The ease of attainability and general wide-spread use of marijuana in Amsterdam allows you to forget that, outside the city, the real world exists. It is a world of laws, and police, and consequence. But when you're rolling a joint in a cafe and thinking about how great you'll feel in a few minutes, that voice comes out loud and clear reminding you, "This shit would be great back in the States." You can convince yourself that smuggling a bit of pot back to America isn't that hard. Put it in a air tight bag, place it between your butt cheeks, throw it in your sock. You can get away with it. How could you not?

I spent a few hours before packing to leave Amsterdam debating if and how I'd smuggle marijuana back home. It wasn't like I'd be bringing cocaine or heroin back. This was light stuff. They'd go easy on me. If I were caught, they'd probably give me a slap on the wrist, take it away, and maybe make me pay a fine. I could handle that. It would be worth the risk. I just wish I had a better grasp of how airport security worked.

Schiphol Airport is what all airports are becoming. Clean, open, and efficient. They pipe bird noises into the halls in an effort to calm anxious travelers. Replete with moving walkways and bright signs, you feel very welcome. And, unlike most airports in the United States, you aren't funneled through one security station, but instead you're taken through security at your gate.

This is both good and bad.

It's good because it's quick. You aren't waiting for the elderly lady with the Tweety Bird sweatshirt on to remove her shoes, belt, change, jewelry, wallet, dentures, etc... while the rest of the line stares angrily at her. But, you also see every single person who will be on your flight. And, with this, you start wondering who the terrorists are. At this point, we've been so spooked by the government that we'll assume tan kids from Wisconsin coming home from Spring Break in Miami have enough C4 strapped to their chest to turn everything in the plane to a fine metallic dust. You judge, you fill in the blanks. Why did that guy have to step back through the metal detector? Is that a turban or a hairpiece? What does accelerant smell like?

Upon reaching the front of the line, you are taken to one of several podiums and asked a series of questions. Who packed your suitcase? Have your bags ever been outside your view? What would you title your autobiography? First, these are ridiculous questions. With all that's happened over the past 10 years, if you haven't figured out how to travel properly and safely, perhaps you shouldn't be allowed to operate a toothbrush let alone flying on a plane. Second, let's say you do intend to blow up the plane ... would you tell them that you did not pack your own bag? That's like climbing Mount Everest, getting 100 feet from the Summit and jumping off a cliff.

I made it through the line of questioning, but beeped when I went through the metal detector. Having spent the entire week in Amsterdam and removing every single metallic object from my body upon entering the many museums' security check points, I figured I'd mastered the process. And yet, I beeped. I beeped twice. I was sure I had no metal on me, and yet a large Dutch man was asking me to follow him so I could get wanded and patted down.

Being patted down is like making out with your inexperienced high-school girlfriend. They touch everything and with more force than you'd normally find acceptable. And, for some perverse reason, they always leave the crotch area for last.

They let me go, but not before searching my bag. Once aboard the plane, and with a distinct feeling of being groped by my pederastic uncle, I feel asleep in anticipation of an 8 and a half hour flight back to New York.

Once back in the States, you go through a series of check points. At each one, I wondered when they'd ask about the marijuana. First, you talk to the customs agent who stamps your passport. I'd been thoroughly questioned by the agent in Amsterdam, but once in the US the guy didn't even look at me. He just stamped my passport and handed it back. The second area is where you declare items. Was marijuana considered produce? Technically, it's a plant and thus should be claimed. The area was empty and I decided I had nothing to tell them.

Our bags finally arrived and I figured I'd made it through. No drug searches. This was easier than I'd imagined. Rolling my bag out, I felt a firm pressure on my chest. Looking down, I saw a muscular arm attached to a man in a blue uniform. In his other arm he had a dog on a leash.

"Just one moment sir."

I imagine when Epileptics have seizures and almost swallow their tongues, this is what it must feel like. Your mouth goes instantly dry. Words do not escape. All matter of reason and sanity is extinguished and your one over-riding thought is, "Let this be over soon."

The dog was a "mixed-breed", a gentle term covering up what it actually was... the product of years of unsupervised inbreeding. Evolution had decided that this dog wasn't good at playing fetch or saving kids who'd gotten stuck in train tracks. Timmy would stay down that well if he wasn't smuggling several grams of marijuana in his shorts.

"What's this? What's this?" The officer asked the dog as he grabbed my bag.

I shouldn't have had that extra Xanax on the flight. I was gooned on it and couldn't really function with any sense of purpose. He must have spotted my lethargic gaze from miles away. He didn't see me as a traveler, or an Advertising executive, but as a druggie ... a druggie who was about to get caught.

When I get pulled over by cops, whether or not I've been drinking, I try to over-compensate and prove that I haven't been drinking. I quote Proust. I draw topographical maps. I recite the alphabet backwards. I wanted to do this. I wanted to tell this guy I wasn't a drug addict. But the only thing I could concentrate on was that the dog was slowly moving his drooling face up my leg.

The cute dogs go home with the kids. They wear knit sweaters in the Winter and feature prominently in Holiday cards. The ugly dogs stick with law enforcement. And this dog was ugly. He stopped in my crotch and open-mouth sniffed. I imagined his maw opening, revealing another smaller set of teeth a la Alien which would then suck out my urethra like a piece of spaghetti. Time stood still. One bite and I'd be done.

And just like that, I was let go. The officer may have said, "carry on" or "get going" or simply pulled the dog away, but I'd come up clean. I wouldn't be spending the night in prison.

The truth is, I didn't bring any drugs back from Amsterdam. I didn't have the cojones to do it. And quite honestly, somethings are better left for the indulgent moments in your life. And while I wasn't a criminal, it definitely didn't feel good to be thought of as one.

On the way back into the city, I was driving up 8th Avenue. I realized I'd timed the lights a bit slow and was blowing through them just as they turned red. Slamming the gas in order to get home faster, I realized everyone is a suspect.

Again, all photos were taken by my brother who deserves the credit.