The Marijuana Chronicles

I broke out in a cold sweat, as did my wife. My trembling hands quickly surveyed the pockets of my jacket and trousers, which I had not worn for some time. Of course, each of the pockets on my jacket harbored at least one roach, which I managed to drop into the bushes as we inched along the path. I kept picturing the agents opening that container of talcum powder, laughing their asses off triumphantly, then checking our asses, and finally leading us off to a damp, stony prison cell (without a cell phone, without a call to our embassy, without our lawyer or our families). We would surely spend the rest of our lives there, dreaming of Club Med cocktails on the beach at sunset while we dined on tostada gruel and Montezuma’s Revenge water.

My wife and I walked up and hit the dreaded button together, holding our collective breath. I can still see my shaking hand reach for the button, which somehow turned green. A miracle. We could breathe again—though I think it was several minutes before either one of us did.

(Rule #2a: Whether you are traveling to Club Med, Disney World, or even on a Carnival cruise, do not take anything for granted.)

Did I learn my lesson? Of course not.

The Safety of Amsterdam

or

Tip #3: Don’t Skip the Dry Cleaners

I was going to be in Belgium for a business meeting and asked my wife to join me. After the three-day meeting, we would take a train to Amsterdam for a few days. The business part of the trip was going to be serious and boring; thus, no need to bring along any reefer. (Why waste good weed on boring business meetings?)

Business concluded, we headed to Amsterdam, just a few days into the trip. The train ride was long and tiresome, a local as it turned out that stopped frequently in Belgium and then Holland. We had pla

The hotel turned out to be old and beautiful and we were told there was a wonderful restaurant just across the canal. As we were unpacking, my wife asked me if I had a light for her cigarette. I didn’t, as I hadn’t wanted to lose yet another lighter to US Customs.

But as I was going through my valise, I found a match box I didn’t remember bringing along, and I handed it to my wife, who opened it and said, “What the hell is this?!”

It turned out to be packed tight with pot. Then, looking in my shoulder bag, I found a rolled joint, along with a roach or two. Of course, we were safe in Amsterdam, a city that has been attracting pot smokers for years. But needless to say, the businesspeople with whom I was meeting in Antwerp would not have looked kindly upon me if I had missed my plane out of JFK or was stopped entering Belgium because of a drug violation. Once again luck was on my side—or in this case, ignorance was bliss.

(Rule #10 or 11 [I’ve lost count]: Unpack your bags before loading up for another trip!)

But here’s a fact, the truth, whatever you want to call it. I am a man of serious aches and pains, an actual condition that has impeded my walking, and pot is my medicine. I swear. I could no more walk the cobblestone streets of Europe than I could walk on air, something the drug makes possible. Should I move to California, or better yet, Washington or Colorado? Maybe. The only problem is getting there. Plane? Train?

And then there was the time I found four kilos of cocaine on a beach in Miami. But that’s another story for another time.

Happy traveling!

T

HAD

Z

IOLKOWSKI

is the author of

Our Son the Arson

, a collection of poems, the memoir

On a Wave

, which was a finalist for the PEN/Martha Albrand Award in 2003, and

Wichita

, a novel. In 2008, he was awarded a fellowship from the John S. Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. His essays and reviews have appeared in the

New York Times, Slate, Bookforum, Artforum, Travel

&

Leisure

, and

Index

. He directs the writing program at Pratt Institute.

jacked

by thad ziolkowski

The rental’s GPS declares with satisfaction that I have reached my destination but all I can make out, along both sides of the road, is scrub and evergreens. Which might be fu

Assuming I’m here. Finally, in the shadow of a spruce (or fir or larch or whatever) I spot the mailbox and cattle gate my brother described. I get out of the car, unhitch the rope keeping the gate closed, walk the gate open, get back in the car, and drive through onto the dirt road on the far side. Then I get out and close the gate, rehitching the rope, and get back in the rental. At which point a phrase from Marx comes to mind: The idiocy of rural life.

The dirt road has a strip of mossy grass ru

As the car crests a rise, the house appears swathed in fading milky sunlight, a modern two-story, familiar from photos, the wide rolling lawn and guest cottage. Half a dozen pickups and cars are parked in the upward-sloping driveway. A barn in the distance, a greenhouse. Dirt bikes and an ATV in the side yard. I know how recent and precarious this prosperity is, but seeing the spread in person releases a shot of envy mixed with something like shame that prickles my cheeks unpleasantly. The contrast with my monastic room in the group loft on Manhattan’s Avenue D is just too stark. I’m possessed by an impulse to back down the driveway and slip away before I’m noticed, somehow call the whole thing off from afar.

But Justin emerges gri

“Man, sorry about the canceled flight,” he says. “What a drag!”

“Not at all—I got to hang in decadent Salt Lake City for the night.”

He laughs in the coughing way he has, meanwhile pulling back to search my face. “Hey, wa

“Not really.”

He stands squinting at me uncertainly.

“Jesus, I’m kidding!” I say. “Of course I want to see your precious garden!”