Randi Kreiss

Back to the USA after an interlude in Amsterdam

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A girl walks into a bar.

Actually, a woman of a certain age walks into a coffee shop.

To be perfectly honest, I walked into a coffee shop in Amsterdam last week and bought a joint.

It was a remarkable experience to just step into a store, see an array of marijuana selections, pick out what I wanted and make a purchase. For the young woman helping me, it was an ordinary transaction among hundreds of sales she makes every week. For me, it was delightful to be able to purchase pot openly and honestly.

For my husband, it was freak-out time.

When it comes to pot, my husband is stuck in the mindset of “Reefer Madness,” the overwrought 1936 movie that depicted marijuana use as the short road to hallucinations, suicide, murder, mayhem and hell. So when I mentioned that I wanted to sample the merchandise at one of Amsterdam’s “coffeeshops,” he reluctantly agreed to come along, basically to protect me from the derelicts he expected to find hanging out there. But the folks inside looked like us, locals and travelers, decently dressed, recently showered and well groomed. Lots of wedding rings and backpacks, and nary a sign of degeneration or overindulgence.

My husband kept looking over his shoulder. I believe he was expecting to be busted any minute by Navy SEALs or possibly his mother, who’s been dead for a long time. But guilt is guilt.

I had gotten over any guilt years ago when I discovered that pot ameliorated the symptoms of a medication I have to take, allowing me to fall asleep at night. But getting medical marijuana in New York is an exercise in frustration, endless waiting and disappointment. The cannabis oils that are available just don’t always work as efficaciously as traditional pot.

There are hundreds of pot emporia all over Amsterdam, all called coffeeshops and not to be confused with cafes or coffee houses, which actually sell coffee. Many of the shops have tables and serve coffee and snacks, and have a separate area for those over 18 to purchase weed.

Apparently, the Dutch drug policy is guided by the idea that every human has the right to decide about matters concerning his or her own health — and that hiding socially negative phenomena doesn’t make them disappear. On the contrary, it makes them worse, because when concealed, they become far more difficult to control.

Applying these ideas to their drug laws, the Dutch have largely decriminalized drugs, making them a private matter for each individual, not for law enforcement. This philosophy and the laws apply to “soft” drugs like marijuana, of course. Hard drugs, like cocaine, heroine and methamphetamine, are illegal.

The biggest, rowdiest crowds we encountered were in the infamous Red Light District of the city where we strolled one evening. It was so unsexy; just hordes of drunk people weaving along the sidewalk, gawking at the women posing in the windows. The scantily clad women looked pretty bored, and so did most of the bystanders, except for the throngs of frisky young men.

I had researched a few of the coffeeshops, and selected two for my purchases: Blackbird and The Grey Area. With my hubby scanning the crowd like a Secret Service agent, I entered the shop, asked for a kind of marijuana that would help me sleep and purchased a “pure joint” for 5 euros. Pure joints contain just pot; regular joints are mixed with tobacco.

The problem was where to try it out. I only wanted to smoke before bedtime, so we walked outside our hotel in the evening, I took two puffs (since I wasn’t sure about potency), and we headed upstairs. I slept really well. Next day, I tried The Grey Area. The woman there suggested another strain, and I purchased another joint. Two puffs again at bedtime, my head hit the pillow and I was out.

The next day we were flying home, so I offered the two joints to our server at breakfast. An Amsterdam native, she said she would take them for some friends; she herself did not smoke. Never had. She said it just wasn’t a big deal, probably because it was so available.

My husband was sure that drug-sniffing dogs would jump all over me as I entered U.S. Customs, but I wasn’t carrying anything illegal and any aroma from the entire four puffs I had ingested over the week had long since dissipated.

The attitude toward soft drugs in Amsterdam seems so grown-up and sensible. I believe we should move toward legalization for recreational use, and hope that people will handle the drug and themselves responsibly. Here in New York state we must cut the red tape and make access to medical marijuana less cumbersome.

I loved Amsterdam. I felt as if I were living for a few days in an enlightened, evolved society. My husband, however, may never get over his walk on the wild side.

Copyright © 2016 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.