“Well, where d’you wanna go, first-timer?” I ask.
“To weed!”
“To spliffs!” Max and Grant chime in. And we walk into the night in a familiar city. Past the Soup Kitchen, down the skinny crooked alleyways all lit neon and inviting.
We roll into a pipe-shop and ask the guy where the best coffee shop is. You know the kind. “There’s a few just down the street that are really nice,” he tells us. “Where are you guys from?”
“California mang.”
“California! Awesome! Go to the one on the far side of the canal. It’s really cool.”
“Sweet. Thanks bud.” And we take a minute to show Mike the mushrooms in the fridge that aren’t really mushrooms because they’re truffles, which aren’t illegal like mushrooms are because they’re grown underground.
“Ha! That’s epic!” He exclaims. “I already love this fucking place! Fuck Paris.”
For real. We all march down the street and across the canal like little wind-up toy soldiers on a roll. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot with the spring of impending highness in our step. I should know the name of the place, but well, my short-term ain’t what it used to be. It’s dark and trance-y and all the seats and tables are spread out and low to the ground. We set our things down by an old, broken-in couch and a split log table.
“Ah, minimalist techno,” Max is so observant.
Mike’s already in awe, “Say what…” We go up to the counter, also made of split wood, and browse over a menu. The guy behind it takes stock of us. He’s a chiller.
“Where you guys from?” he asks.
“California.” And suddenly there’s a sparkle in his eyes. It never gets old.
“Oh, so you guys like the good stuff, eh?”
“The best,” says Max.
“But we’re also broke,” I add.
“Yeah, how’s Sangria?” asks Grant. He’s making moves. It’s the cheapest gram on the menu, 9 EUR.
“Oh, man. You guys don’t want the Sangria,” says the man in comfortable English. “Trust me, it’s shit. You want the Pirate’s Plunder. It’s only a buck more, but it’s dank. No White Widow (14 EUR), mind you, but still dank.”
“Dankity dank?” I ask.
“Yeah, bro. The pocket saver.”
Max is sold, “Sick. We’ll take three grams please. Grant,” he says, “Brian and I are gonna have to owe you.” But he’s all for it, bless his mustached soul.
“Do we even have papers?”
“Don’t need ‘em Mikey-poo,” Max says fingering a few king-sized ones from the tissue box on the counter. There’s a small wooden charm box beside it full of pre-cut crutches.
“Hot damn, Holland is cooler than America,” says Mike.
“I know right?” Because in a lot of respects it really is. Especially as we all plop down on the couch and Grant rolls up a fat one. And our Dutch friend behind the counter wasn’t fooling, because when we pick up our bags to leave, we’re hiiigh. High as funk. We thank him and slide out onto the street. Katinka said we’d be staying at a friend’s house this time. Bigger. And closer too, by the canals. It’d be a little walk, but not too far. Grant had the coordinates on his phone and we take off. High. High as a kite, with the wind blowing in every direction.
[stop]
At some point, that wind went blowing us astray because after an hour, we're still looking for the place. By canals, over bridges. The addresses are all mixed up, it seems. These silly Dutch sailors, making everything so hard to find. An old lady sees us, slowly deteriorating under our packs, and asks in grandmotherly, concerned English, "Are you guys lost?" Lost like lost puppies, and faces like them too. And high. And why are you the kindest, sweetest lady ever? We tell her where we're going, and she tells us where to go. Over a bridge. Across a canal. And to Katinka's door.
"I've missed you guys!" she smiles, and we miss her too. It's a two-floor flat with a sprawling floor-plan, and vinyl covers and big canvases on the walls and wooden wheel coffee tables. A place for young men to stretch and laugh and eat and drink and smoke. And dance and play music loud. A place to be Dutch kings for two nights.
