It's our last day in Amsterdam, an okay city, clean streets, nice people, sights to see,
etc. etc. Oh, then there are the marijuana cafes, everywhere, blending in among
the other shops. My wife and I want to visit one, just to see. We walk inside.
It’s 1:00 P.M., the people inside are cool, a few blonde Rastas, men
in business suits, a pretty normal crowd, all sitting around in chairs and
couches, talking, and toking up, suave, como sin nada, just another day in the
Netherlands.
It’s the early
2000s. Back in California, sick people hadn’t yet started turning to medical
marijuana, Amsterdam is way ahead of its time, all these people getting loaded,
legally. My wife wants a souvenir, to try later, so she buys a marijuana cookie,
a big ass cookie, chocolate chip. Neither of us had done “yesca” in years, a cookie,
I think, lightweight, not like smoking herb.
That evening,
about 6:00 P.M., we catch the train to Poland, our destination Krakow. We have
to travel across Germany to get there, about an eight-hour train ride. It’s winter,
January and cold, like Arctic cold. A few hours later, we’re out of the Netherlands
and cross into Deutschland, and those images of my dad’s generation, at war,
come flooding to me. It’s dark outside. I try to get some sleep, and, in no time,
I’m out.
I am
awakened by my wife shaking me. She wants soup, and to stretch a little, so she
says she’s heading to the dining car. She didn’t want me to wake up and find
her gone, the stuff of an Agatha Christie novel, a boomer Chicana disappears on
the train to Krakow, not a bad plotline. I don’t’ know, maybe a half-hour later, I hear a conductor
coming down the aisle, saying, “Passports,” in a weird English-Deutch accent.
A
disconcerting idea comes to me -- the cookie! Is pot legal in Germany? I don’t
think so. What do I know about it? What if he asks to check our bags and finds the dope? Panic!
Without giving it much thought, I reach into my wife’s travel bag, take out the
cookie (it’s bigger than I remember), and shove it into my mouth, taking hefty bites,
at the same time, imagining my wife and me in a German jail. I swallow, hard,
and, with my tongue, clear chocolate chips, and any green remnants of “mota” off
my teeth. The conductor enters our cabin.
“Gute
Nacht,” he says, which sounds like, “Goot Nihten,” and he asks for the
passports. I tell him my wife is in the dining car. I hand him both passports. He
checks them and gives something like a friendly salute, and he walks away. I sit
back, my heart pumping, but relieved.
When my
wife returns, I tell her what happened. I thought she’d be impressed by my
quick thinking, smart, and, maybe, heroic, saving us from years in a Nazi
prison camp. She says, in a questioning tone, “You’re kidding. You ate the
whole thing?”
“Yeah,
right, all of it. I had to.”
“You didn’t
save me half, at least?”
“Save you
half? That half could get us time in jail. I don’t know if ‘weed’ is legal in
Germany. We’d be transporting illegal drugs across international borders. How
do I know. I couldn’t take a chance.”
“I'm sure, so, you
ate it all. Come on.”
“It’s just a
cookie. You aren’t missing much. How strong can it be?”
A couple of
hours later, she asks, “Anything?”
“Naw. I
told you. It’s just a cookie, probably weak homegrown, anyway.”
As we enter
the train station in Berlin, she says she’s going to the bathroom. It seems
like no more than a few minutes. I hear a mechanical voice make the announcement, “Berlin.” My head
feels really light, but kind of panicky, you know, how marijuana plays with
your head during “blastoff.” I know we don’t have to get down from the train,
so I sit tight. I hear loud voices, like echoing in my brain. Uh-oh. Coming up
the aisle are two big German cops, blonde, of course blonde, in uniforms,
Gestapo style. Anyway, that’s how they look in my fizzling mind. They open the cabin
doors and look inside. It’s 1944, at least, that’s how I’m feeling. No, no. I’m
cool. “Orale,” I don’t say it, but I think it, to calm myself.
One cop smiles
and says, “Gute Nacht.” Did I say these dudes were big. I hear World War II raging
outside, the sounds of those Nazi police sirens coming to get you. One guy holds
the leash to an enormous German shepherd. I respond, my voice quaking, “Hello,
good night.” The dog sticks his massive head into the cabin and sniffs. Stay
away from my lips, dog. One guy looks around, surveying our bags. He nods,
smiles, and continues up the aisle.
My wife
returns. I describe the scene, the Nazis and all. It isn’t coming out right.
She laughs. “You’re stoned.” She tells
me to sit back and rest. In my head, every sound reverberates and echoes. More
time passes. I can’t keep my conversation straight. I laugh a lot. My wife
shakes her head. Finally, somebody says we’re nearing Katowiche, where we’ll
take a short break. “Katowiche,” I ask my wife? “Is that Polish for Krakow, sure
sounds it?”
“I don’t
know,” she says. “Maybe you should go outside and ask.”
All these
thoughts go through my head, like are we on the right train. She points to a kiosk
and says I should ask there. I put on my jacket. It’s a gale outside. My North
Face won’t protect me from the blast of frost outside. It’s like stepping into
an ice box. It’s late. When I reach it, the kiosk is closed. People gather
around, also wondering if they’re in the right place. It's like the Tower of Babel, everyone speaking different languages. We all stare up at the
large train schedules hanging from the ceilings. I check to see our train
number and destination. It's in Polish. I don't know Polish.
After a
while, mesmerized by the exotic names. I turn, once again, to look at station name. Katowice. My wife comes up next to me. “What happened to you? You’ve been out here
twenty-minutes. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I
answer. “Say Katowiche, but pronounce it, Katoweeche, like Spanish, melodic. It’s a cool
name, right, Katoweeche. Sounds Indian.”
“You’re
stoned.”
“No,
really.” I tell her to say it. “It’s got a soothing sound, Katoweeche.”
She shakes
her head, but says, “Katoweeche. Yes, it is kind of nice. Now, come on.”
“I told
you, see.”
“Well, are
we okay, on the right train?”
“I don’t
know. Look at that sign. It’s all in polish.” The more I look at it, the more
the big sign looks like a mural. I think it's beautiful lettering, a masterpiece, a Posada, except no calaveras.
She looks
up at the sign. In a minute she finds our train number, destination, Krakow,
and estimated time of arrival. “We’re fine,” she says, takes me by the arm and
leads me back towards the train. “Come on. Let’s get inside before we freeze.”
“Yeah, that chocolate chip cookie was strong, man.”
The rest of
our trip is uneventful. We pull into the Krakow train station. It’s old,
stained white tiles on the walls exiting the station tunnel. It’s like we’re in East
L.A, grungy but with style. Our driver doesn’t speak English. We don’t speak Polish. We point to the name
of our hotel from a card. He doesn’t read English, either. It works out. He
finds a taxi driver who reads English.
Oh, a couple of days later, my wife got caught in a snowstorm
coming from the only Mexican restaurant in the Krakow, the only place she would
eat dinner, each night. She isn’t a sausage fan. This night, I passed. The snow fell, burying the signs she followed back to the hotel. She walked in circles, and in her panic, she forgot the name of our hotel. Long story short, eventually, somehow, she found her way back, shivering, standing at the door to our hotel
room, trying to explain what happened, looking disheveled, like she’d gotten
the worst of the cold drift, like she’d just had a hit of a chocolate chip cookie. "Welcome home," was all I said.
