High Times in Amsterdam

You don’t have to walk far from the Central Station before the pungent, heavy scent of marijuana becomes apparent. 

Caught on a breeze, the traces of various potent strains waft down the narrow alleys and waterways, while in the entrances of the coffeeshops a denser fog tends to linger.  In Amsterdam, since the 1970s, there has been a policy of tolerance in regard to marijuana. This relaxed attitude to the sale and consumption of a commonly criminalized narcotic draws 1.5 million weed tourists to the city each year, an international brigade of stoners who puff away good-naturedly before shambling off in search of a pastry or pancake.  

At around 11am, we consulted out first menu – a list of indicas, sativas and hash that promised anything from a languid and introspective stone to a sunny, euphoric high. Camped in a dingy corner booth we lit up. The ritual of passing the spliff commenced, setting the tone for the next few days.  

Like spaced-out nomads, we searched for the most Gezellig environment; a cosy, relaxing place where good times and laughter happen easy. We passed through The Doors, walls covered in graffiti and colourful artwork enshrining the bands of 60s psychedelia; we lost ourselves in the mysterious, undulating soundtrack being played out in Café Abraxas ; in The Grey Area we watched the world float by from our window, looking out along the canals.   

As dusk creeps in, the lights from the elegant townhouses and continental cafes are reflected back off the darkened, calm waterways that dissect the city. 

Crossing the roads proves a tense experience, as the sedated and unsuspecting must beware of the bicycles that constantly patrol the streets. There is barely enough time to register the sharp, perfunctory ping of a bell, before a good-looking Nederlander sweeps past, a smile or curse on their lips depending on how close a collision was.   

Later at night, in the Red Light District, our group splits up. For one of us the pursuit of carnal pleasures is on the agenda, and he dives into the warren of crowded alleys, seeking his scantily clad temptress. In small glass-fronted cells the prostitutes try to lure a ‘john’ with smiles and waves, brazen displays of leg and thong. The hot summer air is charged electric with the promise of sex. 

Waiting by the Oude Kerk, we who remain share a beer and a joint, and wonder what the civic militiamen from Rembrant’s Night Watch might have made of this. Perhaps not so much has changed since then – there is still the historic commitment to tolerance and personal liberty, to progress and beauty and peaceful prosperity.

The church tower looms imposingly over the square, but surrounded by the iniquity it appears like a frontier fortress about to be overrun. 

The same bells that have sounded through the centuries chime a delicate, tinkling melody that cuts through the hum and rush of the Saturday crowd. Against this backdrop, the ghosts of the Dutch Golden Age almost seem tangible, and the bustling streets come alive with all the artists, thinkers, sailors, whores, statesmen and slave-traders who built this place.