them that it was for the hookers and weed. But the real reason? Art. At age 30 I was a well-seasoned world traveler, and Amsterdam had been on my bucket list for long enough. It was time to pay a visit to the city that held the largest collection of Van Gogh paintings in the world. If I was being honest with myself, though, that wasn’t the only thing that lured me to Amsterdam. I knew I’d finally get to try marijuana while I was there, but was also aware that Americans have a bad reputation for overindulging in the cannabis capital. I didn’t want to be a
poor example of my country, so I began preparing myself. I googled “smoking pot for beginners” and asked all of my friends for their advice. (It was official, I had turned smoking weed into the lamest thing ever.) Why a liberal-minded writer would still be a pot neophyte at the age of 30? History. Most stories of pot begin behind a high school football stadium, or in the basement of a friend’s house that smells of mildew and soft drinks. This story begins
when my mother, a 16-year-old whose wardrobe consisted of cut-off shorts, bandanas and Led Zeppelin concert tees, went into labor with me in New Orleans, La. on Oct. 28, 1983. Once admitted to a birthing room at Charity Hospital she promptly went into the bathroom shower and smoked a joint. She knew it’d be her last one for a few days so she took her time, slowly enjoying each puff. The first time I heard this story I turned to her with wide, accusing eyes. “What?” she rebuffed, “I was stressed.”
SPRING 2014
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