Anyone who lives in the United States and has been to Amsterdam will relate to this. For those that have not, let it serve as a warning. After a very hazy week of overindulgence, I found myself confronted with less than an hour to reach Schipol Int’l and catch my connecting flight to Brussels. To avoid any potential meeting between my prostrate and U.S. Customs, I diligently checked all my baggage and clothing for stray bits of ganja. Packed and ready to call for a taxi, I realized that I had close to a quarter in leftovers. My friends had departed the night before and left their unfinished stash in my possession So much ganja, so little time. A small ball of King Hassan, a larger one of Tbizla and almost a gram of Nepalse Cream sat on the counter next to various incarnations of White Widow, Super Silver Haze, White Rhino, White Avalanche, Hindu Kush and AK-47. I quickly consolidated all the ganja into one sloppy, massive joint and fired away. After a week of practice, I managed to finish about a third this monster in ten minutes.
I made several failed attempts at calling a taxi and opted for pressing the single button marked ‘front desk’. It took me a few minutes to realize that the very patient woman at the front desk was, in fact, speaking English and that I was simply too stoned to understand what she was saying. I took a moment to try and focus, but could only feel myself getting higher and higher the longer I waited. I was experiencing the fear. A transfer in Brussels and a assload of luggage would not make for an easy, expedited commute in this condition. Twinges of paranoia kept me thinking, ‘did i check my luggage for leftovers?’, ‘what if I missed something’. I called the front desk again and restricted myself to saying only three words, “taxi, room 114″. I still could not understand the woman on the phone, but figured she understood and made my way to the door. What about all the hash on the counter? It seemed rude to leave it out for housekeeping to throw away, but I could not bring myself to throw it in the garbage. (In the U.S. it would have been a very nice tip, but in Amsterdam if seemed like the equivalent of leaving a half-smoked pack of cigarettes). Every second of delay brought another level of certainty that I was never going to make my flight. For some reason the only option I could think of was to eat it all. Grated, I was way too high at the moment, but reasoned that the hash would not kick in for at least an hour…just when I would be able to sit back and enjoy the long flight home.
After a few confusing minutes engaged in the checkout process, I was in a taxi headed for the airport. The driver took one look at me and started laughing. Before I even said a word, he asked where I was from in the States. Apparently, the driver felt some rivalry with the infamous hacks of the Big Apple and decided to prove that the most frightening taxi ride could be had in the Netherlands. I think we peaked at about 135 mph (near 230 kph on his speedometer). I desperately needed to pass out and regroup, but was too terrified close my eyes. To the driver’s credit, he got me to the airport with time to spare. Disoriented to the extreme, I swayed through airport in search of my airbus to Brussels. Ordinarily, if I were this high I would just pass out, but I had to catch my flight. Nothing like having to force yourself to stay conscious when all your brain wants to do is shut off.
My brain and I reached various compromises along the way to check-in. I was allowed limited control over balance and coordination, some verbal skills, but limited vision and absolutely no short-term memory. I had to look at my ticket, when I could find it, every thirty seconds just to remember what airline I was on. I tried to check my bags, but machine gun laden airport security came over and escorted me to a small alcove. I was informed that I could not board until I spoke with someone known as ‘the inspector’. All I could think of was that scene in midnight express where the sweatly warden hung the protagonist upside down and beat his feet with a club. With five minutes left to make my flight, I finally met ‘the inspector’. Turns out that a better translation for ‘the inspector’ would have been ‘the cheese police’. Earlier, my transparent bag alerted secuirty to the fact that I was transporting potentially dangerous, soft-ripen cheeses. Perhaps it was the relief of being busted for mere cheese or the extreme formality and pompousness of the cheese inspector, but I started to laugh uncontrollably to point of insulting this warden of Dutch dairy products.
I made the airbus, minus two wheels of brie, only to find that it would be delayed for half an hour. This would leave me fifteen minutes to transfer in Brussels. I would have been pissed, but I passed out within seconds of taking a seat. I woke to discover three things. First, I was being violently shaken. Second, I had no idea where I was. Third, the hash had fully kicked in. I saw several heads looming over me and heard different voices with the same concerned tone. The problem was that I could not match each voice with correct head, making direct communication impossible. I looked for someone in a uniform, showed my ticket and said, “transfer”. He pointed and I ran. I focused on my legs, thinking out each big stride, thinking ‘be the juice, be the juice!’ (This was before he killed his wife. Remember that old Hertz commercial.) I was pleased with my ability to run in somewhat of a straight line considering my overall disorientation and the fact that I could not feel my thighs. So pleased, that I ran right passed the correct gate to the other side of the airport. Confronted with less than two minutes to board, I picked up the pace to a full out sprint. I came off one of those odd horizontal escalators at full speed and wiped out right in front of the correct gate.
At long last I had made it. Those boarding the plane looked at me like a deranged, clumsy oaf, but I carried the smile of a marathon runner crossing the finish line. This is, until I was asked for my ticket, which was nowhere to be found. I became enraged and started tearing through the contents of my carry-on luggage. I enlisted the unwilling help of those left on line as I opened every conceivable zipper and delayed the flight. It was not until threats of violence were issued from a fellow American that I checked my own pockets and finally uncovered the tickets. Down the boarding tube I think I asked at least five different people if I was on the correct flight. I asked the stewardess at the plane door at least twice before I would even set foot on the plane. It took a nod from the co-copilot just to usher me down the aisle. I saw the sweet seat that was to cradle my corporal form for the next seven hours and almost came to tears. I only woke up twice during the flight. Once, to spill a half-eaten dinner tray on someone who had foolishly tried to pass it to me. And again to confirm that I was on the correct flight.
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