We were supposed to meet in Amsterdam. We were virgins. It was going to be mind-blowing (or “mind-blasting,” as Russell Peters says). But as most of my plans for Amsterdam, it all went to pot. I had many whiffs of you. Mainly in my hostel, the illustrious Bob’s. Seeing droopy eyes and smelling what would be a week’s worth of bad breath and rotten eggs in one room, I started to think you wouldn’t be a good idea. The clean room turned out to be filled with five blind mice and bed bugs; the good friend to meet me at 9 a.m. got delayed; the exhaustion creeped into our plans. And those fateful nights out, those times in coffee shops not meant for coffee whatsoever, became an early night in (although we somehow met a group of ladies dressed in nun attire on a bachelorette). But I realized my greatest high was the wonder of experiencing a new city: encountering Van Gough’s “Starry Night” for the first time; getting lost in the Red Light District; being invited into a local’s apartment after admiring the exterior; happening upon a marathon on our way to the Heineken Experience. It was real and I didn’t smell the day after. The hangover never went away. I just craved more.
Any experience with drugs on the road? Care to share?