(Laughing Buddha Page 6 of 6)
I hop the next train toward the Arena Hotel to cast my official votes. I am somewhere between Vondelpark and Liedesplein when the drugs kick in. The combination of marijuana, hashish, and lack of sleep triggers an extreme psychotic reaction: unbridled paranoia. I nervously scan the crowded commuter car, searching the pale Dutch faces around me for any trace of misguided rage. Would these lutefisk-eaters come at me? I notice an old woman glaring at me, and for a brief second her cold dead eyes meet mine. Her gnarled lip curls upward, revealing a jagged set of razor fangs. She can smell my fear. They all can. I jump off the train at the next stop before any blood is spilled and take to the street. Although the details are hazy, I vaguely recall eating Austrian funnel cakes from a pastry wagon in Museum Square and urinating over the banks of the Amstel River in full view of a crowded tour boat.
I arrive at the Arena Hotel Judges' Lounge as the polls are closing. I make my selections for the best overall cannabis, local hash, coffee shop, glass piece, and expo booth, and drop my votes into the secured ballot box. Mission complete, I return to the hostel and drift into a deep slumber. In fact, I sleep straight through the awards ceremony that night, through the bongo drums, and through the symphony of baboons at daybreak. I later learn that the Greenhouse's Hawaiian Snow entry took the top honors. I had voted for Laughing Buddha , which finished a distant third.
That morning, I say goodbye to my roommates and Aleksi, the Finnish gigolo who has taken up residence in Lori's bunk. On the way to the airport, the events of the week play in my head over and over like a broken record. The nostalgic side of me had hoped that the Cannabis Cup festival would be a lightning rod for the modern counterculture movement, a hotbed of social and political activism reminiscent of the '60s. But the extent of the political discourse I encountered throughout the week was "Bush sucks ass" and "Free Tommy Chong."
So when I meet a young woman on the flight home with dreadlocks and a tie-dyed "Morrison Hotel" T-shirt, my heart soars. We begin talking, or rather she begins talking, and in one long-winded diatribe, outlines her generation's four key hot-button issues: Greenpeace, hemp, the rain forest, and Dave Matthews. Okay, so they aren't earth-shattering convictions, but at least she cares about something . That gives me hope.
After a few minutes of socio-political banter, she asks if I want to split an 8-ball because she knows a guy in Berkeley "with some kickin' powder." I smile and politely decline. I just want to go home, put on a Belle & Sebastian record, and dress my cat in tiny wooden shoes.
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