No. 90

My Week #31 Submission

The year was 1996. I was supposed to be graduating, but ended up being short a couple credits. I didn’t let that stop me from going on our Senior Trip though! It wasn’t the Bahamas Cruise that the rest of the class voted and went on — my posse and I had other plans…

I’d procured my first copy of High Times Magazine a couple summers before. And had developed quite the green-thumb, if you know what I mean. So I’d had my sights set on a trip across the pond, instead of to the islands.

So, myself and three of my closest comrades booked flights to Amsterdam. Yup. Four eighteen year olds with barely enough sense to tie their own shoelaces, booked a trip to Europe — passports and all.

Maybe right about now you’re wondering about parents? Well, dad wasn’t scheduled to get out until sometime next year. And mom had just remarried and moved in with her new husband, leaving my older brother and I the house to ourselves — or whomever else we invited, that is. Anyway, we had very little guidance, so to say.

Alright, I’mma skip to the good part.

We were so stoked when we landed and made it through customs — it turns out that coming in was much easier than leaving, but that’s another story altogether — that we headed straight for the Red Light District. It was the girls I was after, sure. But not the ones you’re probably thinking about. At least not yet. It would be the night before we left before I’d summon enough courage to attempt that feat…

So here we are, four teenage American youngans — it’s like 9am local time, we’re lugging bags down Oudezijds Voorburgwal Street. And I can only imagine how big our eyes were at the time. This Georgia boy, was absolutely astonished at the sights. It was as if we were on a different planet, y’all!

Then I saw it, The Bulldog.

I’d read about The Bulldog in High Times. I’d sat through countless hours of dial-up internet buzzing at me, and had devoured anything I could find on the Amsterdam Coffee/Smoke House scene. I’d also read everything I could find on the new and groundbreaking strains of Cannabis available, and had concluded that The Bulldog was the place to procure it.

As we approached I soon noticed that we weren’t the only ones in Amsterdam who’d had this epiphany. It looked as though half the city was queued up, waiting to get in. We stood there for like twenty minutes before a local, I thought at the time — I’d been surprised at how good everyone’s English was — advised us that we’d be better off without our bags. “There’s not a lot of room in there, mate.”

Photo credit The Bulldog The First

So after another five minutes of arguing about it amongst ourselves, we begrudgingly exited the line and got a taxi to our hotel. Which for the sake of time, I’ll omit that adventure. It was fairly uneventful anyhow. But it did take most of the morning. So by the time we made it back to The Bulldog, it was lunchtime and the queue had dwindled to just a handful of participants.

Now we visited a number of bars over the five days we were in Amsterdam, other Coffee Shops too — but none of them could hold a candle to The Bulldog The First. It was like entering Shangri-La.

Picture, the most chill bar on the planet. Then add Weed. 🤯

It was even cooler than I’d imagined. They had cannabis, under grow lights, right there on display in the coffeeshop. Sensimillia, in the coffeeshop!

We found a nice little booth — each ordered a spliff, and thought we were ready. We were oh so ready! As it turns out though, we were in fact, mistaken. We were not at all ready for what we were about to experience…

We’d decided that we were going to sample the menu, and had each ordered a different variety. But let me tell ya, there was very little sampling done on that first visit. I mean, keep in mind that I’d been smoking pretty much daily since I was fifteen or so. I was, in fact, a professional. Or so I thought. As it turns out, our eyes had been bigger than our lungs. After just three tokes off my own cone-spliff, I was in the stratosphere. I’m talking, absolutely obliterated.

That really doesn’t even do it justice. My three buddies, too. I think a half hour went by before any of us even spoke.

After we came back down to earth, we each bought an eighth and a small pipe and walked the streets of Amsterdam for the rest of the afternoon. We went out that night, and each of the others. Got into some things we probably shouldn’t have, and won’t soon forget. But it’s not the bars I think of when someone mentions Amsterdam to me.

I named two of my favorite strains, The Bulldog & No.90. And my fellow students around Athens surely had no idea the real meaning behind those titles. But The Bulldog at No.90 Oudezijds Voorburgwal, will always be the first thing I think of when someone mentions A Bar In Amsterdam to me.

---

Thanks for reading! I Hope this’ll inspire you to make your own submission to this week’s writing prompt, A Bar In Amsterdam!

Thanks for reading this fictional story! If you enjoyed this post, please consider sharing it and clicking that ❤ button, and I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Don’t like commitments, but still want to support my writing? You can make a one-time contribution here.

---