Drug Money
Desperately seeking a hit of culture.
“Mom, Dad, can I borrow some money for drugs?” I asked on a phone call from Switzerland to Missouri. Actually, it didn’t come out like that. But that’s what I meant. When you ask your parents if you can go to Amsterdam, you’re basically asking for drug money.
My parents, whose nerves were already frayed from worrying what their twenty-year-old daughter really “studied” 5,000 miles away from home, were speechless. I knew better. I had asked if I could go to Holland as opposed to Amsterdam, thinking that visions of tulips, windmills, and wooden clogs swirling in my parents’ minds would still secure my slot as favorite daughter.
They raised me as a trustworthy, Midwestern Catholic girl, so I meant no harm. (Oddly enough, the first time I met marijuana was on a school prayer retreat.) At the time, my worldly curiosity burned stronger than my Catholic guilt of committing venial sins.
Funny thing was, I could smoke pot in Switzerland; it was decriminalized, but that wasn’t good enough. I needed bragging rights. I was a gullible American who bought into the idea that one had to venture to some top-ten-list destination for the “Best Places to Get High.” If someone bragged about smoking pot in Switzerland to other home-bodied Americans, who have not heard of the place via mass media, the adventure doesn’t hold up. It would have been a lot cheaper, and possibly more scenic, to get high in a lush Swiss park surrounded by the Alps. My dad always told me, “Go big or go home.” Although that was the last thing he would say in reference to Amsterdam debauchery.
“Why do you want to go to Holland?” asked my Dad.
As I stood in my Swiss studio apartment staring out at the mountaintops, I could picture Mom and Dad side-by-side in their rocking chairs, looking out onto the peaceful, picket-fence backyard dotted with Gingko trees. If I couldn’t spin-doctor this one, they were in for small-town shock.
“Well,” I said as my voice cracked, “we met some people in Italy who are from there and we want to visit them.”
Silence.
“Annnnnnd,” I stretched, trying to break the awkwardness, “there’s so much art and culture there, like Van Gogh. It’d be really cool.”
Still nothing from the other end, so I threw in the phrase that any college student did when hopes for independence grew slim.
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance. While I’m over here, I should take advantage of it, right?”
“You’re not going to go to Amsterdam are you?” asked my Dad in a tone that verged on using my full name.
“Well, maybe. I mean, just for a day trip or something. Sooo … can I go?”
My Mom finally caved. “We’ll put some money in your account. But don’t do anything stupid.” Mom was, and still is, always right.
I hung up the phone, looked at my roommate, Jan, who sat on the bottom bunk in our bedroom, which was also our living room and dining room.
“I can go!”
“Shut up!”
“I know!”
We hugged each other and raced five feet from our multi-purpose room into our kitchen, which housed our matching laptops. I booked the flight I found prior to my phone call.
Jan and I didn’t know much about Amsterdam. And for two naive Missourians, we had no business going there. Neither of us wanted to pay for art museums, let alone hard-core drugs, or fornication. We were, however, willing to pay for recreational activities that Americans can’t legally do.
With little research, our city map, and the address to one coffee shop, we headed out from the main train station, which dropped us off in front of the area’s main canal. Tour boats passed each other. Families crossed over bridges holding hands. Triangular-shaped buildings, all the same height, lined the canal.
We set out on foot and learned the importance of dodging bikes on the streets and sidewalks. Bicycles arched their ways across the cobblestone bridges and hugged the base of every tree and street pole.
There was something about this city that made me think it kept a big secret. A good secret. A secret it would share as soon as you showed a genuine interest. This secret we found in the ubiquitous cafes. Everyone inside appeared calm and peaceful. A few patrons sat at tables and read newspapers while slowly exhaling ghostly streams. Alternately lifting cigarettes, espresso cups, and newspapers. We wanted to be among this group, so in we went.
“How do you ask for weed?” Jan whispered to me as we walked in trying to look like we’ve done this before.
“I don’t know. I never bought it.”
“Maybe you just ask?”
We sat down, placed our jackets on the chair backs, and glanced around trying to fit in.
One young woman worked the counter.
“Vhut can I get you tourists something?” she said.
“Ah …” I glanced at Jan’s open-mouth smile. She was the happy-go-lucky blonde who always got what she wanted. Not because she was seductive, because she was flirty.
“Umm, we want some weed.” Spoken like a true suburbanite who was trying to score pot in a chain-restaurant parking lot.
“Virst timer?” the waitress guessed.
“Yes,” Jan said with a friendly you-figured-us-out laugh. I laughed, too.
“Zen I split yous hassish bar.”
She pulled out a candy bar in a brown wrapper that said, “Stoners.” It resembled the font and colors of Snickers.
“Very strong. Eat little. Vait, zen more; not thing whole.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Sten Euro.”
Sold. Jan and I giggled when the waitress turned to get change.
“Are we really going to do this?” said Jan.
“No turning back now,” I said as I tore open the Stoners.
It looked like a Snickers, too. I broke one-quarter off and slime green ooze gelled onto the wrapper. It stuck to my finger and I licked it off.
Down went piece number one. It tasted the same way pot smells, like a skunk that got thrown through a pine tree. Maybe it would slowly ease into our systems, like the first drag of nicotine jogging through the nervous system, but nothing. We were antsy to feel mellow.
“Let’s go exploring,” Jan said.
We strolled down a lively, narrow street. No room for cars, just people, bikes, cafes, and chintzy-gift shops. Jan and I ducked into a few shops to look for miniature clogs. Still no high, so we ate more Stoners.
Our next move brought us to a thrift shop. When I spotted an entire wall rack filled with Lacoste polos, I freaked out. All colors perfectly arranged like the rainbow. My jaw dropped, and I started laughing. Then I hugged the shirts.
“Oh my God, I’m in heaven!” I exclaimed. At the same time I thought, I’m high as hell! I tried on one of every color.
The sales lady piled up stacks outside the dressing room. I threw them on two at a time, popping up the bottom collar over the top one for a layered effect. For an hour, I modeled in the mirror.
I got higher and higher. Gaining control of myself for moments at a time, it occurred to me how high I actually was before my mind floated back to space. I couldn’t stop grinning, a sign real stoners call “perma-grin.” I thought I would never be normal again; this would never wear off. My brain tingled. I opened my mouth and stretched it into big circles. In that dressing room, I morphed into a kid who discovered her shadow for the first time.
“Jan,” I said. “I feel liked I’m getting hugged, not physically—but psychologically. Let’s get something to eat!”
“Ooo, falafels!” Jan shouted for all to hear.
When most young Americans venture out into the world for the first time, an incredible thing happens—they discover Middle Eastern cuisine. Doner kebabs. Hummus. Falafels. And hookahs. All foreign objects to me in Missouri.
“What time is it?” I asked.
Jan laughed at her watch, “Seventy eleven o’clock. So like two P.M. or something?”
Our Amsterdam adventure totaled two hours. It seemed like ten.
Tack on the extra hour it took us to order and eat the damn falafel because Jan and I couldn’t control the giggles. We spent only a half hour eating it, during which we proclaimed, at the same sitting, our love and disgust for the meal. A few bites in, Jan tossed the cucumber-sauce-soaked wax paper into the trash and we went back to the main road.
The second the cafe door shut, my mood swung from perma-grin to paranoia. Terrible thoughts raced into my head as the sun set.
“Where are we?”
“Why is that man staring at us? Has he been following us?”
“What if someone breaks into our room and steals our stuff?”
Wait a minute. What room? As we carried our oversized backpacks with us, it dawned on me that we hadn’t booked a hostel.
I grabbed Jan and flung us into the nearest hotel. Cost wasn’t an issue. Mom and Dad could worry about that bill. I remained too paranoid about people stealing my polo shirts. Once we booked lodging, Jan left me inside to get more munchies. She discovered chocolate Hit cookies. I discovered Euro MTV.
We ate every cookie and passed out. We woke up in the exact clothes from the previous day with MTV still blaring. I rolled over onto cookie crumbs and crumpled receipts to check the clock. My hair smelled like an ashtray. My ponytail wrestled its way to the right side of my head. My mascara smeared to my cheekbones.
I had a hangover like no other—one nauseated by guilt. The whole “oops-I-ate-a-hash-bar-and-got-stoned-off-my-ass-for-hours story” was not the respectable proof of money well spent that I needed.
Jan rolled over, “What time is it?
“It’s time to get up. We’re going to an art museum,” I said.
Katie Eigel is a digital marketing professional—whatever that means. Originally from Missouri, she has lived in Chicago, Switzerland, San Francisco, Arizona, and currently New York city. When not city hopping, she enjoys splurging on wine and traveling on the cheap. You can follow her adventures on Twitter @eieigel.