420 tales from the white widow
It all started with white widow. This almost trippy indica hybrid has stolen the show for decades. It is beautiful to grow, smoke and behold. When I was younger we used to whisper about this strain. Imagine if we were over there now boys, sitting back on one of those well worn couches in the Old Amsterdam Coffee shop! When we finally did make it over to Amsterdam, we embraced white widow like a mother embraces their long lost child. We were staying for a sunny weekend in late spring. In an effort to do something cultural we tried to find some famous art gallery or other. This adventure ended when we got confused and had to pause and seek shelter under a lamp post. We remained there until one of us built up the nerve to suggest we head back to the coffee shops in the red light district. The nights were a blur. We call Amsterdam the Dam back home. Well the Dam nearly swallowed us whole. I remember being in a bar and watching another group of stoners talking and having fun. The place was packed because it was a Friday night. One of their group got up to get a drink and he was obviously very stoned because as he went over to the bar he continued the conversation he was having when he was sitting at his table. It was strange to watch him roar at his friends over the heads of strangers and yet somehow it seemed normal.
On our final day in the Dam we all had early fights home to civilization. Everyone except Fiachra that was. He was living in Spain at the time and had a later flight back. We all packed our bags and checked out. With a few hours to kill before our flight we decided to get as stoned as possible. With time evaporating, like a marauding tribe we headed for the airport leaving poor old Fiachra to the Dam. At first he walked around, exploring some of the streets we hadn’t been on. As the minutes ticked along however, the slow, cold creep of paranoia took hold of him. He started to become convinced that everyone was out to do him harm. Trying to dismiss the thought at first, soon it became the inevitable conclusion from obscure signs in his surrounding environment. A small breeze, yep, definite proof of a conspiracy. Two old people standing by the canal and checking their map, probably a signal to the others to come get him in a minute. As time passed in a vortex of fear and shame he was quite certain that he was about to be torn limb from limb by the maddening horde. Finally, with wrecked nerves he decided to put an end to it. He walked up to the largest person he could find (a big black dude standing outside a coffee shop) and asked him in him most confident, frightened little child’s voice, excuse me, is everyone here trying to kill me? The large man for a moment looked him square in the eye, then as his serious eyebrows lifted and his face broke into a gently smile he laughed, no man, your just stoned . . . With friendly human contact Fiachra was back in the land of the living.
Happy 420 everyone, love and laughter from Prague