Dose 8: The Room

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            Have you ever had one of those days where you do all your drugs just right? If you’re a musical festival enthusiast, you may know what I mean: not getting too high too quickly in order to avoid coming down when you want to peaking, or balancing all your uppers and downers with such finesse so that you’re riding the wave all damn day. Well, the day I went to the Van Gogh Museum was one of those miracle days.

            To accurately explain the profound lesson I learned from the genius that is Van Gogh (and if you recall, I’m always searching for lessons in my drugventures), I have to backtrack to my very first shroom trip. One thing that surprised me about shrooming, was how much control I had over my own body and actions. Hearing about hallucinations before I’d ever experienced them, I expected to be lost in another realm where I could barely move or speak or interact. But the opposite was true, I was more in control of what I was doing than when I was drunk and even incrementally more in control than when I was certain levels of high (you know, like when you get catatonically stoned either on purpose or on accident from an unassuming edible). Considering my first trip took place on the roof of my dad’s garage which is set up to be a scenic viewpoint and can only be accessed by a winding, metal staircase, the self-control was a very happy and necessary realization, especially when I had to pee.

            I was deep in Wonderland, watching the skeletons slink across the sky when I knew I’d have to make my way down the stairs and into the guest house (where I stayed whenever I came home. I’m spoiled, I know) to use the restroom. The whole feat turned out to be a sensational experience, where each step gave me a feeling of assertion and power – I can be both in my body on this earth and in my mind in another reality – and before long I was locking the bathroom door. Sitting on the toilet, I looked at the wooden cabinet beneath the vanity in front of me, which was so close my knees nearly touched. The wood was a deep chestnut color, with grains that rounded and dipped, making vague diamond shapes. The woodgrains were set in a surreal motion, advancing ever so slightly, like cars on a freeway when you’re looking down at them from a plane. And that’s when I saw it; that’s when I understood. Particles. Everything is made of teeny tiny particles that are, quite literally, always in motion. What I remembered from high school science was a blur, but I knew enough to remember the cell, the atom, and – inside the atom – the protons and neutrons and the overarching fact that all things – ALL THINGS – are made of up these minuscule parts.

            Still peeing, I pressed the tips of my fingers against the wood, softly, patiently, my hand perpendicular to the cabinet door. I thought: if I could sit like this for long enough, eventually my hand would go through the wood. And I was right. Of course, no human will live long enough for that to ever happen, nor would they have enough patience or stamina to hold their hand stagnant against a piece of wood. But the general premise is, I would argue, indeed true. If all things are made up of particles in motion, I could – in time – move the particles of my being through that of any other thing.

            I’m honestly not sure how long I sat there pressing my fingers into the cabinet door and feeling as though I was seeing The Matrix at last. Knowing myself, I would guess that I gave it a pretty decent shot – like, 2-5 solid minutes. But the whole time my mind was turning, thinking about the minute details that make up our world. Thinking about the fact that when we break it down to the very smallest of things, everything on this earth is composed the same. It made me feel connected to everything around me. I thought about the cells of my body passing in and out of the air, in and out of the porcelain that touched my skin, in and out of the tile floor against my feet.

            There is a scene in Alice and Wonderland, where Alice is stuck in a room with a box of cakes that say Eat Me and a vile that reads Drink Me. The liquid makes her smaller, and the food makes her grow. She has to go back and forth until she can make herself the right size to be able to escape that room. I often say that taking shrooms is like taking Alice’s “small pill” (or the shrinking drink) because you suddenly realize that you are part of something so much more substantial and important than your own existence, than human existence even (mostly because nature is so bountiful and beautiful, and for the first time you truly see it as something that’s alive). You realize your life is just a fraction of this bigger picture: this world, this planet, and all the things that live and thrive in beautiful harmony while we humans waste time worrying about trivialities and battling everything that isn’t us. And yet, life – the human experience – is like figuring out how to escape that room (if you’re doing it right, in my opinion): you have to get small enough that you don’t miss the bigger picture, but then you have to be big enough and self-absorbed enough and preoccupied enough to believe that the purpose you have deemed to be yours is worth waking up and working for and living for every day. If you only shrink yourself down, the burdens of the rest of the world will consume you; if you only make yourself bigger, your own arrogance will trap you in monotony; you will be stuck in that room forever.

            I know I’ve strayed a bit far from Amsterdam and Van Gogh, but if you’ll indulge the metaphor a moment more. . .  I do recognize that there are people who never know the room exists, who move through life following steps because they believe in a chronology of achievements and don’t question or analyze. Seems blissful. There are also people who have visited the room and escaped without any hallucinogens or other drugs. Kudos to them. I don’t judge them - other than giving each credit in their own way, and I can’t fully speak to their experience of life because I am neither of these people. I am Alice.

            There’s one more thing you need to know before we go into the museum together. My dad traveled to Amsterdam a lot when I was a child. He was starting his business around a medical device that he’d invented, and work brought him there – though, to be honest, I don’t know why or what it was that he was doing. But he brought me back wooden clogs and told me stories, and I grew up with some simmering infatuation for the city, though an image of what it’d be like never really solidified in my head.

            When the planning for my trip began, he told me about his own visit to the Van Gogh Museum. We didn’t dig into the art or artist or his genius, as my dad wanted me to formulate my own opinions and takeaways. Instead, he told me that he smoked a joint with magic mushrooms rolled into it (for the record, I haven’t come across any of these) and stood in front of a single painting for so long that a security guard had to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to move on. Now, I didn’t know what kept him hooked there, but I knew I wanted that type of moment. If there was transcendence to be experienced, I was fucking in. And when I told Shari the story, so was she.

            Our tickets to Van Gogh were for 2pm because our original plan was to go deep into a shroom trip in Vondelpark and then hit the museum hours later when we were on the lighter end. But, it had rained all morning (while I ran to Amsterdam Central for a quick doctor’s visit) meaning the grass that we planned to lay on would be soaked through. So we made a quick alteration and decided to do something just north of a microdose, paired with alcohol (have I mentioned that alcohol removes – or minimizes, depending on how much you drink – the hallucination factor from your trip? You’re still high you just essentially get the giggles). Day purses loaded with our goodies, we made our way towards Museumplein, hoping to find just the right location to grab a cocktail and some lunch.

            Boom. Magic. We literally stumbled upon Burger Room, a Wizard of Oz themed restaurant directly across from the museum with a selection of hamburgers, cocktails, and freak shakes (which is what Amsterdam has named milkshakes that have a variety of candy or pastries added to them). I ordered a Moscow Mule (I was beginning to revert to drinking vodka because of the serious tequila shortage) and the sliders, or, as they called them: Munchkin Hamburgers. Now, you may recall that they do hamburgers right in Amsterdam, well these were out of this freaking world. Like, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore (and the play here is very intentional, I am talking beef better than the American Midwest). Each was a different flavor, but my favorite – which has now been dubbed the best burger of my young-ish life – had a Wagu patty, seared fois gras, and truffle aioli. Holy cowgasm! How were they gonna put my three favorite foods into one Munchkin Burger and expect me not to float off to food-coma-Oz? Despite the flavor tornado, I somehow managed to anchor myself to the booth long enough to add my dose of mushrooms to the blue cheese slider and chug my vodka ginger beer.

            Needless to the say, the décor felt like a whole sign – figuratively and literally because the brick stairs down to the restroom were shimmering with yellow glitter paint and the words on the archway above read Follow the Yellow Brick Road. I, myself, may be Alice, but Dorothy and her adventures are another superb metaphor for shrooming and a hallucination’s ability to help you discover deeper parts of yourself: bravery, heart, knowledge. (And if you think for one single second that these writers weren’t doing drugs and creating allegories for their experiences, then you seriously need to reevaluate the way you look at life. Or at least look at Disney).

            At the end of our meal, Shari and I decided to eat a bite of Space Cake as well; just a little to escalate our shroom trip (yes, smoking weed on shrooms will lift the high). And with three drugs in our system – we are counting alcohol as one – we headed towards the museum. The only minor problem was the walk wasn’t long enough for everything to kick in. Standing in front of the museum doors, we decided to spark a joint so that we didn’t enter sober.

            It was a perfect storm. Wonderland and Oz and Vincent. As we followed the throngs through the various floors, I walked up to paintings, leaning in as close as I possibly could over the guard ropes, then standing back behind the gathering crowds. I may not have lingered for over an hour at any single piece, but I was indeed having an existential experience.

            Van Gogh had a truly interesting life plagued with mental illness. He was an art dealer until the age of 28 when he first began painting. He lived in Paris for a time where he became friends with other esteemed artists such as Emile Bernard and Paul Gauguin and his paintings became brighter and more full of life. But he had psychotic and delusional episodes, even checking himself into psychiatric hospitals. And then there was that whole incident with his ear, which actually started with him chasing Gauguin around the home they shared with a razor before taking it to his own extremity. But through it all he produced. You’ll have to check me on this (I was on drugs, after all) but I remember reading that there was a time where he was producing up to 76 paintings in a single day. In total, he created over 2,000 pieces of artwork, and all without recognition. He painted because he was compelled to. It was bursting from him – his vision, the way he saw the world. When I read about his quantity of work, I remembered something a writing teacher had once asked me, What is it that you need to write? Not want to or think you should, but need to. I think Van Gogh painted because he needed to, plain and simple.

            Our first segment was the series of portraits he did of himself. They were terrifying. Like, truly scary. I thought, at first, the shrooms were in full effect when five sets of eyes followed me as I shuffled back and forth across the room. And yet, there was something beyond my hallucination. I halted my pacing in front of a single portrait. He looked insane, indeed. My reaction, my fear, it came from within. It was visceral. But still, I pushed past it, past the waves of tattered red hair, past the fair and rosy cheeks, past the furrowed brows. Inches away from a portrait I could see the brush strokes in his eyes, the way he created a specific sheen, showing how light hits the water of a cornea. It was ridiculously detailed and each of the different portraits, as I moved from eye to eye, evoked a very intentional emotion – his own deep depression, heart ache, loneliness, detachment. Emotions so closely knit and yet still distinct, and somehow he had managed to show that the sentiments were different.

            To be able to paint human feeling so exactly, it meant that in real, everyday life Van Gogh knew how the glisten of a wet iris was different when someone was heartbroken from when they were hopeless. [Do me a favor and read that last sentence one more time]. Can you even imagine what your experience of life would be like if you could recognize all those feelings in other people? If you could recognize each emotion wordlessly, it seemed perhaps inevitable that you could feel them too. How much weight did Van Gogh carry, holding the sorrows of everyone he ever saw?

            Later I saw his empathy in the paintings of fields and workers, where the faces themselves were only inches tall, and yet somehow he filled them with expression. Despite his marked brush strokes, despite the size or the age or the class of his subjects, I’d never in my life seen an artist paint a human being that looked this real.

            Van Gogh is known for his brush strokes. Line after line moving in one direction or the other. Maybe to some it’s off putting to not smooth out the texture of skin or an even surface of water. Maybe to some it’s lazy or absurd. Maybe they only see his insanity. But I can’t speak for those people.

            About halfway through his scenic work I was walking backwards, trying to get far enough from the piece I was facing that all the lines blurred. Satisfied with my visual ingestion, I did a 180 to see the painting that I could feel was close behind me. And as soon as I did, I jumped backwards. Awestruck. It was a boat tethered to shore, further in the distance were two men docking another boat. I imagined it was Holland. But that didn’t matter; it didn’t matter what was in the painting – water or man or wood or shoreline. Van Gogh was painting the particles. The particles of each thing in constant motion.

            In an instant, I understood the brush strokes differently, just as I had understood those grains of wood on my bathroom vanity differently. There are so many pieces that make up a whole, and Van Gogh used his short, whipped strokes to show these pieces. But that wasn’t all. Each thing – human, earth, machine – they were all made up of the same strokes, the same pieces. Rather than blurring the strokes within a body of water to show one fluid element, he gave everything fleeting dashes to show one whole. To show that rather than being separate, they are all connected.

            Van Gogh saw the union of things; something I could only see on shrooms. Maybe he’d eaten some fungus in a Nederlands forest once upon a time, who knows. Or maybe it was his psychosis that let him see.

            I think Van Gogh was trapped in that room. He’d taken the “small pill” and could never get big enough again. Instead, he was overwhelmed by the feelings of others, convinced that we were all connected, and fighting endlessly to paint what he saw so that others could see and understand. But they couldn’t. He was alone in his vision. And so instead he imagined only one way out of that room. On July 27th at the age of 37, Van Gogh shot himself in the abdomen, and was freed.

            After the museum, Shari and I sat in the atrium of an immaculate hotel and drank espresso martinis. I couldn’t talk about what I’d experienced. Not yet.

            I held permanent residence in an America where people were so divided, so at odds, and some so outrageously convinced that our external appearance made us internally different. There was so much lack of empathy. So much insensitivity and superiority, that I decided to flee.

            But what if we could all just get smaller, just for a while, just long enough to see outside of ourselves and become part of the bigger picture. What if that was enough for us to put our differences aside. What if going just a little bit crazy, was all we needed to finally be sane.

“I put my heart and soul into my work and I have lost my mind in the process.” – Vincent Van Gogh

Dose 7: But of Course

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            Okay, so . . . Tinder . . .

            As I mentioned, I don’t use Tinder in America even though I’m an avid online dater. Despite being the original swiping app, Tinder eventually got a reputation for being all about casual sex, and people like me, or those who wanted to at least pretend to date first, fled to Bumble and the other options that followed. The truth is, I have no idea if Dutch men think of Tinder as ‘the hook up app,’ and when Shari and I made our accounts, we honestly didn’t care.

            There’s a thing that happens to me with online dating – it happens in real life too in a certain way, but the digital platform sort of creates a microcosm to explore the phenomenon – I can swipe and match for days and weeks (shit, even years) without enthusiasm, and then suddenly I come across a profile, and I just know I’m going to be interested. At that point the rest of my matches fade away and I only want to interact with that one person. And so far, when I’ve met said person in real life, I’ve been right – the chemistry was there.

            I should also probably go on record of saying that I’ve never once been afraid of being catfished. I absolutely love Catfish the TV Show. I think what it says about the human psyche and our need to be loved is so deeply profound; sometimes it makes me sad to think that viewers are just enjoying the train wreck and not understanding the fuel that makes the engine go. I’m also fairly obsessed with Nev; he stands up to bullies, he fights for love, he shows compassion, he’s harsh when he needs to be, and he’s super self-aware. A few days after inhaling his memoir, I saw him in JFK airport and followed up the siting with some gushing tweets that mentioned him – embarrassing? Maybe. But a fan girl’s gotta fan. So, even though I know full well that there are people out there scamming lonely, hopeless romantics on the internet, I’ve never thought I’d fall victim. Maybe subconsciously it’s because of this bravery that I generally refuse to FaceTime before meeting for drinks. I understand that men want to make sure you aren’t posting photos doused in filters before dishing out $200 for dinner, but what they don’t realize, is that a face of makeup – even if you are naturally beautiful – is an entire fucking effort, and I’m not doing that shit just to sit and stare at a stranger on my phone screen. And, any guy who says they want to FaceTime to “see if the vibe is there” can honestly just suck it; I do not bring my best self to a pixilated virtual date where I am essentially watching my own reflection. If you want to know what my vibe is like, get some damn mezcal in me and see what happens. And so far, so good. While I have met guys who have a different energy than what I expected from their photos – ie. looked like a football player in pictures but came off as a pre-Med nerd (not a bad trade off just a chasm between expectations and reality) – I have yet to be catfished and have adopted the notion that that shit is not going to happen to me. The whole I-can’t-keep-a-digital-conversation-with-a-stranger-going-for-more-than-9-days thing probably helps out, too. It’s hard to scam a person who won’t talk you to if you don’t buy her dinner.

            My first four days of swiping in Amsterdam were mildly successful. I’d matched with some cute guys who I was willing to write back to, and I was loving the fact that I didn’t have to open the conversations like I do on Bumble. One was a basketball player who would have been my American type – tall, bald with a beard, cute but not the guy that stops every girl in her tracks. He, however, did the ultimate online dating faux pas: he sent me a video of himself at a bad angle that was just not attractive (if someone matches you based on your photos, don’t send them any more unsolicited; they liked what they saw, and you might just blow it). So, I did the logical thing: found his Instagram and stalked his tags pics looking for hot teammates. I did the same thing with a soccer player. He sent me a confusing message late at night that made no sense, so I searched his Following for fine footballers. I had a number of conversations going both on Tinder and in my DMs, but I hadn’t yet been hit with that drop-everything feeling. Until I saw “Ken.”

            Ken had only two photos on his profile and neither of them showed his face. One was a selfie where he was looking down and wearing a hat and glasses. I could only see his lips and jawline. The other was a far away shot of him leaning against the railing of a water way. He was wearing a black baseball cap, his face turned to one side, his legs lean, shoulders rounded, a tattoo covering one forearm. My heart fluttered. I showed the profile to Shari.

            “I can’t even see what he looks like,” she said.

            She wasn’t wrong, but it was too late: I had the feeling.

            We sent a couple messages back and forth, and then I asked for a photo of his face.

            Do you want me to send it on Snapchat or WhatsApp? He wrote back.

            Not yet realizing that you can’t actually send photos on Tinder, I was annoyed. For starters, it was becoming evident that Europeans use Snapchat instead of Instagram, and I hadn’t even logged into the app since I’d purchased a new phone several months back. And second, I’d already gotten off to one bad start on WhatsApp, giving my number to a 5’7” man who messaged me endlessly without reply before sending me photos of his dick – as though that was going to be the thing that got a response. Pause for eyeroll. I closed the app and put Ken aside.

            That was the Sunday Shari nearly got decapitated by a canal bridge, so, needless to say, I was fairly distracted, and all things Tinder were forgotten. . . temporarily.

            But like I said, I had the feeling. After swiping to no avail on Monday morning, I gave Ken my WhatsApp and waited.

            Hey Clea. He wrote not long after, followed by a photo of his face.

            FUCKING SWOON.

            When I tell you I have yet to be wrong when I get the feeling (insert emoji of the blonde girl with her hand out to the side seeming sassy). . . He was looking straight at the camera, perfectly shaped hairline, slightly big forehead (I’m into that), a dimple between his eyebrows, juicy beautiful lips, a well-groomed circular patch of hair on his chin, and gorgeous brown skin.

            You shouldn’t be trying to hide this face. You’re very handsome. I wrote back.

            He proceeded to tell me he was 6’4”; he said it in inches and everything; I didn’t have to convert any centimeters. 

            One picture enough? He wrote.

            That’ll do it. I said.

            That. Will. Do. It. Now, of course there’s a part of me that regrets not asking him for 20 photos so I could store them in my spank bank for when I go back to America and hate that fact that I don’t see jaw-droppers in the street. But I’d seen what I needed to see.

            That night, I went on my very first Amsterdam Tinder date, but it wasn’t with Ken. Actually, it wasn’t my date at all. Shari had connected with a guy who was exactly her type – light-skinned middle eastern manly man meets LA pretty boy – and planned to link with him at one of our Cheers Bars. I was supposed to have someone come meet me too, but I was already furnishing my home in I-only-want-Ken-Land, and I basically canceled super last minute. Shari and I agreed that I’d come with her, have a drink while we waited for her date, and walk home solo if need be, considering we were about 30 yards from the apartment. Well, we were halfway to the bar when she realized she forgot her phone and had to turn back, so we’d barely settled in our seats and hadn’t even ordered a drink when he came bursting through the doorway looking like a whole billboard and smelling like a European model. I don’t think every guy Shari likes is cute – and I’m sure she’d say the same in reverse – but oh Amsterdam, even I went a little googly-eyed for this one (in a fuck-yes-you-go-girl sorta way). I then proceeded to sit through the best first date I’d been on in months, and it wasn’t even mine. This man did a perfect job of focusing his attention on Shari but including me in the conversation, telling us about Amsterdam and Dutch culture – we’d only landed that Friday, so we were still eager, and swooning over America and Americans in a way that made us both feel special and Shari like a whole ass prize (which she is, but we don’t get to feel this way even close to as often as we deserve).

            However, a mere 45 minutes and two glasses of wine later, the bar was shutting down. Shari and who-soon-became-known-as-Number-1 (because he was the first, not necessarily the best – and also because his name was not pronounce-able) chatted about other places that might be open while I sat there thinking she was insane. When he got up to pay for all of our drinks, I turned to her and did my best to whisper.

            “Girl, if you don’t just invite him back to our place right now . . .”

            “We don’t have any liquor at home,” she whispered back.

            “Yes, we do! We have a bottle of wine and those airplane bottles of gin.”

            “I should fuck him, right?”

            “You should everything him!” I don’t think I was whispering very well at this point.

            “Everything?”

            “Marry him, bring him home with you . . .” Shari was trying to shush me since Number 1 was making his way back to the table.

            Well, the three of us returned to our apartment, and before the wine bottle was even cracked, I was saying my goodnights, plugging my headphones in, and falling asleep with them fully immersed in my ears. The rest of that story is for Shari to tell. But my point in relaying this anecdote is: the bar was set high, Tinder was looking like a success, and it was on.

            Ken and I decided to meet the following night at Bulldogs. Shari came with Romeo (who she’d met on her first trip to Amsterdam), and we sat in the alcove smoking a Sativa joint I’d rolled. I’d gone a few rounds and was climbing the high when his message popped up.

            I just walked in. Ken wrote.

            I felt my heart do a 10-scoring Olympic dive into my stomach.

            “He’s here,” I said to Shari. I’m sure she could read the nervousness on my face.

            I stood up and walked to the bar. The room was small and narrow, and only a handful of people peppered the space. I looked towards the back wall: there were two, average height black guys leaning and talking amongst themselves and one old white man sitting at a high-top table with his back to me. Then, I looked towards the stairs that led out to the square; there was no one there. A gorgeous, 6’4” black man would be hard to miss in that crowd.

            I walked back into the alcove, feeling defeated and uneasy.

            I’m trying to look for you. Are you downstairs? I wrote.

            We texted back and forth a bit, making sure we were both at the same Bulldogs (considering it was a chain and there were several around town). I stepped back into the bar area, watched as the old white man turned around to look at me, and then returned to the alcove. I knew I would be hard to miss, too. I wore black leather pants that fit like a second skin, a sheer lavender fitted top with butterflies on it and a lavender bra to match, and heeled boots – that alone set me apart from the rest of the sneaker-wearers. Looking at my phone screen again, the paranoia began to hit. There was something about the way the old white man turned to look at me. Something suspicious. Was it happening? Was it actually happening to me? Ken was telling me he was at the bar, but to my knowledge, there was only one bar at Bulldogs, and I’d now made two trips there in an attempt to find him.

            “What if he’s a Catfish?” I said to Shari. Saying it aloud made it feel real, possible. I could feel the high ringing in my ears, feel my heart pumping.

            “No. . . no. Why don’t I come look with you?” she said. The calm in her voice helped me exhale a little bit, but still, nearly every nerve in my body was preparing for a true embarrassment, the first of its kind. (Also, I’m not a person who embarrasses easily, but this type of chasm between expectations and reality could be truly humbling).

            When we stepped back into the bar area, I watched the old white man turn around again.

            “Shari,” I began, “I think it’s that man. I think that’s who I’ve been texting, and he’s stealing someone’s pics.”

            “No . . .” she started, though she had no way of truly denying my fears. I saw her watch the grey-haired man peer over one shoulder and then fold himself over his table, looking down at something – presumably a phone, a phone that he was texting me with. And just as she was searching for her explanation, she looked the other direction and exclaimed, “Oh there he is!” I spun around towards the stairs, desperate to see what she was seeing. “Oh, he’s cute!” she almost yelled.

            Speechless and relieved, I watched him walk down each step. He wore black joggers with a cool layered t-shirt, white over black. He was real. And he was fucking beautiful.

            I don’t have a damn clue what he first said to me or what I said back, but Shari had disappeared around the corner, and I know I hugged him because I remember taking in his smell. We walked into the alcove together and he settled on a stool. I sat facing him, so close our knees nearly touched.

            “We’re going to go get a drink somewhere,” Shari said.

           I don’t think I even looked at her.

            “Do you want to get a drink, or do you wanna smoke first?” I asked Ken.

            “Smoke,” he said, the dimple between his eyebrows creasing.

            And just like that we were alone. The nervousness shifted to butterflies, and I began to slide into the Sativa. I sat up straight without a backrest, crossed my legs, ran my acrylic nails through my loose, blonde curls.

            “Ken” (who I will now be referring to as Best of the Best) began the conversation by telling me his real name, which was unique and sexy, spilling out of his mouth through his thick, endearing accent. Then, he listened while I repeated it, playing it back to me two separate times to make sure I got it right. I did the same, thankful that I had an opportunity to make sure he pronounced mine correctly – no one ever does. I could feel little butterfly wings flapping inside me as my name rolled off his tongue.

            The beginning of the conversation went something like this.

            “I grew up in Holland. . .”

            His jaw line is perfect.

            “But my parents are from Surinam. . .”

             His mouth, dear god.

            “Do you know where that is?”

            Answer, Clea. Words. Use words.

            “In South America, by Guyana.” I replied.

            He smiled, perfect white teeth wet underneath his smooth lips. He cocked his head to the side a bit, pleased, “Most people don’t know of it.”

            Okay, good job. He liked that.

            “And you are from America?” he pulled a pack of brown papers from his black, leather cross-body and began rolling up, starting with a layer of Tabaco followed by a very thin line of crumbled hash.

            His biceps are as big as my face.

            He held the paper to his mouth, licking the edge before folding it on itself.

            His tongue. Oh, his tongue. Shit, answer.

            “Yeah, I live in LA.”

            Are those diamonds in his ears. They’re huge.

            “Oh, Los Angeles,” he said, excited.

            You can come live with me.

            He asked me for a lighter. I scrambled, digging through my purse and dropping my cell phone on the floor in the process.

            When his spliff was lit, he inhaled deeply, his eyebrows pulling together. He blew the smoke out in a tight stream and then sucked it back in, his plump lips in a perfect circle. I could feel myself melting.

            “So,” he said. Absorbed in watching him, I hadn’t realized the conversation had waned. “Do you like what you see?”

            Is this a real question? Okay, maybe wipe up your drool before you answer.

            When the spliff was nothing but a roach, we decided to head out for a drink. I followed him onto the plaza. Walking next to him through the square, my heels clicking on the cobblestones, I could feel his height; I was barely as tall as his shoulder.

            We crossed Leidseplan and turned down a narrow, quiet alley. Most of the restaurant windows were dark, chairs turned upside down on top of tables, and the music and laughter of the night withering into the air behind us. Well, I thought, if I’m going to get Taken in Europe, this is exactly how it happens: following the most perfect man I’ve ever seen down a dark alley even though I’ve only known him for about 15 minutes. I almost laughed out loud. It was a real thought, an actual possibility. But I thought it in a “do-da-do. . . off we go down Abduction Alley” sort of way. And what was funny, was that there was no way I was turning back. I was committed, even if that meant I was going to be sold into sexual slavery.

            But, just as my visions of Liam Neesome-esque rescues were solidifying, Best of the Best opened a door and we walked into a charming restaurant with a rounded bar. Instantly, I loved the venue. It had a long, leather booth which faced a row of two-top tables. The wall opposite the door was covered in foliage, and a DJ played on a slightly elevated stage/dancefloor, his swirling lights pirouetting around the room.

            Best of the Best ordered some sweet, lemony drink from the menu, and I asked for tequila on the rocks (By the way, they really don’t drink tequila in Amsterdam, or a lot of Europe, for that matter. When I asked if they served reposado, the bartender had no idea what I was talking about. And finding mezcal – which is my go-to – was basically impossible). Then, drinks in hand, Best of the Best and I talked. Like, really talked.

            He told me about his family, that he had one full sister but lots of half siblings because his father was out and about. Just that month, he’d met his younger brother for the first time on accident when a 20-something year-old boy began prodding him with questions, their resemblance undeniable. He explained that his mother was born on a ship bound for New York, and therefore had an American birth certificate, though she’d lived her whole life in the Netherlands.

            We talked about our lives now. He’d played professional soccer for a number of years but was currently running his own business and owned a three-bedroom home outside the city. On the side, he coached kids who showed real promise with football, sharing his expertise. I could tell this was his passion.

            I gushed about Amsterdam and all the things we wanted to do. I told him I wanted to try Surinamese food, which I’d seen signs for all over our neighborhood.         

            “Shari and I have reservations for a few fancy restaurants, but I want also want to have that real authentic food that you only find in the cut. You know, the way the random taco trucks in LA have the best Mexican food.”

            “Okay, we will go,” he said, promising to take me to his favorite Surinamese joint.

            I told him we were planning to go dancing that Saturday at a hip hop club named Encore, we’d already bought tickets.

            “I will come,” he said, nodding.

            We went on and on about music. He was obsessed with American hip hop and had watched every Verzuz that aired during the pandemic. We debated our favorites and who should have won. I told him I love to dance, that I turn on music in my apartment and dance by myself while I clean.

            “I am getting a mental picture,” he said, a smile curling into his sharp cheekbones.

             When he got up to the use the restroom, I texted my group chat of girlfriends back home: Call the embassy. I need a K9 before leaving my phone face down on the booth next to me.

            “I like your fashion,” I said, when he returned.

            He looked down at his shirt, I watched his pectoral muscles flex.

            “Do you think we look good together?”

            “Oh, so famous,” I said. We both laughed and ordered another round.

            Everything you have ever heard about foreign accents being enchanting is absolutely fucking true. The way he didn’t use conjunctions, his emphasis which was sometimes wrong, his articulation. The more he said “we will [this]” and “we will [that]” I could feel myself turning into a puddle on the booth.

            Then, my phone vibrated beside me. One of my girls from the group chat was ringing. I sent it to the voicemail and opened our messages, apologizing for the distraction.

           - Are you okay?

           - Just high? Or actually in trouble?

           - What’s happening?

           - You need to answer us!!!!

           - Okay I’m calling you.

            Sooooooo . . . apparently not everyone knows that the K9 Visa is the Visa that allows you bring your international lover into the states for three months while you plan and execute a wedding. Helloooooooo, I was not dying, I was falling in freaking love.

            The 90 Day Fiancé Visa! I’m on a date. I wrote. I put my phone away. I couldn’t deal with the hysteria, I was deep in fake love.

            Round two went down quickly and soon we were on our third. As we chatted and laughed, he never broke eye contact. It was intense and intimidating. I tried to match it, peering into his soft brown eyes, but his steadfastness made me shiver and glance away. I hadn’t had a date like this in . . . I don’t even know when. Sure, maybe it was bound to be a vacation fling, but even still, we were really connecting. We were similar, we liked the same things, spent our time the same way. And we liked each other.

            About three hours later, when my final tequila rocks was gone, he let the conversation drop and stared at me, a subtle smirk spreading across his lips.

            “What?” I said when I couldn’t keep eye contact any longer. “What are you looking at?”

            “You,” he said. “You are cute.”

            “Wanna go to mine?” I asked.

            In the Uber, I grabbed his hand, lacing my fingers through his. It was delicate, pretty even, in a way that almost didn’t match his exuding masculinity.

            He told me he wanted to come out to meet me because he liked the way that I talked to him on text. The next day, I read back through our WhatsApp messages trying to understand. I called him handsome, flattered him; I was bold, forward. I had no way of knowing what Dutch girls were like, but my instinct told me that there was something to this what-Americans-would-call-thirst that inspired his eagerness.

            Romeo and Shari were already in the living room, a bottle of wine open and music playing on the portable speaker, when we arrived. Best of the Best settled on a chair at the kitchen table and began rolling another spliff. He beckoned me onto his lap, and I settled into his thighs. It felt like I fit there, a matching puzzle piece.

            I smoked with him this time, suffering through the Tabaco for the sake of the high. Elevated, I slid my hand along the bare arm he wrapped around me.

            “Do you shave your arms?” I asked.

            He laughed and said he didn’t.

            “How is your skin so smooth?”  I was mesmerized.

            And suddenly, we were kissing. My hands on his neck, his fingers digging into my waist. The chair lifted off the ground and started spinning, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until we were levitating in the night sky above the building, the stars following us in a twinkling spiral deeper and deeper into the endless darkness.

            Okay, obviously that didn’t actually happen. But I know you bitches know that feeling – when someone you really like kisses you for the first time and the rest of the world just ceases to exist. I forgot that Shari was only a few feet away, that she also had a guy there, that there was music playing and smoke streaming into the air, that it was almost like high school – kissing a boy in front of all your friends at some house party. Instead, I was lost in him, in the kiss, in the moment, in the every-woman’s-fantasy-come-true (you know: go on an exotic vacation, meet a beautiful stranger, have a grand romance).

            I grabbed his hand and walked him to my bedroom.

            Aaaaaaaand, cut . . .

            Did you actually want all the details?! Oh you did, you perv!

            Well, let’s just say that the liking-each-other continued.

            When we both finished, I grabbed a second pillow from the closet so he could relax and curled back under the covers.

            “Come lie on me,” he said, opening his arm so that I could fold myself against his body and rest my head on his chest. With the opposite hand, he began to rub my thigh, moving up the bare skin of my butt, caressing my hips. My breath began to quicken until I was moaning softly.

            “What are you doing?” I said, getting a hold of myself. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to get me going again.” I slid my hand down his stomach to feel him.

            “Are you . . .” I couldn’t disguise the surprise in my voice, “Are you ready to go again?”

            In his charming, vaguely-French-though-it’s-actually-Dutch, I’m-not-even-a-person-anymore-I’m-just-a-pool-of-lust accent he said, “But of course.”

            So, yeah, we spent another two hours or so tangled in the sheets of my platform, Airbnb bed. Or, as I’d think of it from hence forth – heaven.

            The next morning, I woke up early. Best of the Best had said his goodbyes and gone home. Shari and I had plans to walk to Bar Botanique for brunch, and I was half-hungover, half-dreading getting out of my comforter paradise. I buried my head in his empty pillow, swallowing the scent of him that lingered.

            It had been a really fun night. The boy, and the drinks, and the sex, sure. But most of all, the feeling. Ya know. . . when you’re over thirty and it feels like you’ve been dating for a hundred years (oh, by the way, I don’t think I mentioned that my Tinder profile said 29) sometimes you forget what it actually feels like to have a spark. You forget what butterflies are like. You forget how it can be hard to make eye contact because of all the unspoken infatuation that comes alive when he’s looking into you. You forget what it even feels like to like someone enough that you could be embarrassed, that they could hurt you, even. You go numb, sort of. You tell yourself that if you can get over that first-love-heartbreak, you can survive anything. And so you harden, and build walls, and make check-lists, and cross them off, and forget that relationships shouldn’t be about meeting a set of standards but instead be about craving another person beyond all rationality. I didn’t know if I was ever going to see Best of the Best again; I didn’t know if all the “we will”s would ever come to fruition. But it was so fun to feel the feeling so irrationally, even if it was only for one night. It was fun to remember that I was capable of the feeling. And to remind myself that if I could feel it then and there, I could find it again. It was fun to have hope.

            Oh, and, Shari and I spent the rest of the trip saying “But of course” every time we needed to answer a question in the affirmative.

Dose 6: Sativa and the Stratosphere

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            So here’s how I like to get high. I start by eating half of a 10mg edible. My first choice is generally Kahna Cannabis Infused Ruby Red Grapefruit Gummies. This particular flavor is a Sativa and comes in a pack of a ten, produced by a parent company called Sunderstorm. They’re fucking delicious: the specific texture of gummy that isn’t too resistant but fights back just enough with the slightest hint of bitter grapefruit flavor and dusted in sour sugar. (Good luck fighting the urge to eat the whole bag. But, actually, don’t do that; you may end up stuck). I try to take them on an empty stomach – like after the gym after work but before making dinner and before picking out a show to watch. Then, I start smoking. In my head, this activates the gummies. Whether that’s true or not, it doesn’t really matter because regardless I’m getting high. I like to smoke a glass bowl, it’s easy, effective, quick to pack, and doesn’t waste weed if I’m smoking alone (I also just purchased a white mini bong that says Amsterdam in black writing, and I can’t wait to try that shit out. I used to have an orange one that was six inches tall which I bought at a gas station in Tennessee and, phew, that thing really hit). But I do also like to keep prerolls on hand. Pure Beauty makes some of my favorites: I’ve purchased their hybrid which comes in a baby pink, cardboard cigarette case. I’m generally a Sativa-only smoker (more on this shortly), but I actually love the high I get from these. Not to mention, the packaging is just so damn cute. Any time I’d pull that box out of my black Alexander Wang bag, I felt like the most adorable pothead for miles. However, during the pandemic, I got really into Fuzzies. These are dipped in oil and then rolled in either kief or hash. I fuck with the hash ones with Maui Waui inside, but Shari tried the ones dipped kief without me (that bitch!) and said she was even more twisted than with hash, which is surprising and intense. When the edible hits – and, activated by the inhaling or not, there is a moment where I realize I’ve come on to it – I immediately eat the other half, upping my intake to the full 10 milligrams. As the night proceeds, I usually eat another 5-10 milligrams and smoke about ¾ of a preroll solo dolo (Or maybe 2-3 bowls).

            I can do absolutely anything while high on Sativa. I can work, but always choose not to because that shit’s no fun. However, I once worked (as a bottle girl) for a boujie 420 party that served a 6-course cannabis infused meal (like, literally a Caesar salad with THC in the dressing), and I ate all of it. I was high as fuckkkkkkk the next day in the office at my day job. Did I have to read every email 4.5 times before pressing send? Yes. Did I wear my glasses to work to try and hide my glazed-over eyes? Yes. Did I still go to the bathroom every thirty minutes to check how high I looked? Yes. But did I also handle my shit and get my work done? Hell fucking yes. I’m a pothead, and I’m proud. I can work out, I’d really rather sit on my couch, but I am capable. I can socialize and drink. I can dance and party and stay out all night without getting sleepy. I can go on dates and feel like myself. And I can also sit alone and think or watch movies and binge eat. So yeah, to underscore, Sativa and I really get along. I think I have a different reaction to Indica than most people, though. From what I gather, most people smoke Indica to quiet their thoughts, chill out, even sleep. When I was newer to the distinction, I thought of it like this: Sativa = social, Indica = internal. And while I may look very chill from the outside while on Indica, my mind is fucking racing. Like . . . I have so many thoughts. And sometimes they are coming in so quickly and from so many different and remote parts of my brain that I start to feel super anxious and uneasy. It is not enjoyable. For the most part, I like to stay away from hybrids too; it’s like ordering a margarita at a bar after the age of 30, you never get the well when you can specify the type of tequila you like. However, I had an experience where I was forced (“forced” sounds strong, but it was a good situation; I’m writing it up for potential submission to High Times) to smoke an Indica forward hybrid called Wedding Cake, and holy creativity. I have never in my life had so many ideas for things to write. I did have the mind-racing experience I get from Indica generally, but I wasn’t anxious. Instead, essay topics were flying in left and right. It was fun, but they were also coming to me while I was driving and couldn’t write notes in my phone, so I think I lost a few of them (maybe one day I’ll try it again and make sure I keep record. Maybe on the one-year anniversary . . . get it? Wedding Cake).

            So, why am I telling you all this? Well, I’m about to dive into the depths of Amsterdam cannabis, and now you can decide if I’m the kind of pothead you can fuck with, or not.

            The first thing you need to know about buying weed in Amsterdam is that Europeans mix their marijuana with tobacco. Yuck! Personally, I don’t mess with spliffs and I don’t roll with tobacco leaves. I like my marijuana straight and my lungs clean, thank you very much. So, the first time Shari and I walked into a coffee shop (we were fresh off the plane and had just eaten breakfast which included the so-sweet-even-the-air-tastes-like-sugar-cookies pancakes and the best eggs benedict I’d ever had – hollandaise sauce in Holland; I was loving life) and asked for three Sativa prerolls. Now, had this been 2014, even the act of making the purchase would been utterly delightful. But I’d been buying weed in Cali for long enough for the charm to wear off. . . well, sort of, it’s still a little magical when you get a really great budtender and can connect over products. In this case, the Dutch man behind the counter handed us a little zip lock bag without much enthusiasm but with three Js inside. On the cobblestone street outside the Coffee Shop, I examined the contents before putting it in my purse.

            “This looks like some schwag,” I said to Shari. I could see brown leaves inside of the vaguely transparent roll up, and I could tell the pieces were uneven. At the time, I thought maybe the marijuana was extremely dried out or that they’d mixed it with something from a kitchen pantry.

            I think I’ve subconsciously blocked out the exact moment when we took our first hit (probably because I wanted my very first Amsterdam weed experience to be no short of transcendent), but it was like smoking a cigarette that someone put some weed in on accident. It’s totally confusing; I’m not sure why people smoke these. But, one thing to note, is that an individual can smoke a whole mixed joint on their own; I noticed that the groups of people sitting around smoking inside Coffee Shops had many different prerolls lit and were not puff puff passing a single J, the way us real potheads like to do (when we do share, that is).

            Point being, the first thing you need to say when you walk into a Coffee Shop (if you’re like me and would rather talk to a fellow cannabis enthusiast than read a menu) is “Marijuana only,” and then they will hook you up.

            The most famous Coffee Shop in Amsterdam is called The Bulldog Palace or “Bulldogs”, and the largest venue is in Leidseplan. Tables sprawl out onto the square, creating a large rectangle where people just sit outside, enjoy the fact that the sun doesn’t set until 11pm, and get high. The first time I took a look at that setting, I was struck – this was the Amsterdam I’d been waiting for.

            The shop itself is down a set of stairs. It’s narrow with a long bar extending towards the back and a small alcove to the left that creates a secondary space to sit and smoke. I chose Bulldogs as the place to first meet my fake love, aka Best of the Best (are you guys dying to hear this story, yet!? Okay, okay. . . that’s coming next). I was with Shari and Romeo, and the three of us sidled up to the counter and recited our usual request. They were fresh out of Sativa prerolls cannabis only and so we bought a dime bag of weed to roll a joint.

            “Do you roll?” Romeo asked me.

            I tried not to look him with duh in my eyes, considering he didn’t actually know me and would have no way of guessing what level of pothead I was (except for the fact that I’m an American who chose to spend her vacation in Amsterdam, so there’s that).

            A pack of raw papers came with my purchase and they threw in some filters as well. Yes, service!

            “Can we also have some space cakes?” I asked the man behind the counter.

            Space cakes are what they call baked edibles in Amsterdam; regardless of the type of treat or how much marijuana is inside them, it’s a space cake, point blank period. Which, let’s be honest, is a fucking great name, and I wish I had thought of that myself (if you don’t totally get the pun, it’ll make sense in my next anecdote). The budtender explained that they had two types of muffins: chocolate and lemon poppy seed – their vegan option. I ordered one of each.

            Shari and I busted into the chocolate space cake while I used a communal grinder with a Bulldogs’ logo to break down the Sativa and roll a joint. (Quick aside, I am a Zig Zag roller. Partially I love the white paper, partially I love the fact that my parents roll Zig Zags too, partially I love that they’re considered old school and I get to be an old school smoker, partially I feel like smoking Zig Zags become a piece of my brand, and partially/mostly also I cannot freaking get raw papers to stick. Don’t ask why. If I knew, it wouldn’t be an issue). After my wavey experience with the rice crispy, I was pretty nervous about Amsterdam edibles – not to mention I was about to begin a first date and wanted the be able to see the world clearly, and while Shari advised that I could eat half (she had tried these on her previous trip), I broke off a relatively small chunk of the top and popped it into my mouth. It was absolutely the best chocolate muffin I’d ever had in my life, which is beyond dangerous because I immediately wanted to eat more just for the flavor. It was dense and sweet with a rich creamy chocolate essence that reminded me of drinking cocoa on a cold New York night and just the slightest hint of THC. But I denied my desires and went about struggling to put together a smokeable joint using the papers I was given.

            Somehow, I managed to wrangle it into the shape of a small baseball bat (my preferred joint shape), and we sparked it up. Three or four rounds later, I was super high and knew immediately that this was some good sativa! To accurately explain my level and state of mind, I’d need to tell the story of the Best of the Best, so you’re just going to have to check back in for that one and take my word that Bulldogs has that shit.

            Walking through City Center, you’ll likely run into a Coffee Shop on every block (Shari and I would map to Lost in Amsterdam – a small but glamorous bar known for its wild mixed drinks and extensive menu – and walk any direction from there). Many of the shops sell actual coffee in addition to cannabis and have cute seating set ups, but what makes Bulldogs in Leidseplan unique, is that they also sell alcohol. This concept is what the world needs more of – can we all just agree on that? So, if you want the full Amsterdam smoking experience, Bulldog’s is your one stop shop.

            While Shari and I did a fair amount of Coffee Shop hopping, our absolute favorite location was a little place called Speak Easy that happen to be very close to our apartment in Amsterdam Zuid. We became absolutely obsessed with the lattes at Bagel & Beans, and discovered this spot nestled in a mess of construction equipment just around the corner with a sign that read “Coffee Shop Open.” It appeared as though the speakeasy itself was in the process of getting a facelift, leaving only a bathroom-sized storefront open for marijuana distribution.

            While I’m sure we dealt with an array of budtenders, the most memorable was a scruffy, bearded man with long brown hair and a thick neck. When we first ordered space cakes from him, he handed us two, individually wrapped poppy seed pound cake slices and asked if we knew what we were doing. At that point, we’d done some sufficient dabbling and discovered how to appropriately moderate, so we nodded and reassured him that we were pros.

            “Have a safe flight!” he said with a smile as we walked out the door. That was the moment where I fully understood the meaning of “space cake.” Get it now?

            These slices of pound cake delivered: heavy, moist, delectable, and potent. Unlike the space cakes at Bulldogs, the cannabis flavor was front and center, so we knew from our first bite we were, indeed, in for quite a flight. Personally, I love the taste of marijuana. Like a true pothead, I love all things weed related: the smell, the flavor, the way the leaves look when they’re covered in little orange crystals, the stickiness on your fingers when you try to break them down by hand. If they made a cannabis candle, I’d keep it lit next to my bed while I sleep. So, I loved this flavor and the effects that followed: a steady, easy, social high. After hours of walking or a full meal, these did make us a bit sleepy, but I attribute that mostly to how Americans are lazy and not accustomed to using our legs. Shari and I carried these around in our purses, eating a piece at a time as we walked and played in our new favorite city.

            Prerolls generally cost between 7-10 EU in Amsterdam, but at Speak Easy they’re only 5. It was easy to tell that they were hand rolled, too, since we received a variety of shapes and range of circumferences, but even the skinniest J’s hit hard and sent us up into the stratosphere where we hovered in high bliss. I hope that whenever I return to Amsterdam (since this trip can’t last forever . . . sob, sob, sob) the rest of the venue will be open, and I can linger at my leisure in my favorite shop. If this ever does happen, I’ll be sure to post about it!

            One morning I woke up early to visit the doctor in Amsterdam Central (wow, there’s a teaser for ya! Also, American healthcare sucks). On the way home, I got on the wrong subway and ended up in the Red-Light District in daylight, only to discover that there is a Hash Marihuana & Hemp Museum (how cute is that spelling with an “h”) with a brick façade located along the canal (and, if you are wondering if the hookers work during the day, the answer is: yes, indeed).

            Shari and I made our way there on another agenda-less day and paid 9 Euros for tickets to what is actually two different museum buildings. Upon entering, you receive a handheld radio device which pings to a QR code on each exhibit and recites information in a charming British accent as you circle the small space. I’m pro-knowledge, pro-learning and was eager to ingest all the mariHuana related teachings I could, despite the fact that I was extremely high and my retention was, perhaps, not at its best. Here is one take-away from each of the buildings:

• Various cultures have used cannabis for centuries as a healing and soothing mechanism and America essentially made it illegal because they couldn’t figure out how to properly tax it and didn’t want to create an entire industry that the government couldn’t drain for dollars. So that’s fucked.

• We could create a major boost in the environment’s wellbeing by investing in cannabis farms and expanding growth of this product.

There is a whole world of people researching and writing about the link between the environment and marijuana production, and I can’t really think of a better way to wrap up this segment than by underscoring this second point and leaving you to contemplate it: cannabis could save us all.

     I’m going order a book called Hemp: Lifeline to the Future, read up, and do what I can to push this movement forward. Join me, wont you?!

Here’s a few more notes on Amsterdam edibles:

• Dr. Greenlove Cannabis Bears: these gummies come in a sharable pack of 10-15 pieces – 1 gram of THC/bag. Our first night trying these, Shari and I ate one each (even though we’d been told we could eat several; remember the rule of drugs?) and thought we were melting into the pull-out couch while watching some trash dating show on her computer. It turned out that the melting had more to do with combining these with a very specific Sativa preroll from Speakeasy, and the next day we polished off the rest of the bag in the span of 4-6 hours while smoking on top of them.

• Dr. Greenlove Cannabis Ice Cream: I write this note with deep regret that I have not yet tried one of these and cannot report on the effects. However, you can find these in their own portable freezer at most tourist shops in Amsterdam Central. They look like individually wrapped sugar cones topped with vanilla ice cream and dipped in hardening-chocolate. Each time I’ve come upon one, I’ve either been already too high to take an adventure and not know where I’d end up, or too full to eat a full cone of ice cream. When I can stomach one, I’ll report back.

• Teas and other treats: this is a heads up that many tourist shops sell cannabis or shroom tea and other treats that are merely flavored and don’t actually get you high. So keep a look out before you purchase. I’ll let you decide for yourself if you want to sip psilocybins or marijuana just for the flavor.

And, since weed is made for sharing, here’s a few other American brands I fuck with:

• Breez “Royal Mint” Cannabis Infused Mints: I’ve stuck with this brand for over five years now. I’ve watched as the company has played with the potency of their products – starting with a less-than-Altoid-sized chewable mint with 20mgs of THC that even half of would send you to the sky, to the now perfectly portioned 5mg doses. Even my friends who don’t love being on edibles in social environments can take these and enjoy themselves. I recommend them – plus they’re great for travel, they fit easily in any purse or pocket.

• PLUS “Balance Sour Berry” Cannabis Infused Gummies: this is one of the only hybrid gummies I enjoy. They taste like something between grape and blueberry flavor, and I experience them to be Sativa forward – though I’m not sure if that’s an actual fact. With these, I don’t get locked in my own mind, but I do feel mellow and high, and sometimes I get the giggles.

• Lost Farm’s Raspberry Cannabis Infused Gummies by Kiva Confections: Kiva is arguably the industry leader in the edible game, and these are my favorite off their menu. These edibles are strain specific and made with live resin (I’ll pause to let that amazingness sink in). They are all hybrids, but this particular flavor mixes Blue Dream (a favorite Sativa-dominant hybrid of mine) with Wedding Cake, which, as you know by now, I do quite enjoy.  

Dose 5: Near Canal Bridge Decapitation

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            This is a review of a restaurant called Bam Bao, where I basically ate alone. But in order to explain how I ended up having a stellar seafood meal solo, I need to back all the way up to the previous night, after Shari and I left Boca’s.

           Now, if you recall from Dose 3, Shari and I were eating at Boca’s when I saw the most gorgeous man alive, the lower half of my jaw detached from my face, and I had to go to the hospital where they both reattached it and used a new scientific method to shrink my libido and stuff it back in. Okay, that’s hyperbolic, but hopefully you remember now. Well, after finishing our food and a second drink, Shari and I began walking towards Leidseplein – the area of Amsterdam with a majority of the cool nightlife venues. (Earlier that day Shari and I split a bottle of champagne while sitting next to a canal eating prosciutto and asked our adorable, mustached waiter where we should go on a Saturday night, and he recommended Kopstoopbar, which is in Leidseplein). We’d left the prerolls we’d purchased earlier back the apartment – a not uncommon issue when switching from day purses to evening bags, so were keeping our eyes open for a Coffee Shop where we could buy more. (“Coffee Shops” are what they call dispensaries in Amsterdam, except you can literally stay inside and smoke if you want. I’m going into detail about all things cannabis in my next post, stay tuned). Luckily, it didn’t take us more than a block or two until we noticed three black guys standing behind the counter of a shop and stumbled in. On closer inspection, they were not jaw-droppers and since – if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll remember – we were aiming for the best of the best, we left our flirty eyes at the door. However, they did have a couple good options for prerolls “Marijuana only,” and, in a silver serving dish on the counter, they had a homemade rice crispy treat drizzled with chocolate and wrapped in cellophane.

           “Is this strong?” I asked the guy at the counter as Shari handed him twenty euros for two prerolls. “Like, actually strong. We aren’t beginners.” I knew the rice crispy was an edible, and since we hadn’t dabbled in Amsterdam edibles yet, I wanted to make sure my first experience was a good one. I should probably also note that I’m an avid edible eater. Yes, I’ve had the experience where I talked shit about an edible being too weak, and as soon as it heard me it came back and bit in me in the ass so damn hard that I was stuck to my couch for the next 8 hours. But that was years ago and years before marijuana had been recreationally legalized in California. Lately, I eat edibles daily, so I didn’t want to fuck around with anything light weight. I guess I should also say that I fucking love rice crispy treats.

           “It is good,” the guy said nodding, “You can eat half.”

           There wasn’t a lot of enthusiasm in his tone, and so I half believed him and half felt pretty sure that the pastry was going to be a dud.

           “You guys want to stay and smoke?” He asked as he took my euros.

           “Sure,” I said, looking at Shari. The night was young, football(soccer) was playing on the TV in their smoking room, there was always the chance a hot guy could come strolling in, and it was time to get high. (For the record, we could have smoked as we walked. That’s part of the beauty of Amsterdam: nothing is off limits when it comes to lighting up).

           We made ourselves at home on the wooden benches of the smoking room, found a lighter, and sparked our first J. I flipped through the pages of Dutch Flowers magazine and snapped a photo to post on my IG story while Shari took her turn on the preroll.

            “Let’s try this,” I said to Shari when the J was half smoked. She tapped the burning edge against the communal ashtray to put it out.

            Now, when trying new drugs, I like to start with half of the recommended dose, if ever possible. Whether or not I believed the shit was strong, the rule of drugs still remained: you can always take more. So I pulled a fourth of the rice crispy from the sticky plastic wrap and began eating (a fourth of this home made treat was the size of one of your store-bought Kellog’s). Well, it tasted pretty much like straight THC with a little bit of marshmallow and some stale cereal. It was not delicious. I didn’t have the sense or experience to judge the potency at the time, but I was already stoned and glad to have some cannabis in my stomach to help sustain my high throughout the night. Shari broke off a piece maybe half the size of mine. Being the more practiced edible eater, this made sense to me, and I packed up the rest and shoved it into my purse.

            We made our way to Leidseplein, wandered down a row of restaurants, and pulled up in front of Kopstoopbar. There was a line outside: all 18-year-olds, blond, with too-tight jeans. Shari and I took one look at each other and turned around; that scene wasn’t for us. We walked back to the middle of the plaza.

            Leidseplin is a large open cobblestone (of course) square with bars surrounding it on all sides. Four of the bars spill out onto the square in long, side by side rows like the lanes of a lap pool. Though they’re packed tightly together, each has a different feel, brought to life by intricate decorations and overflowing with smiling, laughing, toasting, chatting youth – who all wear sneakers even on nights out, even with dresses because . . . bikes. One of the two middle rows spoke to us: it had beige cushioned booths bursting with pillows and white tables with black and white wicker chairs. Leafy, green ferns in white lacquered pots lined the sides of the lane and crawled over the tables. It was chic and girly with dim faux candles encased in glass vases adorning the tabletops.

            Shari and I made our way to a two-seater and scanned the QR code to get the menu, learning, as we did, that the venue was called Cafe De Ward. To our surprise, the QR code delivered a link to a robotic waitress that walked us through the menu items and asked us to put our table number and order in electronically. This was flabbergasting, and we took turns screen recording the steps before deciding to share a 22EUR bottle of rosé. If you know nothing else about traveling in Europe, you probably know this (but in case you don’t, I’m gonna spell it out for you): the wine in Europe is freaking amazing and costs next to nothing. Ordering a $22 bottle of rosé in America would guarantee absolute garbage, but the European equivalent is light, minerally, with earthy undertones and notes of fruit that aren’t too perfume-y. It was my turn to pay, so I tried to give my debit card information to our digital bottle girl (ie. type it into the app). This is how high I was: I couldn’t get the numbers of my card correct even though I have them memorized; then I still couldn’t type the numbers correctly after pulling my card out of my wallet and setting it on the table in front of me so I could copy them verbatim; then, when I was convinced it was an issue with my bank and not my sobriety, I tried to log into my Wells Fargo account and couldn’t remember my username and password, which I literally use every single day. Ultimately, I had to admit defeat and ask Shari to put in her card info. I blamed Visa and being American (some machines in Amsterdam only take American Express or banks I’ve never heard of), and I’m genuinely not sure if Shari bought what I was selling or could tell that I was already high as fuck and was cool with helping me out.

            One glass of supremely succulent rosé down, I started to feel real wavey. Now, “wavey” is a word the kids use these days to mean “cool” or “hip,” but that isn’t at all what I mean. I was seeing the world in literal waves, curving lines across my vision; picture the ripples on your tv screen when your cable isn’t working just right: that’s what I was feeling. (I think they also use it to mean “drunk” or “high,” which is essentially applicable). I tried to look off in the distance – out into the square at the sneakered socialites romping to their next nightly adventure – and bring my focus back to my immediate surroundings – the couture-jungle ambiance where we’d settled. I was able to get a grasp on things, but holy edibles, this shit was no joke.

            “Shari,” I said. “Eat some more of this. I think I’m higher than you.” I handed her the rice crispy in hopes that she could get on my level (which she never did) and watched her break off another small piece – no bigger than a bite. I didn’t divulge my underwater experience, which was unlike any other edible experience I’ve had before or since.

            The rest of the night went like this: watched a 50+ year old woman at a nearby table lean to her right and throw up on the floor while her three friends proceeded to order more drinks, flashed our vaccine cards to the bouncer and headed inside Cafe De Ward to use the restroom where the music was (of course) absolutely poppin’, saw the second hottest guy of my life leaning against the bar and stopped dead in my tracks to stare at him, decided to pee first and flirt later so I could fix my make up in the mirror, took boomerang mirror pics in the bathroom with Shari, came back downstairs after using the restroom to find him gone, left Cafe De Ward and headed to the red light district, realized all the prostitutes look like LA girls (fake lips and cheek fillers, while Dutch girls are fresh-faced and youthful) in life-size Barbie boxes (aka the door-shaped, floor level windows), finally picked which sex show we wanted to see when they were closing for the night and got turned away, and took a pedicab back to Amsterdam Zuid which was hilarious and exhilarating, cooked chicken and cheese tortas for Shari and I when we got home (on the stove because I could not figure out the Dutch oven), and scarfed them while watching Too Hot To Handle Season 2 before passing out. The whole time I remained high as freaking heaven and arguably woke up the next day still high. So, in case you’re not getting the gist of this extremely long “prologue,” it’s: this rice crispy edible meant business.

            Shari and I had a slow Sunday morning. I cooked breakfast: sweet potato hash browns, a fried egg, and smoked salmon (which even from the grocery store is so unbelievable – smoky, fresh, and full of umami). We did a 30-minute YouTube yoga session (yes, I’m that friend that likes to work out on vacation) and then looked into our day. We had no plans except an early dinner at Bam Boa, and decided it was a perfect time to take our first boat ride along the canals. I went on Viator and booked an hour long, open bar cruise. I instructed Shari to get cute – I wanted to wear beige and white to match the décor of Bam Boa and take some cute Instagram pics when we arrived (I’d googled the restaurant. Keep reading; I’ll explain).

            The boat dock was a quick walk from our apartment, so we smoked another half-a-preroll and busted out the rice crispy. I was careful this time and broke off a bite-sized chunk of the corner. But I watched as Shari ate a solid fourth – the same amount I’d consumed the night before. Now, typically I don’t like to be the one less high, but considering we were already planning to be on a boat, I figured I’d didn’t need to add any waves to the day’s experience. I also didn’t say anything, like: hey, maybe don’t eat so much, I pretty much thought the whole world was a body roll last night. . .

            We hopped onto the boat and were pleased to find that we were the only two people there. . . for about ten minutes until a British mom and her daughter joined us and watched as I posed for a photo on the bow. Our guide was blonde and Dutch – but not the piercing, Viking looking kind – who wore a thick, navy-blue rain jacket with a billed hood that he already had over his head.

            “It’s supposed to rain in a bit,” he said.

            “Oh that’s okay,” I replied, cheerfully naïve, “We’ll make it work!”

            So far, Shari and I had watched our iPhones predict rain daily, only to experience light drizzles that came and went within an hour and never even necessitated actual coverage.

            “Well, there’s some ponchos and umbrellas here for you if you need,” he said. “The only rule is keep your arms inside the boat, and try not to stand up. As you can see, the bridges are very low.” He proceeded to explain that the three wooden kegs just in front his steering wheel were full of wine, and we were welcome to as much as we could drink within the hour. To get the most of the 22 euros we each paid for the excursion, Shari and I decided to pound as much rosé as possible. This required repeated trips from our pillowed seating in the front, elevated tip of the boat, down a stair towards the back where the barrels were located in order to refill the small, disposable, clear, plastic cups we were allotted. This seemed pretty simple, given the fact that it was barely raining and we assumed it would stop shortly.

            Well, we took off down the canal and before long it was full blown down pouring, the first (and only) real rain of our trip.

            “Ah,” our captain cooed, “Welcome to the normal Dutch weather.”

            We scrambled for umbrellas and ponchos, but couldn’t stop the bottom portion of my full-length, duster sweater from getting completely drenched. We did, however, manage to keep our power hour pumping, taking turns holding an umbrella over the other’s seat so we could make a dry landing after trekking for a refill.

            Shari was struggling to resituate after fetching our third glass. She was standing over me, her umbrella tucked between her ear and shoulder with the two flimsy and full plastic cups in her hands. I took my cup from her, still holding my umbrella over her seat and myself, and set it on the flat surface next to me.

            “Duck,” I said. I watched as we neared the underside of a low hanging, brick bridge. Shari wobbled about but didn’t react to my comment at all.

            “Duck,” I said again as our boat sped along. She didn’t seem to hear me. “Duck, duck,” I said, with growing urgency as the bridge approached, until I was yelling as loudly as I could against the dumping rain. “Duck, DUCK, DUCK, DUCK!”

            Just in the nick of time, Shari hit the deck and the stone bridge missed her by a mere second. (No, but seriously, this was a full-blown romantic comedy movie moment. She could not have come any closer to a real canal bridge decapitation).

            Needless to say, Shari was a little rattled and kept repeating the phrase “I almost just died,” which, dramatic as it may sound, was completely fucking true. (I should also probably note that Shari has a five-year-old daughter, and I was trying my best not to think about what it would have been like to tell her family she wouldn’t be returning home, or – more accurately – to tell them she’d be returning home in two pieces. How I would have navigated getting both her headless body and her head itself back through customs was – and is – beyond my comprehension). I vetoed Shari from participating in any more of our rosé runs. I’d put myself through grad school working bottle service in New York City, and I’m pretty adept at delivering drinks, rain or shine. I kept them coming to calm our nerves.

            Here’s a few things I learned about Amsterdam from our Dutch guide who continued to shout facts all through the wind and rain while Shari was nearly dying:

• A single floor of a multi-story building along the main canals costs $1M to own

• Most of the buildings have stunning, secret gardens located behind them, only accessible through the back doors

• There’s rules to driving boats in the canals, including which direction to go and which canals are for kayaks or pediboats, and you have to cross “intersections” according to a daily schedule

• The large, famous clock tower which looks like it’s made of solid brick is actually made of wood and painted to look like brick (the trickery!)

• “Nothing in Amsterdam is straight” (which, at my level of rose + edible + preroll, I thought was a reference to sexuality, but actually means that all of the buildings lean a little bit. For the record, I real life asked him to explain what he meant by “straight” ‘cause I was super into the idea of Amsterdam and its people being fluid)

• There are floating homes, with wall-sized glass windows all along the canals. I asked our guide what he would think if he was out on a date with a girl and she brought him home to one of these. Essentially, he said he’d be excited because those are also very expensive to own, and it would mean she’s rich

            By the time we’d concluded our tour we were drunkity drunk drunk drunk. We thanked our tour guide – who, like everything else in Amsterdam, we were enamored with, this time specifically for his comprehensive knowledge of the city and his perseverance during a rainstorm – with 10 euros and went on our way. A quick google map search showed that Bam Boa was actually past our apartment to the South rather than towards City Center, so we decided to stop at one of our Cheers Bars for a quick glass of rosé and a bottle of water. If this were a romantic comedy, this is where the narrator would come in and say, “They did not need another glass of rosé,” in a deep, ominous voice.

            I’m going to skip over any interactions that happened during that stop because, frankly, I can’t remember them. We landed at Bam Boa to find a quaint, clean, boho chic restaurant cute enough to be on a postcard. Here’s where my review begins (bout damn time, right?!).

            Before the trip, I’d done a google search for: Amsterdam’s most Instagram-able restaurants. While I do love to post good content, especially when it’s enviable travel content, what I really love are restaurants that create an entire vibe because of their décor. My favorite thing to do in Los Angeles (or San Diego or New York or any of the cities where I’ve previously lived) is go out to trendy dinners at restaurants and eat amazing food. (This search was performed before I learned that literally ever restaurant, damn near every place, in Amsterdam is like this – fully invested in whatever ambiance/theme they choose to create. This, of course, adds to my overall adoration of the place). While all the restaurants on the various lists that my search turned up were charming, I chose Bam Boa for its bohemian vibe.

            The restaurant was half covered in cool, deco wallpaper in various shades of sand. Two mounted, wooden bookshelves held vases of feathers, gold candlesticks, modern framed paintings, and bronze flamingos. Though each piece was unique they were all some combination of beige, taupe, nude, or white. The remaining white walls were covered in mirrors framed by golden pedals, giving the whole place a glamourous, neo-hippy feel. It was uniquely Instagram-able.

            We arrived at what, I can only imagine, was way before our reservation time and were the only two people in the entire place (probably because we were drastically ahead of dinner hour. I assume they were just opening) but they sat us anyway and made us feel right at home. Shari and I settled into a wooden booth with beige and white feathered and fluffy pillows and ordered a bottle of champagne. (Narrator: they did not need to order a bottle of champagne). While I scanned the “To Share” menu, happily engaged with the tapas style eating, Shari wiggled restlessly in her seat.

            “Okay I think we have to try these Confit Duck Spring Rolls,” I said, holding the menu out in front of Shari and pointing as I recited my choices. “And maybe this ceviche. Just to start.”

            It soon became clear that Shari was in no mindset to choose items, and I took the lead, putting in our first two choices (and adding Bread with Aioli dip because it was becoming clear to me that we needed something to soak up all the alcohol) with our pleasant, unassuming waitress who must have known we were obliterated but did not let on at all.

            “So what are we doing? Where are we going to next?” Shari asked. “I’m ready to walk, I feel like I can’t just sit here.”

            “Well,” I said, slowing down and looking Shari dead in the eyes. “We just put our order in. We’re eating here and we have more courses to go after this. That’s really our plan for the day, we’re here having dinner.” I saw the disappointment spread across Shari’s face. Now, let me be clear, this is in no way a reflection on Bam Boa which was already striking me as divine. But I could tell the rice crispy edible had fully kicked in and things were getting wavey for Shari. “You have the umbrella,” I said (it was slightly raining again and we’d stolen one from the boat). “Why don’t you take a walk around the block if you need to move. Take your time, I’m chillin’.” I could see there was no way to happily keep her at the table, and I had every intention of enjoying the meal I’d been thinking about for weeks. So, Shari set off on her walk, and I sat alone bobbing to the music (think Craig David over a smooth EDM beat – fantastic!) and waiting for my food. I’d also been a bit shocked back into reality, so I decided to down a few glasses of water and cool it on the champagne. (Narrator: Smart move).

• Confit Duck Spring Rolls: I would eat these daily if I could. Juicy, pulled duck brimming with fat and salt inside of flaky, freshly fried phyllo dough (it might not have literally been phyllo, but that’s what the texture was giving). The hoisin sauce was perfection, just the right bite from the tang over a thick, sweet base, like a really good kiss where the guy gently nibbles on your bottom lip. This came with two pieces, and I ate both.

• Classic Seabass Ceviche: Ceviche can be hit or miss for me, as I’m a bit picky with this dish, and this was an absolute hit! Limey citrus broth so good I was slurping it off spoon with every bite, the right salt level (and I’m quick to put extra salt on food if it needs it), and Seabass so fresh it melted against my teeth. Crunchy toasted pine nuts offset the soft texture. Now, usually I’m the type of person who likes to orchestrate my bites so that they’re perfect, but with this dish, I didn’t have to – just scoop and enjoy. Ideal.

• Bread with Aoli Dip: If there’s a right way to do gluttony, this is it! Fluffy, toasted sour dough bread with a lemon garlic aioli sauce. Need I say more? Did I dip some of the bread into the ceviche broth and then the aioli sauce? Yes. Was it spectacular? Also, yes.

            Shari returned to nibble a few bites of Ceviche, which took all my will power to save. And I tried to force some bread and water into her. But it wasn’t long before she was taking another lap and I was placing my next order with the waitress.

• Tuna Taco: This thing stole the entire show. Order this. Shaped like palm-sized tostadas rather than tacos, this came out of nowhere and knocked me to the ground. Now, I do love tuna tacos with avocado and radish, but I don’t find this to be an extraordinarily unique dish, which is why I was not expecting this kind of umph. But there was something about the way they dressed the tuna in a sweet, salty, savory sauce and then paired it with the zesty guacamole that just had me. It was like the orgasm that comes out of no where even when the sex is already really good and you’ve been enjoying yourself, but then. . . wow!

• Mussels “A Buhao Pato”: Now, mussels in white wine garlic sauce is arguably my favorite food (I fucking love food if you can’t already tell, so picking a favorite is tough, but I can go with this). These did not disappoint. The broth was warm with the hardy umami that can only come from boiling mussel shells just right. They let the shell flavor stay the star, not overpowering it with too much wine or garlic, just using these accents as a subtle kick. Despite my adoration for this dish and the fact that Bam Boa’s rendition absolutely met expectations, I didn’t get too far into these, as I was having an entire relationship with my tuna tacos. But, when Shari returned from her second lap, she sat down, grabbed a fork and full blown murdered the rest of the bowl without saying a god damn word.

            I paid the bill (there was no chance of Shari being able to navigate her own wallet), and then proceeded to order two lattes. (Narrator: the lattes were much needed). The waitress took our indecisiveness with ease, brought our lattes, and was utterly shocked when we handed her 10 euros for our 3 euro bill and told her to keep the change (she deserved it, we’d been acting pretty weird).

            If I needed to sum it up, which I don’t really think I do but I’m going to do anyways, I’d say Bam Boa was exquisite from A-Z. I’d love to return again and try the many things I didn’t have enough room in my stomach to taste. Maybe I’ll even be sober enough to snap a grid-worthy IG photo.

            We didn’t make it to the bars we instructed a handful of guys on Tinder to meet us at later. I told Shari we were heading home to change but that we’d “take a quick nap first” before completely putting her to bed. Oh and . . . the champagne bottle was great the next day! Just before leaving, I tucked it into my damp, floor-length sweater and carried it home like a baby.

Dose 4: A City for All Your Senses

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            The best way for me to describe Amsterdam to you, is to simply share the stories. There’s no precision of diction or level of vocabulary that could accurately capture how enchanting the city is. To describe it as a backdrop would be a disservice to Amsterdam as a character, which it is, in every sense of the word. I’m in love with Amsterdam and the way it makes me laugh, fill with joy, and even fear at times. Amsterdam is already changing me, the way the characters we truly love tend to do.

            But I did promise i’d do a bit of scene setting, so here’s a short one to tickle your senses a little. And, if you want to see Amsterdam through my eyes, you can watch my story highlight on Instagram.

            Amsterdam is a grey city, but only in that it’s generally gloomy and always on the brink of rain, even in July. Think San Francisco in the Summer. I’ve lived in cold cities, including 6+ years in New York where winters are 9 months long and you can feel the grey sky in your soul. But Amsterdam doesn’t feel grey. It’s too alive, too full of energy and anticipation; the people aren’t waiting for the sun to extract their happiness.

            Amsterdam looks like a fairy tale come to life; the buildings are straight out of a storybook: varied colors, row after row of windows – white wood frames set against brick or stone facades, castle-like roofing, all touching one another. Each street looks different from the next, promenades of new surprises – vintage stores, eateries, candy shops or exotic boutiques – yet all veiled with the charming, whimsical quality that makes the city a cohesive whole. Canals run through it in concentric circles, filled with tugboats and gondolas tethered to the sides or floating peacefully on murky, moat-like water. Brick bridges arch over them, the rails adorned with flowers – pink, purple, yellow, white, red. I’ve been dying to know who puts them there (but not enough to Google it, I guess. I think a part of me likes the mystery; it goes with the magic of it all). The streets are cobblestone, as is the sidewalk, as are the bike lanes, as are the trolley tracks. It would not remotely surprise me if one day, walking into City Center, I saw Hansel and Gretel strolling – scratch that, skipping – towards me wearing wooden clogs (Hansel would be hot, of course, because . . . Mansterdam).

            Everybody bikes. I’m going to go ahead and repeat that for emphasis. Everybody bikes. And they do so with a cool confidence, wearing flowy dresses or oversized blazers, tapered joggers or fashion trousers. They zip around corners with abandon and fly through traffic lights. Even the 60-degree staircases have these silver three-sided-square contraptions that create a flat surface just wide enough for a bike wheel (thinking of riding down that – well, thinking of riding in the city period – is absolutely terrifying). Walking, you definitely cannot look down at your phone because, since all the sections of the street are made of cobblestone, you could easily wander into a bike lane and get rolled right the fuck over. But this makes you look up and out at all the beautiful things you can see in curtain-less windows, or at the potted plants that crawl over the edges of balconies, or at the pups that trot leash-less behind their owners. Plus, there’s something about that sense of danger – meaning the whole death-by-bike-at-any-moment thing – that adds an undertone of excitement to it all. A layer of fear like the tempo of a song, fading into the whole but constant and always adding flavor.

            There is no trash anywhere. It’s a little bit of a miracle because there are a lot of people in this city and they are on the move. There’s also rarely a public trashcan to be found. Speaking of, Shari and I were sitting in a park (or like, a large grassy patch surrounding a statue in the middle of a bunch of buildings) smoking a preroll one day when we saw this girl’s puppy pick up a condom (still in the rapper, so I’m going to argue not trash but fell out of a pocket on accident – good luck buddy, hope she still let’s you hit) and begin chewing on it. Shari started giggling and saying “Oh no, oh no, he’s eating it” loud enough for the girl to hear. I was busy taking a selfie video while smoking, which is how I always end up higher than I actually need to be, so she filled me in on what I’d missed. Then we watched as the girl pulled the condom out of the puppy’s mouth and put it in her purse.

            “Oh it’s her condom,” Shari said to me, but loud enough so that the girl could hear (I’m not sure if her volume was intentional or if she was just stoned enough to inject herself into this girl’s day on accident).

            “It is not,” the girl said, her Dutch accent coating her English in a way that makes me weak in the knees. I literally felt both Shari’s and my head cock to the side in bewilderment. “I just put it here for now.”

            I’m going to go ahead and guess that you don’t totally understand what we had just witnessed because, at that moment, neither did I. But, the synopsis is, rather than pull the condom out of her dog’s mouth and toss it back into the grass like any New York City resident would have surely done, she stashed it away as not to liter. Cleaning up a condom that isn’t yours. Let that one sink in.

            The “dumpster” by our apartment where we put our trash is this crazy cylinder with overlapping metal which slides apart in such a way that smell could never, and I mean never, leak into the air. Hence, the city smells amazing. Amsterdam smells like baking cane sugar. So sweet and warm that if you sniff hard enough you might inhale an actual pancake. This pervasive sweetness is so intense, it really brings the whole Hansel and Gretel thing to life – you know, like living inside a giant gingerbread house, but make that a sugar cookie.

            It would make sense for me to next describe the sounds (music) and the tastes (food), but there is truly no way to condense all the descriptive amazingness necessary to portray these things into one paragraph, or one post for that matter. I’ve been collecting DJ Instagrams, asking waitresses for Spotify playlists, and constantly turning to Shari and saying, “did you hear that transition?!” And the food . . . well, I think when it comes to the food, I’m just going to have to write a love song.

            But you get the gist: Amsterdam is a city for all your senses. And then there’s the weed and the walking around on cobblestone streets smoking prerolled joints you bought from a Coffee Shop that just – as my dad said – makes everything better.

Dose 3: Mansterdam

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I realize that I should probably kick off my posts about Amsterdam with some wide-angle-lens scene setting – talk about what the city looks and feels like, describe the sounds and the smells. But, for reasons that will shortly become clear, I’m going to jump straight to the men.

            Shari had told me that the men in Amsterdam were fine as shit. In fact, on her first trip there she’d met a guy named Romeo (who liked her more because she’d never made a joke about ‘being his Juliet,’ and that set her apart. I get it because I was just super tempted to throw in some cheesy Montague/Capulet one-liner, but I’m withholding). They’d spent the two years between her trips staying in touch with WhatsApp messages here and there, sharing photos, but nothing too consistent or serious. Still, she was looking forward to seeing him again (she’d traveled with her younger sister previously, so hadn’t had the opportunity to get physical, and two years of texting is a fuck ton of foreplay), and I liked the idea that her rendezvous gave me some solo time, time to potentially meet up with men I’d meet online.

            I’m a proponent of online dating. In some (maybe most, I’m not sure) cities, it’s still sort of taboo, but in New York and Los Angeles it’s pretty common. I actually want to say ‘everyone does it,’ but that’s only partially true. Most of my girlfriends aren’t really into it – they’re cooler than me, both on Instagram and in real life – but during my many ­many years of online dating, I’ve seen most of my guy friends (even the ones with a lot of social media followers) on the apps and plenty of men who are definite catches (doctors, lawyers, professional athletes or dudes working in cool sports-adjacent jobs). I used Tinder before it became just the hook up app (had a few dates and boned at least one guy from there who hooped internationally); then deleted that and switched to Bumble (got lots and lots of dates from Bumble, I probably slept with one of them but no one is coming to mind at the moment); got a referral for The League from a friend and met a guy who, if it hadn’t been for the pandemic putting a whole country between us, probably would have been my boyfriend (the sex was fire and was only getting started); and finally added Hinge to the mix (I don’t love this one and definitely have not had sex with anyone from Hinge). So, all in all, I’m deep in the online dating scene. I’ve met a lot of men I wouldn’t have known otherwise, had plenty of free dinners and drinks (though let me disclaimer that free food isn’t my motivation, I do want to meet someone and can pay for my damn self whenever I please), and get to spend nights out with my girlfriends focused on them and our interactions rather than scanning the room with subtle desperation. I tell everyone they should try it, if only to put the energy into the universe that they are looking for love. Sometimes you just gotta activate your pheromones, you know? However, I’m still super fucking single, so take all this as you will.

            Anyways, the idea to date while in Amsterdam (other than the fact that if we were going to be there for ‘the whole summer’ it would be essential) sort of came from my friend Shanice. Shanice and I have known each other since our 22-year-old Hollywood days, on some if-you-didn’t-used-to-go-to-Industry-on-Thursdays-before-it-was-Greystone-you-aren’t-OG-LA type shit. Shanice is like. . .  perpetually cool. The kind of girl who makes every outing a fashion show and knows how to completely switch up her looks, is always down for whatever you want to do, and will arrive with the intention to breathe life into the party and consistently succeeds in this particular mission. It doesn’t matter how long we may go without having a full catch-up conversation, that’s my rider and we good. Well, in the first maybe three months of the pandemic, Shanice texted me and asked if I wanted to go work in London for a month. I mean, yes, I did. But I hadn’t given up my lease in New York City yet, so I was paying out my ass for an apartment I wasn’t sleeping in, and I was giving my dad money for utilities since I was staying in his guest house. Meaning, while others were saving money by eating groceries and not taking Ubers, I was coming up short. Not to mention, the idea for Amsterdam was already bubbling, and I was looking ahead to the Summer of 2021 for my own European adventures. I had to decline Shanice’s offer, but she went ahead anyways. She had a guy to see.

            Shanice had made a Tinder (from her home in Raleigh) and set her location to London (I’m probably going to butcher this story a little, but this is how I remember it, and hence how it influenced Amsterdam for me). She matched with a guy, well certainly many but zeroed in on one, and started to have a Facetime relationship with him. If you watch 90 Day Fiancé, you already know that this a thing people do. (Also, if you don’t watch that show. . .  start immediately). She told him she was planning to work remotely from London for a month. I don’t think this was actually true yet, or wasn’t more than an idea at least, but it gave them something to look forward to: a chance to actually meet. Then she went out there, and I got to watch on Instagram as she had the time of her fucking life. She was with her man and all his fine ass friends going to cool places in the UK and taking weekend Baecations to countries like Portugal.

            We were sold. Shari and I decided we’d make our Tinders ahead of time and start swiping. At least six times during the pandemic, when online dating in San Diego was as dry as the California desert, I’d text Shari and say, “is it too early to make my Amsterdam Tinder?” I probably could have created my account on any given day. But in my opinion, there’s a sort of precise, magical amount of time you can talk to someone on a dating app and keep interest without actually meeting. And it’s like, roughly 9 days max (the whole Facetiming for weeks thing doesn’t work for me). Well, as the trip drew nearer, Shari and I were both in a scramble to set up our new homes and prepare to leave them for a month. So, Tinder accounts got pushed aside and we never did any pre-trip scouting. (Making our accounts was, however, the very first thing we did after we checked into the Airbnb. But I’m going to circle back to that, though, as this post is meant the describe the men we saw IRL).

            Shari and I were waiting in line for Amsterdam customs when I saw the first piece of man art. He was checking passports inside one of those glass booths. He looked like an actual Viking, blonde hair, ice blue eyes, wide Thor-like shoulders, jaw and cheek bones that could cut glass. If you know me, you know it’s truly something that a man like this could stop me in my tracks. Blondes are not my type. I’m definitely more of a dark eyes, dark features, dark skin kind of girl. But this man merited the speechlessness. I did manage to get enough words out to make Shari look. She responded by saying, “you see what I mean!” (I then preceded to leave my whole entire cell phone inside a bathroom stall by baggage claim. I recovered it quickly, but, point being, I was a little rattled).

            So, that’s sort of what Amsterdam is like when it comes to men: you might literally lose your sense of self before you’ve even left the airport. And it doesn’t really matter what your type is, Amsterdam has what you’re looking for (it’s pretty diverse). Here’s a couple anecdotes that serve as metaphors for our whole experience of Amsterdam men.

            Shari and I went to Jordaan to eat at Boca’s, which was recommended to me by a consultant at work who had spent time living in Belgium and adored Amsterdam. She said it was her favorite place to eat. We sat inside, at a cute two-person table against the wall – the only wall in the entire place not decorated with beautiful art consisting of female forms in vibrant rainbow colors. I was facing the open door, Shari had her back to the street and the façade of windows which made up the front of the restaurant. We ordered Mules and I was blabbing on, deep in the middle of some story, when, all of a sudden, I completely stopped talking and my jaw hit the actual floor. Wide-eyed (like, I could literally feel my small, brown eyes grow three sizes), I watched the most gorgeous man walk past the window. He was black, tall (maybe 6’4”), with broad shoulders and a shiny beard. He was wearing a black thermal (thermals on men with muscular shoulders and chiseled pectoral muscles are my weakness) and black jeans. He had a sort of longer face – super masculine, glowing skin, and the clean lines of his beard (which I could tell from a far smelled good) faded into his perfectly shaped hairline. He was walking with two other men. I think they were hot, but I barely saw them. I couldn’t pull my eyes from him.

            “What?” Shari said, “What is it?”

            I wanted to tell her to turn around so she could see him, but I literally couldn’t pick my jaw up off the floor until he was out of site.

            When I regained my ability to speak, I explained that I’d just seen the hottest man alive. Shari started laughing, keeling over on the edge of the table.

            “You were literally in the middle of a word,” she said.

            I couldn’t even remember what I’d been talking about.

            So, maybe his description isn’t your type, but I’m going to ask you the same question Shari asked me when she finally stopped laughing: When is the last time your jaw actually dropped because of a guy you saw in real life?

Quick aside, here’s what we ordered at Boca’s:

• Hamburger met foi gras en truffelmayonaise (This is served on a toasted baguette. I could have eaten two of these on my own rather than shared one with Shari. They do beef burgers RIGHT in Amsterdam – more on this later.)

• Soft shell krab met mango en Madame Jeanette (The presentation of this is exquisite, and pairing an oil-fried, breaded soft shell crab with mango chutney was the ideal offset – heavy and light. However, I think I like soft shell crab more in my head than I do in real life.)

• Chicken Karange (This was fire. Think friend chicken bites with hoisin dipping sauce – KFC meets PF Chang’s, but way better. Plus, the chicken in Amsterdam isn’t filled with growth hormone and shit – or so I think – so it’s more juicy and tender. It actually tastes like a whole other meat.)

• Bruschetta klassiek (Order this. Our waiter recommended it. It was in the vegan section, which is not my thing, but it was unlike regular bruschetta. It has sundried tomatoes which were the perfect combination of tangy and sweet and arugula to add that much needed umami).

            Okay, one more anecdote in case you aren’t already getting the picture. Shari and I had an amazing day where we walked for literally 9 hours (I’m going to do a whole post about how calories don’t count in Amsterdam because of all the walking, stay tuned). We were happily lost in De Pijp (which we think is where a lot of people our age live) and crossing a crosswalk when we noticed a man walking towards us. This man would have been famous in America. Absolutely no question; he had that kind of shine. He was black with Vogue-level bone structure, wearing a black button-up top, unbuttoned to reveal the skin of his chest, which looked like it had been accentuated with Fenty highlighter, even though it hadn’t. Without even talking to each other, Shari and I both pulled a full 180 and took 2-3 steps in his direction before we realized how creepy we were being. Okay, let that sink in: we dead ass turned around in the middle of the fucking street to follow a god damn stranger (who, for the record, did not look at either of us at all). Have you ever in your life seen a man with the kind of pull that could literally change your directional degrees? Welcome to fucking Amsterdam.

            I write a lot of notes in my phone when I’m high. Most of the time, they’re reminders for things I want to write about it. Sometimes, they’re actual sentences or paragraphs. I like to revisit them when I’m sober and looking for content. Sometimes I’m like: okay, that was fucking genius. And sometimes I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. Well, one morning, after a particularly high Amsterdam day, I woke up to single note: Mansterdam. No explanation needed.

            There is gorgeousness everywhere and pheromones in the air! The swiping is underway, and Shari and I have both decided to raise our standards and only go for the best of the best (which is something we absolutely do not do in our respective cities, in fact, lowering our standards is the norm at home). And, as I mentioned, I already fake fell in love. (You might notice I use the word “fake” to dilute a verb or adjective. I realize that, in this case, I could say ‘infatuated’ or ‘smitten’ or ‘sprung’. But it doesn’t feel like any of those. It feels like fake love, and I’m sticking to it!). I’m not quite ready to write about him yet, but what I can say, is: he is the best of the best. I’ll keep you posted on that one.

Dose 2: Two Trips, Two Lessons

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Whenever I explain what it’s like to hallucinate on magic mushrooms I say: it’s like reverting to a child’s imagination. When you’re a kid, if you look up at the clouds and see a dog’s face, you truly see a dog’s face. It’s the reason kids get so scared of the monsters lurking in the shadows of their open bedroom closets; what they imagine to be real, simply is. As you grow up, your adult brain develops and your sense of reality comes in and tells you: that’s not a dog’s face, that’s just a cloud that looks like a dog’s face. Or: that’s not a monster in your closet, that’s the shadow of your winter coat. Get the difference? In my opinion, what psilocybins do is erase that adult reality check so you can once again live in in the reality of your imagination. And that experience is fucking heaven.

            Mushrooms are absolutely the best drug there is. I say that with some authority as I’ve done a number of different substances, both natural and man-made. It would be easier to list the ones I haven’t tried: ayahuasca (only because I haven’t traveled to South America yet, but that’s next on my list), acid (because when I had a few tabs, I was keeping them in wrapped up in a paper towel in my night stand, and during a cleaning binge I forgot they were there and threw them out), heroine (I’ve thought that maybe I’d like to die, when I’m old and ready, by OD-ing on heroine because I want to know what it’s like but I don’t want to get addicted. This was actually my mom’s idea and I’m stealing it from her), meth (idk, Breaking Bad sorta got me fucked up over that one, and just ew), and crack (‘cause that shit looks wack . . .well, except for in that one scene in The Wolf of Wall Street).

            Okay let’s back up a second. I have done a lot of drugs, and I’ve had serious love affairs with most of them, but I grew up a little different. I like to say my parents are hippies. My dad hates when I say that because he’s a super monogamous, pure-hearted man whose romantic love is singularly focused and utterly devoted and he doesn’t like being associated with free love. (I think free love is a pretty dope concept and says a lot about human nature, but that tangent needs its own post). But what he does believe in (as does my mother – they aren’t married, by the way, and haven’t been since I was 11) is freeing the mind. My dad talked about mushrooms my entire childhood saying: you have to try them, after the age of 25 when your brain is fully developed. He talked about how they changed his life, made him see the world differently, made him understand his purpose and find his path. So, naturally, I went into my first shroom experience with zero fear . . .

            . . .Fuck that! I hope you didn’t fall for that one.

            When I was in high school, at the same time as I was hearing my dad wax nostalgic about shrooming in Bali or drinking ayahuasca tea with a bruja in a Peruvian jungle, I was absolutely terrified of losing control. Mostly this had to do with the fact that there were things in my life I couldn’t control – like my parents getting divorced, my dad constantly traveling for business, the new house we moved into with my mom, the fact that she started dating a personal trainer who was fifteen years younger than her and had a child in a different state that he never saw (there’s more on all of this in my memoir, but you get the gist). So, I didn’t drink, I didn’t do drugs, and I absolutely believed the people from D.A.R.E who said that drugs were scary and hallucinogens would make you think you were getting chased by shadowy monsters. (By the way, D.A.R.E stands for Drug Abuse Resistance Education. My friends and I googled that randomly a few weeks ago because literally none of us knew what the acronym stood for, and thought it was pretty funny). All that started to change when I went to college. I started drinking and, slowly, I started doing drugs. I didn’t just go buck wild all of a sudden, and I don’t often think of it as some profound mental transition – though perhaps the undercurrent of the change that took place was, in fact, sort of deep. Essentially, I was far away from the all the things I wanted to control but couldn’t. My home life was out of sight, out of mind, and instead, my life was right in front of me. I was free.

            All this is to say: free or not, hippy dippy parents or not, I’m scared every time I take a new drug. It would be crazy not to be afraid! But if you think of shrooms as a reversion to a mental state you’ve already lived through – back to childhood imagination – there’s nothing to be afraid of. What confuses people, I think, is the way explanations of hallucinations fall on sober ears.

            For example, on one of my favorite trips, I was laying in Riverside Park on the west side of Manhattan. It was a perfect day in early Fall where the air was thick with New York heat, cut tenderly by a gentle breeze. As the trip came on, I zeroed in on a beautiful tree who began to sing Jhene Aiko songs to me. She – being the tree – had dark winged eyeliner, long silky eyelashes, contoured cheeks, and ombre lipstick. She swayed like a lounge singer in a dimly lit jazz club, the notes reverberating from her parting lips. There was so much nature around me (which is what you want to be looking at on a shroom trip), so I tried to shift my gaze and focus on other things to see what each new tree or leaf would show me. But each time I looked away, she beckoned me back until I finally gave in and let her serenade me for the next several hours.

            Okay, when you hear it like that it sounds fucking nuts. It sounds like I was dropped into the scene from Alice and Wonderland where Alice is surrounded by cartoon flowers that tower over her as they join in chorus. It sounds surreal, as though I was seeing a world vastly different from the one we see each day. A fictional world where plants can come alive and talk. And yes, it does feel like that; that scene was absolutely written to be a portrayal of a trip like mine. The magic you think of when you hear that description is the type of magic I felt. I was enchanted, awestruck, bewildered, intoxicated. It was so beautiful, I thought I might cry. I was humbled, as I often am on shrooms, realizing that humans are so insignificant in comparison to nature. It was, as I mentioned, one of my favorite trip moments, and it was also one of the most beautiful moments of my entire life.

            But it wasn’t scary, and it didn’t feel like being inside a Disney film. Let me break it down differently. I had Jhene Aiko Essentials playing on Apple Music and a speaker behind my head. The leaves of the tree were lit in different ways by the sun, making parts seems darker, others bright – that allowed me to see facial features and make up, the way a child a might. The wind was blowing through what looked, to me, like her mouth. It was all very natural. It looked just like any tree you might see outside, no Claymation or Pixar additions. Except that the part of my brain that would laugh at that moment of imagination and push it to the side was gone. And so, the fantasy was my reality.

            Now, I’m not saying that you’re never going to see something that isn’t actually there or see some truly wild shit. I once saw a cheetah chase a gazelle for miles, pounce, and kill it in the African safari inside of a 1x1 inch jacuzzi tile. And I’ve felt so positive that I left my own body and was only a hovering soul, that I had to use my hands to check if my legs were still there (FYI both of these were also amazing trips, more on them later). But what you experience on shrooms is what already exists inside your own head. Of course, you do have to like what’s in there. Luckily, my subconscious is a shit ton of fucking fun.

              I don’t really remember what my young adult reaction was when my dad would talk about hallucinogens. I mean, I was teenage girl, so I was annoyed by him 99% of the time anyways. But what has stuck with me, is: there are lessons to be learned when you set out to explore your mind. And so, I am always in pursuit of lessons, looking for whatever deeper meaning I can bring back to sobriety with me. He was right about one thing; it can change your life. If you can conquer the fear and enjoy your imagination, you can discover some really deep shit.

            Here are two trips and two lessons that have made me see the world differently.

On Laughter

            My first trip was, of course, sensational. I was 26 and laying on the roof of my dad’s garage – which is set up like a sun deck in Del Mar, California overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I was with two of my best friends, eating Cheez-Its, wrapped in the blankets of our makeshift pillow fort. (See, kid shit!). It was a windy day in December, sweater weather, and skinny white clouds whipped across the aqua blue sky.

            As I came onto the mushrooms, I realized that the clouds were skeletons, wiggling as they walked on ligament-less joints. But they weren’t scary. Instead, I recognized them as souls, our ancestors suspended in a world apart from us, but never gone. I realized, as I watched them scurry and spin, that no one ever really leaves us, that we can always turn to the sky and speak to those we once loved. It was a real Lion King, Mufasa moment. And that isn’t even the lesson.

            Out of nowhere I started to laugh. It was one of those hearty laughs that starts in your diaphragm and ends up coming out your eyeballs in the form of tears. A true bout of laughter that made my cheek muscles sore and made me squeal and snort. I was laughing at absolutely nothing. And then, the fact that I was laughing so hard at nothing at all became so supremely funny that I started to laugh at the laughing at nothing. I was genuinely short of breath and gasping between laughing fits when suddenly it hit me, and I stopped completely. My soul is with filled with laughter. I remember sitting there, tears still streaming down my surely ruddy cheeks, bewildered and overjoyed. I understood, for the first time, that at the very core of me, was laughter itself. And that whatever sad things may happen – heart break or pain, loss or devastation – I could persevere because I have laughter at my core. Underneath it all, I am happy. I am full of joy.

            Retrospectively, I feel so lucky both that this is true for me (as I genuinely recognize this is not the case for many, if not most, people) and that I now know this. I have anxiety and woes, stresses and complications. But I can return to this when I need, remind myself to dig past whatever passing heartache has buried my laughter, and bring it forth again.

On Music

            Back to Riverside Park, one of my favorite trips (I should also note, that these particular shrooms were brought to me by Shari who’d just returned from Amsterdam on her first trip there. So, yeah; they were fucking great). We’d picked a shady spot in the grass looking out onto Hudson River. Just in front of us was a wooden dock that jetted out into water. There were sail boats tied to its South end, five or six, anchored in a clean row.

            My tree had completed her serenade, and I was looking out at the boats. A larger ship (maybe some tourist thing) drove along the river heading south and sending the ripples of its wake tumbling towards Manhattan’s Western shore. I watched as a wave rolled through the boats. One at a time, each boat rose, tilted slightly west, and sank. Ripple after ripple rolled in, and I watched the boats. Rise, tilt, sink. Rise, tilt, sink. And all of a sudden I saw it: rhythm. I was watching it, but it felt like I could hear it, a steady beat. This was the very root of music, the patterns we see in nature that aren’t even sound yet.

            That realization was enough. Maybe that’s more obvious to some people – specifically people who make music – but for me, it changed the way I saw everything. It changed me. Still, there was something more: music is what motivates us when we need motivation, soothes us when we are sad, reminds us when we seek nostalgia, explains love when we think it can’t be explained. So, let’s pretend for a moment that we believe emotion is what makes the human experience – as some say, it’s what sets us apart from other animals (I actually think this notion is super pretentious and superior – more on that later – but let’s go with it so I can make this point). Then, it is nature itself, and her silent melodies which heighten our ability to feel, that allow us to experience human emotion in the extreme, that therefore allow us to fully be human. And if this is true, then we owe our uniqueness to nature.

            I’ve had more lessons than just these two, some perhaps even more profound and some, arguably not. We’ll get to those. How does this all relate to my three weeks in Amsterdam? Well, psylocibins are legal here. You can buy them at any tourist shop, literally. I plan to take shrooms and go to the Van Gogh Museum; I looking forward to reporting back. I’m still seeking lessons.  But sometimes . . . I’m just happy to Benjamin Button and live in the imagination of my 5-year-old self, if only for a couple hours.

Dose 1: Fake Fleeing

I love weed. No, like, I fucking love weed.

            When I was 17, I sat at my favorite Japanese restaurant in the Del Mar Plaza, seven blocks from where I grew up, with my dad and sister. At the time, I was anti-cannabis because – like most people who think marijuana isn’t magic – I hadn’t tried it yet. I’m not sure exactly how we got on the subject, but I remember my dad saying, “Weed makes everything better. It makes food taste better, it makes movies funnier, it makes sex feel better. . .” I’m sure he went on to say more – like ‘it makes bowling more fun’ or some other shit he thought we could relate to even though we probably couldn’t – but, reacting like a teenage girl, I heard my father mention sex and was utterly disgusted and tuned out.

             It took maybe five years or so before I realized he was absolutely right. Weed turns a black and white world to vibrant color. If you take that too literally, I might sound like I’m depressed or like I don’t love life, which would be wrong; life is dope (pun intended). But that’s a quick and clean way for me to explain what I think the benefits of cannabis are: it turns the volume up on muted senses. For me, weed even helps distill my creative thoughts, or takes the swirling ideas of my subconscious and molds them into something understandable. As much as I love to stuff my face after eating an edible and smoking a J or two, it’s the way weed can shape my art that makes me love it most. I would literally chase good weed around the world. And well, here I am spending 3+ weeks in Amsterdam, doing exactly that.

            The idea for this trip was born out of the need to get the fuck out of America. That red haired umpa lumpa (I’m not sure that I can even type his name) was our president, the pandemic hit, my job went remote, I flew home to Del Mar from New York City, the death toll was rising, and then George Floyd was murdered, and I was so paralyzed I could barely leave my dad’s guest house where I was living, except to attend a few protests in the very white neighborhood where I grew up.

            I work in social and economic justice, and have since 2017, following the election of that god forsaken troll. My career path has been super weird and twisty, the only consistent part of it, is that I’ve always wanted – and figured out a way – to write. Ill try to run through it as quickly as I can: When I left for college, I wanted to write about race relations in America. I was hooked on this thing Tupac said in Resurrection in reference to showing his wide array of listeners what life was like in the hood through his lyrics (excuse me while I paraphrase): If I could just show them, if I could just make them see and understand, I believe they’d want to help. I thought that’s what art could do, my art, my writing. What exactly I wanted to show this hypothetical ‘them,’ I wasn’t quite sure yet (dating outside my race, I’d experienced a fair share of racism and fuckery for an economically privileged white girl, but I was still far from getting it). But regardless, I was full of fearlessness and hope and faith in humanity, and I moved to North Carolina feeling quite sure I could change the world. After college, I got an internship at 944 Magazine in Los Angeles, which, at the time, was a coveted position to land. It was a lifestyle and fashion magazine, but it was a start (not to mention, I adored all things fashion; still do). On my third day, they sent me to an Emmy after party to report on the red carpet on their behalf. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, but the other reporters were kind and helpful, and when LL Cool J came strolling down that red, faux velvet licking his lips, I was hooked on Hollywood. I climbed the ladder, got a job freelancing for Bauer publishing (think grocery store check-out line gossip column), and spent at least three nights a week on the red carpet making enough money to support myself. I did that for four years, but never lost the dream of being a “serious” writer, which translated to – writing and publishing a book. Well, as most stories go, I met a guy. He was a Molly dealer, and I was head over heels in love with him. So, perhaps inevitably, I began using and dealing, fronting him the cash for new product, and so on so forth. When the relationship ended, I had a story to tell. I wrote a proposal for a memoir, got excepted to an MFA program in New York City (ranked number 7 nationally, which I love to brag about, don’t care how obnoxious I sound) and left the sunny California coast to chase the dream. I graduated in 2016 and landed at the company I currently work for shortly after that.

            When I first started working in communications in the social sector, I felt this deep sense of purpose, like I had finally gotten back to being myself and doing the work I was meant to do. That same sense of purpose got me through those weeks of protests and the 2020 election, even when I thought America was god damn doomed (which it still might very well be). But work hours are long; the work is hard and taxing. Some days I’m saturated with so many depressing statistics about America that the work we’re doing seems to never be enough. And sometimes my job is still just a job, and I sit at my computer craving some escapism.

            I still write all the time (that’s what artists do, after all, create art). I’m currently trying get representation for and sell the memoir I’ve written, and I spent the last year layering in all the ways white privilege affected my experience with my black, drug dealing paramour – juxtaposing scenes rather than preaching my takeaways, the way any good, MFA-trained memoir writer does (that might only be funny to my writer readers). I’m proud of the book and what I hope to put out into world. It now feels like an amalgamation of my journey, a synthesis of what I once wanted to write and all that I have seen and learned since then. And if you want to read it (and listen to me analyze how the fuck I got into that situation and why), then you’re just going to have to wait to buy it in hard cover – or, call your agent friend, if you have one, and tell them to hit me up.

            Anyways, somehow all of this landed me in Amsterdam at the tail end (maybe) of the pandemic – where the drugs are legal, the men are gorgeous, and the food might actually make you cry. I needed a change of scenery, somewhere where I could get high as fuck whenever I wanted. My co-worker-turned-bestie, Shari, and I decided to ‘spend the whole summer’ in Amsterdam when we first learned our job was staying remote ‘permanently’. We figured we could get an apartment with a kitchen so we didn’t blow all our money on food or get fat eating cheese fries, set up an office and work New York hours, and spend our free time galivanting around an amazing city – where she’d been once before – and weekends hopping to different countries in Europe. (For the record, I think our job actually set a date for returning to an ‘office of the future’ sometime in late 2022, but I’m completely ignoring that at the moment). We were on some “fuck America, let’s bounce!” type shit, and decided to fake flee (meaning, we were gonna get the hell out of there, but we were also going to do a ton of planning first). Well, the ‘whole summer’ turned into five weeks when we got worried that working on such a dramatic time difference wouldn’t be feasible for that long. And that got shortened to roughly three weeks after we both moved (I signed a lease on an amazing apartment in Los Angeles; Brentwood, to be specific), bought furniture (which is fucking expensive, dear lord), and our budgets changed. I should probably note, that we are totally ignorant to Amsterdam politics or formal/informal social hierarchy. Other than knowing that drugs and prostitution are legal, we don’t know shit. That isn’t like us, generally, but we’re living in the bliss of our naivety, and I’ve been here like all of five minutes and I can already say: it’s pretty god damn blissful. I’ve already gotten high as a kite (no, literally, I was so stoned that I filmed an actual kite floating in the wind and posted it to my Instagram story ‘cause in my state I thought it looked cool), fake fell in love (definitely more on this later), and eaten a lot of shit that’s broken my heart and put it back together again before I even left the table.

            A few things did come to fruition: we did get an apartment with a full kitchen and an office where we’ll be working for the first five days (and two separate rooms because. . . boys). We’re living in Amsterdam Zuid, I think. To be honest, I’m not totally sure if that’s the name of the area, but I think it might be. More importantly, we’re a quick stroll from City Center, and we have two ‘Cheers bars’ (neighborhood bars that are super close to our apartment and perfect for meeting Tinder dates) called Bar Lempika and Amstel Haven. Our apartment has a view of a hidden garden on one end, and a straight shot of the canals on the other. So, basically . . . let the games begin!

Here's some bullet points on what I imagine this blog will include:

(And if you want photos, you can follow along on my Instagram and check out my story highlights)

• Travel stories

• Sexscapades with Tinder dates

• Marijuana reviews

• Restaurant recommendations

• How Americans are dumber than most people

• Psylocibins

• Amsterdam museum experiences

• Notes I wrote in my phone while I was super high

• Why I’m never going back to America

• How I became a 90 Day Fiancé