Let's get one thing straight: it's illegal to possess marijuana in Amsterdam. However, the Dutch are quite possibly the most relaxed and liberal people out there, which means they'll gladly turn a blind eye to a little pot. With that, they'll arrest you in a second should you get the urge to throw a needle into your arm and chase some dragon. But with the lenient policy comes coffee shops - establishments set up to sell marijuana.

At the recommendation of a friend, my brother and I decided to hit up a shop called Grey Area. Having never been into a coffee shop, never the less purchased pot before, I wasn't sure what to expect and even less sure of how to operate in such an establishment. My brother, being an awesome sidekick, quickly sat at a table and looked at me with the "I'm not sure what we're doing, so you go make a fool out of yourself and I'll sit here looking cool" wave of the hand. Approaching the counter, I wanted to take the best tact.

1. I could walk up and act nonchalant like I do this sort of thing all the time. "Give me a bag of your finest refer my good man!"
2. I could plead ignorance, confess I hadn't really smoked that much marijuana since High School and ask for recommendations.
3. I could sell out my brother, point to him and say, "That dude has no fucking clue what's going on. Could you help him out?"

I went with number two.

(Echo walks up to the counter. He smiles, and through the haze of smoke, can tell that the proprietor looks vaguely American.)
Echo: Hey man, so I've never really done this before. (Fuck, I sound like a virgin on Prom Night)
Pot Dealer: Yeah, no worries.
Echo: (Realizing said dealer was, in fact, American) Oh rock on man. (Shit, shouldn't have thrown that surfer twang into my speech. He can tell I work in Advertising and I'm not selling grilled cheese out of the back of my van. He knows I'm a phoney. Damn, there's a lot of pot smoke in this small space. Holy crap, am I getting paranoid already? This thing doesn't usually happen until after I smoke. He can tell I'm nervous. I think that guy in the corner is laughing at me. I should say something. Something that doesn't sound like it came from a Cheech and Chong movie.) So, I'm looking for something that isn't going to freak me out. Something very chill. (There I go again. I'm 30 year's old. Anyone who says "chill" after 29 and isn't using it to refer to the temperature of the air is, in my book, a douche.)
Pot Dealer: Let me show you our menu. (He pulls out a menu. At this point, and I should reiterate how smokey the place was, he spoke so scientifically and pointedly about the different variations this establishment had that, were I not already reeling from the effects of the second-hand smoke, I wouldn't be able to comprehend what he was talking about.)
Echo: Sweet. (What the shit? Seriously? "Sweet"? That's all I could muster? The guy just gave a thesis on horticulture and I break out "sweet"?)
Pot Dealer: (Senses my bewilderment) I think you'd like the Chocolate Haze.
Echo: Ok. Sounds good.
Pot Dealer: We have it in 1 gram, 2 grams, and 3 grams.
Echo: (I've never been good with weights and measures. I'm even less skilled at the Metric System which might explain why I was kicked out of the School of Architecture at my University for designing a house with hallways so narrow, light actually bended around them. I figured I'd start small and asked for a gram. He reached into a drawer and pulled a bag out, finally placing it in front of me.)
Pot Dealer: So that's 12 Euros.
Echo: Damn that's a lot of pot! (Shit, did I say that inside or outside of these parenthesis? The dealer is laughing. Crap, outside again! I handed him the cash, and he asked which implement we'd like to smoke out of. Figuring a bong was too complicated, I opted for a bowl as, had you known me back in '95, the bowl was my go-to implement. Well, that and a gravity bong. I digress.)

Upon purchasing my marijuana and selecting my device of inebriation, I was handed a paper towel and an alcohol swab. Somehow, through my fog of insight, I remembered we were in Amsterdam and assumed Herpes had a higher rate of infection in this city than most. Would the alcohol swab be enough to kill the virus? And what the hell were we doing with this paper towel?

Wiping as much of the bowl as I could with the alcohol swap, I then took some of the pot out of the bag and placed it into the pipe. I had a minor freak out when it occurred to me that alcohol burns and I'd just doused the thing in high-proof and was about to put a lighter up to it. Flashes of "A Very Special Oprah Show" passed through my mind as I envisioned me, still wrapped in bandages, telling the audience about the dangers of drugs. And yet, I was willing to take that risk. A slow and steady drag on the pipe and I felt the smoke land throughout all corners of my body. I stifled a cough and handed the bowl to my brother.

Personally, I never feel the full effects of marijuana until I stand up. Time slows down. My words become efforts, and a layer of warmth hovers millimeters off my skin. I turned to my brother, put the remaining pot into my coat pocket, and mustered up "We should go grab some food."

We were in Amsterdam for just under 6 hours. I had no idea where we were, where we were going, and where our hotel was. We were stoned, and I had a burning feeling (something I pictured as a soft red glowing orb) in my left leg. I realized, with great mental effort, I could move this ball of heat around my body. After getting it under control, I pushed it out to my right hand and turned it over and over. My brother was a few steps ahead of me, unaware his twin brother had summoned the power of the sun. Imagine the Street Fighter-like implications should I learn to throw the ball at attacking opponents.

All roads lead to the Red Light District. I'm not sure which came first, the town center or the prostitutes. But whatever the case, we'd found ourselves staring at heavily made-up women (at least I think they were women) wearing almost no clothes shaking their over-sized chests at us. I may have drooled. I couldn't focus.

This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time.

I've lived in New York for almost 9 years and have yet to see (or positively identify as such) a prostitute. And suddenly, there was a thin strip of red lit glass between me and a genuine woman of the night. The closest I'd ever come to this situation was a few years ago when I found myself outside a Krispy Kreme at 11pm offering the janitorial staff blowjobs if they'd only sell me a few of the store's chemically addicting glazed donuts.

In a moment of clarity, several things became very apparent.

1. I have a girlfriend.
2. That red spot on the prostitute's lips wasn't poorly applied lipstick, but something much more sinister.
3. I was high as shit.
4. I was positive I didn't have enough Euros on me to do anything with this girl.
5. I wonder if she takes American Express? Which slot do I slide my card through?
6. If I do pay for this with my credit card, how will it show up on my bill?

Turning to my brother, I belched out, "We need to get the fuck back to the hotel."

Past canals, and churches. Through alleys, and squares. We made it back to our hotel. I helped myself to a previously purchased Milky Way. My ball of fire had dwindled to a silent ember residing in the big toe of my right foot. As I fell onto the bed exhausted and still fully clothed, I rolled over and heard the distinctive crunch of a plastic bag deforming under the weight of a heavier object. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the 90% of a gram of pot we had left. I held it in my hand and turned to my brother.

"Dude, we've got a lot of this shit left. We need to smoke it before we get back on the plane."

He looked at me, smiled, and said, "That sounds pretty chill."

Author's note: My brother happens to be an amazingly talented and mostly non-drug taking artist. He took all of the photos in this article, and I recommend you check out his website for more of his artwork.