At least that’s what I thought they’d be called.  But they were nowhere to be seen on the menu.

          It was the 80s and I was in Amsterdam.  Of course I was no stranger to the wacky tabacky.  University in the 70s?  A couple of dozen festivals and rock concerts?  But I’d only smoked; never gotten around to the fabled hash brownies.  They were supposed to be on the menu in certain Amsterdam establishments and I was curious.  A bit hedonistic too.  I’d seen some of the “coffee houses” but none had been to my taste.  You couldn’t miss them once you clued in just a smidge.  They were no longer allowed to explicitly advertise themselves as places where you could order pot from a menu.  I imagine some coalition of uptight, society is going to pot the dogs types were behind the signage prohibition.  It wasn’t effective.

          It took a couple of days before I clued in to the fact that all these cafes with posters and paintings of the Jamaican flag weren’t really being run by Caribbean ex-pats.  And there was the one with the lettering “We don’t have beer but…” followed by a sketch of smoke rings.

          Still, I wasn’t taken with the ambience of the first few I happened by.  Lots of young Brits taking a break from soccer hooliganism or down and outers looking like their days revolved around the stuff.  I was aiming for something, not exactly upscale, but a bit more geared to a just dabbling/citizens of the world clientele in their 30s.  Finally I had one such place recommended to me.  I passed by one evening, it looked cool and inviting, and I vowed to check it out on the weekend.

          It was a Sunday aft and slightly cool so I had to put on my overcoat.  I walked in and purred at the attractive wood paneling and the couple of tables of downmarket yuppies.  Just the place I was looking for.  As I was by myself I sat at the bar which was a half level elevated from the main floor.

          The woman working the bar was amiable and brusque; what seemed to me a typically Dutch mix.  Definitely not the “have a nice day” Californianism that was ever-present in that era, nor the faux-friendly charm of some of the citizenry of a certain non-Romantic state so long as you looked like you had money to spend.  It seemed to me a sort of honesty.  She had a job to do and did it professionally.  Part of the job was being somewhere between civil and charming to the customers but she was in no way your servant.  And they could be blunt when circumstances dictated.  I really liked the Dutch.

          Anyway, I was studying the menu and nowhere were hash brownies listed.  I’d had it on good authority that they were on offer and it was certainly a smoking café, as a group at one of the tables below were demonstrating.  I considered asking the bar woman.  But no, wouldn’t be cool.  Too much like asking for directions.  Utterly against the code.  Couldn’t risk them thinking I’d just stumbled in from Peoria and the hell with the Rijksmuseum, this is why I’d come to Amsterdam.  Hmmm, lots of sandwiches, cheese plates, plenty of omelettes, and hey, what’s this?  Space cakes!  Could it be?  What else could it be?  I took a chance.

          She looked my way.  “Space cake and a coffee” as I stifled a grin.  It was a chocolately cake with an odd undertaste.  Not bad though.  I munched, sipped my coffee and read my magazine.  Finished the cake, had a smoke (not those ones), and finished my coffee.  Maybe it was a small dosage cake.  I ordered another round.  Fifteen minutes later, same result, or non-result.  I was beginning to feel ripped off.  It had been half an hour since my first bite and at best there was a very mild buzz.

          Some other guy pulled up at the bar.  Pulled out a joint.  Took a couple of hits and asked if I wanted some.  What the hell.  These space cakes aren’t doing anything.  I had a couple of tokes and then it hit me.  And then it hit me.  At first I thought my bar colleague must have the world’s best pot.  But two tokes surely couldn’t do all that.  Reality was taking on new dimensions.  Time was warping.  Awareness was deepening but of what I couldn’t be sure.  It must be the space cake finally kicking in.

          I contemplated what seemed to be the enormity of the situation.  It was a head and body stone combined and then multiplied by some number I dared not imagine.  The guy beside me tried to make conversation but I couldn’t reveal my condition.  I may have muttered “good stuff” but quickly retreated to what I hoped looked like a "Conversation is beneath me” state.  Maybe like Eastwood.  Except, as was now dawning on me, Clint wouldn’t have found himself incapacitated on a Sunday afternoon.  In a café where everyone was mellowing and shooting the breeze.  He wouldn’t have been wearing a Burberry trench coat, as I alone was.  Nor would he be reading the New Yorker, as I alone was.

          Now I was getting worried.  Was paranoia striking deep?  Might it into my life creep?  Should I be worried if it were?  Yeah, of course, but really or just disinterestedly?  Was I doing anything to attract attention?  I mean, aside from the Burberry trench coat, the New Yorker and the general immobility at the bar.  Might I be being a tad too self-conscious?  Now that was something to worry about.

          It was clear.  I had to get out.  It was hard to tell if everyone was watching or if it were just a few cagey lookouts.  I formulated an escape plan.  Stand up, put on my coat, button it up as I reconnoitered, stash the New Yorker in my pocket, and saunter to the exit.  Perfect!  Logical!  Flawless!  I went over it several times.  Not a glitch in sight!  Time to execute.  I stood up.

          “Are you leaving?” said the bar woman.  Panic!  Foiled!  An unforeseen circumstance.  Act of god.  Force majeur.  My plan out the window.  I needed to pay.

          “Not yet.  Another coffee please.”

          Obviously the plan needed a substantial revision.  I had it.  “And the bill please”.  Ha!  She might have been on to me but I was now on to her.

          I took a sip of the coffee.  Then the second space cake kicked in.  The escape plan got moved to the long term folder.  Now it was Operation “Don’t Fall Off the Bar Stool.”  Triangulate.  I’d heard that term somewhere.  Now I knew what it meant.  Lean forward on the bar.  Elbows two points, butt on the stool the other.  Read and don’t look up.

          I read.  But all I could absorb were the cartoons.  Funny stuff.  Very funny in fact.  Fucking hilarious some of them.  I stifled a chuckle.  Then a laugh.  Folded up the mag.  Too risky to continue.  Pondered the absurdity of the situation.  That too was pretty amusing.  Awfully amusing if you think about it.  Which I did in considerable depth.  A belly laugh fought its way to the surface.  Noooo.  I tried to recollect the Torture Museum I’d seen the day before.  It worked, sort of.  Acupuncture principle.  A thousand little pains distract you from one big one.  Bad call.  Change this channel.  The bar woman obliged.  I stared at the figures.  Could they be in Dutch?  I tried to look like I was checking the math while I hoped I was holding it right side up.  Left a couple of bills.  From the look on her face it was either the largest or the smallest tip she’d ever seen.  Inscrutable those Dutch.

          Back to Plan A.  I checked my path to the exit.  Oh no.  A large party was now occupying the main table between me and the door.  They’d pulled over another table and a few chairs as well.  That wasn’t the worst.  There was still a pathway but lying dead across it was this enormous dog-like creature.  Damn.  Stepping over it was out of the question.  It would require a big step with the high risk of tripping or treading on some part of it.  Then almost certainly commotion and blood.  A ruined Burberry trench coat.  Major loss of face, perhaps literally.  What about another coffee?  Nope.  I already had to take an urgent piss as I just realized.  Where exactly was that bathroom?

          Salvation, temporary though it was.  It was beside the bar.  No stairs to negotiate.  No jumbo canines either.

          I successfully make my way there.  Did the business and then splashed cold water on my face.  That felt better.  Banged my head against the wall.  Ouch.  Once was enough, more than enough actually.  I looked in the mirror.  Vaguely recognized someone I’d seen before.  Close enough.

          With new found confidence I strolled back to my seat.  Only seven steps - six more than what the longest journeys begin with.  That made sense to me then.  I checked out the sleeping giant.  It looked up.  A warning?  I couldn’t remain but didn’t want to proceed.  Another salvation appeared.  A vending machine off to the side on the ground floor.  I headed straight for it, bypassing Cerberus by several yards.  Shaking my head at the paucity of the selections, subtly but noticeably I hoped, I then headed to the door, again steering clear of the beast and only knocking over a couple of chairs.  I didn’t look back.