Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory Forums

Prologue
I wasn’t going to write this trip up. Because of the high quality of the travelogues on here, particularly with regard to expert analysis of the cannabis, which I am unqualified to provide, I wondered if I would have enough relevant content to be worth posting. But it turns out I do want to write it up, and I’m sure it’ll turn out too long in the end. So, this will be a trip review of a holiday with weed, rather than a weed holiday. Don’t expect expert analysis of what we smoked. But hopefully I can string a narrative together to make it a reasonably entertaining read, and at the very least it’ll be a diary for me to remember the trip by.


Day 1, part 1
I wake at 4am in a half-conscious state, aware that I’ve been dreaming about rolling bent spliffs and aimlessly wandering the streets of Amsterdam. It’s a hot night, and I spend the rest of it in that fitful semi-sleep state that invariably precedes a big day. Ironically, I sleep in late and my wife wakes me at 7.30am. My flight is at 9.30am. I leap out of bed, run around the house frantically grabbing stuff that should already have been packed, and sprint to the bus stop up the street, where my carriage is just arriving. I glance at my phone - “All checked in and beer in hand [beer icon] [clap hands icon]” is the message from my compadres that are flying from Leeds-Bradford. “Just left the house!” is my sheepish reply.

Once on the move, I tuck into my reading material for the trip - George Orwell’s “1984”. I’ve read it a few times before, so the gloomy dystopia is tempered by a warm feeling of familiarity, like the company of a old friend. When you’re used to flying with two small kids in tow, it’s remarkable how hassle-free and, yes, even enjoyable, it is to travel solo, hand luggage only. Tyneside’s public transport does what it should, there’s no queue at security this early in the morning, and both me and my bags sail through. Not that there’s anything to look for, in this direction at least. I’m in the departure lounge of Newcastle Airport with a cheeky half of IPA within the hour. I send a picture of me pretend-toking on my newly-purchased VaporGenie to my mates, just to get them in the mood.

Perhaps the finest hour of any trip like this is the outward flight. The freshness of mind, the feeling of genuine excitement, expectation, and, yes, freedom (in stark and welcome contrast to Winston Smith’s grey, regimented existence), are just as intoxicating than anything I will go on to imbibe over the course of the weekend. The skies are practically cloudless, and I track the flight’s route using landmarks as we go. We head south, down the spine of the country, and turn left somewhere around Leeds. The North Yorkshire Moors are a delightfully lucid purple, and they emerge from ground level a surprising height, their bulky rise and corrugated edge an incongruous facsimile of Uluru. Kingston-upon-Hull is our last landmark before crossing the North Sea, the span of the Humber Bridge impressive even from this height, its shadow long over the oily-brown estuary, sadly virtually devoid of shipping. A crop of slowly-rotating windmills breaks the monotony of the sea - the next sight of land will be Amsterdam. I allow myself a can of Heineken with my breakfast cake.

We meet up in the interchange hall at Schiphol. Handshakes exchanged, despite too many minutes spent queueing for their rail tickets (I have a fully-charged Chipkaart, smugness personified), before we know it we’re spat out in front of Centraal Station. The first part of the trip kicks into action - head left across the front of the station, cross the canal, and Voyagers appears on the horizon. Never having been in before, and being aware of its status as the Dam’s number one coffeeshop, I was expecting a little more than a tiny lobby with an even tinier smoking room. Nevertheless, they have a big tub of Shoreline, which I give a cursory sniff (it smells like weed), before purchasing a gram (€12). We’re lucky to grab three seats in the booth.

I produce my second trip-specific purchase, a shiny gunmetal grinder (eBay, £6.99). I never usually bother with grinders, but it’s undoubtedly easier and quicker to use one when you’re dealing with quantity. The Genie is filled, and I try to get to grips with vaping, rather than smoking, the green. Because I’m given a spliff straight afterwards, how much of my imbibition is from the pipe or the paper, it’s impossible to tell. The Shoreline is green, sticky, and it gets us stoned. More than that, I couldn’t tell you.

For obvious reasons Amsterdam looks different when we emerge. A big party barge is passing down the canal at walking pace, the clearly merry passengers shouting nonsense greetings at pedestrians. I give them a wave and take a photo. It’s 1pm in Amsterdam. The sun is shining. I’m with two good friends. I’ve got a bag of in weed in my pocket. Life is good. I’ve already planned out the first few hours of our trip, just to give us some direction to start with. We’re heading for lunch at Bird Thais Café - we all love Thai food and it’s on the way, so it’s a no-brainer.

In common with most enthusiasms, while there’s practically limitless talk about the peripheral issues of weed - supply, price, flavour, genetics - people don’t talk much about actually doing it. Is it actually a very pleasant experience? Here’s my take on it. Being drunk on alcohol removes inhibitions, increases confidence, makes everything feel achievable. Being stoned on weed is pretty much the reverse. Inhibitions increase - stoners are generally quiet. It makes the mundane seem mountainous, the day-to-day seem daunting, which in turn reduces one’s confidence in performing humdrum tasks. Anxieties that can, under normal circumstances, be pushed to the back of the mind, come to the fore and demand attention. Both are false states, yet arguably it’s more pleasant to be made to feel like Superman rather than Softy Walter.

These are my thoughts, sat in the Bird, waiting for our order to be taken. “Where is the waiter? It’s been ages now. I’ve got to spend the entire weekend sat in places like this across the table with these two guys. What will we talk about? We’ve only just met up and we’re not talking now. It’s going to be a long weekend. I feel really stoned. I don’t think I should smoke any more. I’m not getting a beer, just a sparkling water, got to pace myself. My mouth is really dry. Where is that waiter?!”

So where the image of weed-smokers is of chilled-out, carefree souls with nary a concern in the world, for me at least, the opposite is true. There is a certain amplification due to the absence from home and family, but it’s catalysed by the weed. It’s an intense feeling - not entirely negative by any means, but certainly a magnification of one’s semi-subconscious, so it all depends what lurks there. The antidote? Alcohol. It calms the nerves and takes the edge off the self-critical internal monologue. It’s not the done thing in certain circles, but it certainly helps me and my buddies on this trip. And also perhaps CBD, of which I probably should have got some juice and kept in a vaper to potentially balance the THC. I good idea which I didn’t follow through on.

The waiter eventually comes and, motivated by my paranoia about abusing my body, I order the most nutritious thing on the menu - chicken noodle soup - where the others have Massaman curry. My friend asks in an accusatory tone, “Just soup?!”, so I rush to justify my choice by explaining that noodle soup is actually a main meal in itself, with plenty of classic Thai ingredients, just in the form of a chicken stock soup. I should have just said, “Yeah, I love soup,” but because weed...

The meal was delicious. Couldn’t eat it all. Another stoner myth - they’re always hungry - is blown out of the water. I can’t eat when I’m properly stoned, it reminds me of the feeling of having taken stronger drugs, when you know you should be hungry but there’s just no appetite. It’s in the comedown that I can munch through half a fridge without pausing for breath. There’s definitely a proper druggy stimulant effect of Amsterdam weed, which is incongruous when it’s two in the afternoon.

Meal consumed, sobriety on the horizon, we head to check in to our accommodation. I’ve booked through AirBnB, a top floor flat overlooking the Amstel. We find the place perfectly on time, and the housekeeper buzzes us through into a dark hallway. There’s no windows, only a tiny light over the front door, and total blackness ahead. We climb a few stairs, waiting for our eyes to adjust, but the blackness is impenetrable, and in our state none of us is willing to go any further. After a quick discussion we remember we can use our phones as torches, so under their feeble light we proceed slowly upwards. Flight of stairs, landing, another flight of stairs - repeat five times. Red-eyed, sweaty, gasping for breath, still reeling from the bizarre past five minutes, we must have made a pretty sight for the housekeeper, who to her credit managed to keep a straight face.

The flat is one part executive apartment, one part Amsterdam quirk, to one part needs-a-lick-of-paint. After a brief discussion I manage to claim the master en-suite bedroom and the other two guys take the twin room upstairs. The lounge is lovely, with big windows thrown wide open and a glazed door which opens to a small balcony, no more than a foot deep. We’re on the fifth floor, and my paranoia starts up again. “Someone could fall out of those windows onto the street below. They’re just behind the sofa - if you sit down too fast, you could fall backwards. That staircase doesn’t have a handrail... That balcony looks dangerous. What if it gave way?” And so on. I push the windows closed a bit and try and ignore them.

We head to the roof terrace, which does nothing to calm the Health ‘n’ Safety executive which has sprung from nowhere in my mind. “That rail hasn’t been painted for years. Is that wood rotten at the bottom? There’s a gate there that leads to an area where there’s no rail. Are they insane? What if I come up here while I’m stoned and fall off?!” Ad infinitum. Thank the good lord that we find half a bottle of gin and some tonic water in the fridge. I need some booze, and as if by magic there it is, and as we quaff on the terrace, the perfect drink, in the perfect place, with the perfect weather, and the perfect people, it slowly dawns on me that everything is fine. The alarm bells recede into the distance, and we settle in for the weekend.

Brilliant. Love it so far

Ha ha ha brilliant. Thing we've all been there when the weed hits a little hard and the paranoia creeps in a tad. I usually up n walk it off and have a small beer sometime after. Look forward to the rest

Great report so far! Yip we've all been there!

Thanks for sharing looking forward to hearing more of the adventure of the "Health ‘n’ Safety executive" and the 5 flights of darkness

This report is fantastic and exactly why I enjoy reading this site. Made me smile all the way through. I do not have one friend that will travel to smoke, much less 2, so I very much enjoy reading about the interaction, and I look forward to some high jinks along the way.

I laughed aloud at your description of Shoreline (it smells like weed). I wish I had the sophistication of FOD, DLN, Gapie, OHMF, CC, and countless others that can tell you if a certain strain has a hint of cinnamon mixed with lemon, or is truly more sativa than indica, or had something sprayed on it. But for me, I have to go by sight, smell, and effect. So I found myself laughing at your description because I sometimes feel the same way. I can look up the strain, I can read about it (and often do), but I am no ganja oenophile for sure.

Guys, thanks for your kinds words. It's worth writing it, just to know there's some cool people reading.

Next part coming soon...

Very good writing style ......really looking forward to the next chapters.....

Day 1, part 2

Having achieved as normal a state of mind as one is likely to in Amsterdam, we start to plan our weekend. Well, at least we start to plan what food and drink we’re going to need. Even though we talk about treating ourselves to café breakfasts, my über-sensible sensibility is correct in thinking that the fewer times we can climb those stairs the better, and we’re going to want to breakfast in the flat. So we head to the nearest Albert Heijn to buy whatever it is that they break their fast with in the Netherlands. Pro tip: some Albert Heijns are the “express” version, where they carry snacks and sandwiches, rather than bacon and eggs.

And so it is that we find ourselves, having gone to no inconsiderable trouble and expense to experience a weekend away from it all, in Marks and Spencer. None of us even knew M&S had branched out into Amsterdam, but after a glance at the familiar packs of long-cured bacon (English, of course) and free range eggs (English, of course), any concern about being branded “Brits abroad” is silenced by our stomachs. Even though we are supposed to be buying just for breakfast, all sorts of stuff gets chucked in the basket - of which more later. Plus nine big cans of IPA for good measure.

M&S don’t sell gin for some reason (despite selling tonic), so we head for what was signed as a “Supermarket”, but is really a shop selling tat, rolling papers, and bottles of Heineken. There’s no sign of spirits, but on request the shopkeeper disappears behind the counter and emerges furtively with a bottle of Gordon’s, ours for the bargain price of €20. Goodness knows what else he’s got hidden down there. Duly provisioned, we steel ourselves for the Big Climb again, only this time we know what’s coming and brave the summit without resorting to artificial light.

And thus the first big session of the weekend commences. Because it’s such an effort to get into the flat, we’re reluctant to leave it unless for the rest of the evening. So several spliffs are rolled, G&Ts are drunk, and tunes are played, until, not unexpectedly, each one of us is pretty well-battered. We’re still on the Shoreline from Voyager, and inevitably we eventually run low on supplies and feel the call of the streets. And this is where it all goes more than a little hazy. I think I can remember what happened, but I’ve consulted the photographic record to be sure. We look at a map at Nieuwmarkt. We walk up Zeedijk, past the windows of roasted duck, and make our first stop at the Globe, accommodation for several historical trips, and provider of breakfasts and beer for many more. In predictable fashion, we have a pint and a spliff, sat on a bench out the back, trying to adapt to the fact that this little backwater, the location of so many crusty memories from years past, is now home to several new, smart, busy restaurants, whose canalside tables and chairs now hinder our passage. As if anyone could want more than the Globe can provide? Such is the march of progress.

As if by magic, we end up at Hill Street Blues/Booze. This is the destination of the night. I suck up a beer and another spliff. Very hammered indeed. Internal monologue time... “It’s really noisy in here. And hot. I don’t know any of these people sat right next to me and I’m in no fit state to strike up a conversation. I’m sat on a wooden block thing which isn’t comfortable. I know why we came here, and we’ve only been in a few minutes but I just want some fresh air and quiet. The beer’s nearly gone...” The reason for our visit, there’s no two ways about it, is that HSB was my brother’s favourite coffeeshop. He died last year, from drugs. Yesterday would have been his 35th birthday. I’ve got a Sharpie in my bag to write a little tribute on the wall, but it doesn’t make it out. Sorry, little bro. But there’s always next year...

We work out that we need food - it’s been about eight hours since the Bird. We grab a burger somewhere in the Red Light District - Burger House, something like that - and we all start to feel a bit more human. I have the chicken burger - my bodily abuse paranoia is still active somewhere in my near-subconscious - and it’s delicious. We bimble like pros - past the Grasshopper, a favourite of old, give Febo a nod, and head for the red lights. It’s completely rammed, the canalside paths a throng of people catching furtive glimpses of the prizes behind glass. One lucky chap emerges from a booth to a rousing cheer. Once you’re on the route it’s impossible to do anything but go with the flow, so that’s what we do - all the way up one side and down the other.

That’s enough. The body is weak, the feet are broken, the brain is shattered. We head south, spend a while trying to get the key in the lock, float up the several flights of stairs, have a nightcap or several, before falling asleep the instant our heads hit our pillows.

Step count = 16,759

thanks for taking the time
totally enjoying your report!

Great stuff! Sat in the departure lounge reading it - fantastic writing. Really enjoying it so far. Bravo!

AMS is a better place as a result of our collective visits for sure.

Keep up the great report, modellista!

OneHighMofo wrote:Great stuff! Sat in the departure lounge reading it - fantastic writing. Really enjoying it so far. Bravo!

Cheers! Inspired by your excellent reports, naturally. Hope it got you in the mood!

worldcitizen1723 wrote:thanks for taking the time
totally enjoying your report!

You're welcome, thanks for the kind words.

LLMReb wrote:AMS is a better place as a result of our collective visits for sure.

Keep up the great report, modellista!

Cheers man. I see it as a tribute to the place itself that it inspires such people's literature.

Day 2, part 1

The brilliant sunshine streaming through my ceiling indicates three things to my newly-conscious mind. Firstly, I’m sleeping right at the top of a tall building. Secondly, it’s a very nice day indeed. Thirdly, they don’t really do curtains in the Netherlands. I think I’ve left my eye mask at home (I would find it, inevitably, at the bottom of my bag while packing to leave) so I turn my underpants inside-out and pull them over my eyes. I manage a few more priceless minutes abed before the crashing sounds coming from my non-culinary fellow travellers indicate my presence is needed in the kitchen.

The weather is indeed spectacular, with bright, clear skies and warming sunshine pouring through the windows. We’re all alive, nobody fell off the roof, and we don’t really have hangovers because we didn’t drink much in the grand scheme of things. That sore throat won’t last long. I feel so clear-headed and alive I recall the famous quote from, I think, Howard Marks. I can’t remember the exact words, but it’s something like: “For many years I’ve spent no more than ten minutes of every day straight. And I can say with certainty I enjoy every single one of them.” Thus it was this morning - the tangible benefits of clarity do not outweigh the intangible consequences of smoking marijuana. And anyway, we’re in Amsterdam. It would be rude not to!

Crispy (it’s not just us then) bacon, sausage, fried egg, toast done under the grill and lots of coffee later, we hit the streets. We’re headed south for a rendezvous with Boaty.nl. One of our number cracks the obvious Boaty McBoatface joke, and suggests that name was first coined by Edmund Blackadder. It sounds plausible, but subsequent research would reveal no evidence for this thesis. A lack of Google means we can debate without any recourse to hard facts. The best way.

It’s a lovely half-hour walk south through de Pijp, with patches of proper residential streets between us and the canal which is our destination, via Sarphatipark and an Albert Heijn for more supplies - cold meat, olives, and beer. Two of us decide we need the toilet, so we head to the Hotel Okura, just behind Boaty, which from now on will be referred to as the Very Posh Hotel Indeed. We amble up to the polished rotating door of the VPHI... and amble away again in the opposite direction, my companion daunted in a very English way by not wishing to clutter up the premium hotel with his budget body and its bulging bladder. We walk around in a big circle, before returning to Boaty. I ask the boat guy where we should go to relieve ourselves. “Hotel,” he tells us. What he means to say is, “If you haven’t seen the big hotel, you are blind. If you don’t dare to piss there, you’re a coward. Which is it, Englishman?” So I return to the VPHI and micturate, being careful to leave a few choice THC-impregnated fingerprints on their gleaming gilt, noting the glare from the impeccably top-hatted-and-tailed doorman as I leave.

In the briefing it’s made clear that whoever drives the boat must remain sober, a policy that we adhere to 100%. Until we’re out of view of the pontoon. The captain does make the important concession to pouring his can of beer into a plastic glass so it’s not instantly apparent what he’s drinking. It could be apple juice - the special kind with the big foamy head. It’s immediately apparent that our boat is slow. Very. Fucking. Slow. We get overtaken by another Boaty, so we know it’s a quirk of our boat, not the fleet. We also get overtaken by pedestrians, including toddlers and limping war veterans who lost both legs in a landmine attack in Afghanistan. This boat is sssslllloooowwww; unencouraged by its massive roof of solar panels, it gently whines along as if without a care in the world. Unlike me.

Internal monologue time again: “Shit, we’ve got three hours of this. We’re never going to get to see what we want to see at this rate. What if I need a piss? I always need a piss at inconvenient times. What if we fall in? What if we crash?!” Oh shut up you tiresome bore, and enjoy the day. Which, once the spliff settles in a bit, I do. However, the voice of doom was right to be cautious. Pootling along a minor canal at walking pace is one thing; emerging into an enormous tract of water, populated by any and all of Amsterdam’s floating vessels - speedboats, 20-metre long tourist cruisers, nuclear submarines - is quite another. So it is about 15 minutes later that we find ourselves emerging from our narrow, cosy byway, into the football pitch-wide Amstel, Amsterdam’s main canal, aboard what would be described in polite circles as a very modestly-powered boat. Crossing the path of every southbound craft at the blistering pace of two knots we are at the mercy of any ship’s captain too engrossed in his coke ‘n’ hookers session to notice us. We can’t manoeuvre quickly, or go faster. Even the wake from some of the bigger ships could cause us serious problems. It’s brown shorts time.

Of course nothing remotely dangerous happens. The canal is so wide that should there have been anything coming it could move out of the way quite easily. I’m actually slightly disappointed not to be proven right. However, it means we can continue our bimble up the canal. At the Blawbrug, just before the Amstel veers sharply left, one can turn one’s boat either east or west, depending on which side of the city one wishes to explore. We turn left, along Herengracht, due south of Centrum. Every other pleasure boat in the vicinity has decided to congregate here as well, causing quite a canal jam. Which is a relief, because our lack of power becomes irrelevant. However, in comparison with the other denizens of the water, our lack of champagne and caviar is quite apparent.

Soon the traffic thins out, and after a pleasant couple of hours meandering, as we’re heading for home, the inevitable call of nature comes to us all. My companion who had declined the VPHI’s conveniences previously is particularly keen to stop the boat. We pull over halfway down Prinsengracht - Google Maps has indicated a rest stop. Someone has to stay with the boat, so I stand on the edge of the canal, pulling on the mooring ropes, increasingly desperate for relief. The other two come ambling back about ten minutes later. It turns out that the toilet is one of those one-man green shelters concealing a hole in the ground, in which people can see your face through the grille while you urinate if they so choose. It’s not clear why they would look, or who might recognise us, or what the consequences would be even if they did, but there you go.

Both of them had refused to use it - apparently there are too many people milling around for propriety. So not only are they too polite to use a posh loo, they are too modest to use an open-air one. Not me, though. The call of the drain is too great. I trot over to the rusty structure and take great pleasure in a legal street-piss. There was a man stood there with his bike leant on the convenience, talking away on his mobile phone. Through the grate I can look him in the eye and hear everything he says. Neither of us is the slightest bit bothered. Hurrah for liberal society. I’d suggested that the lads get the boat going again while I’m doing my business, so they had overtaken me by this point. I take a photo of them from the bridge and amble along to catch them up. As you might imagine, it didn’t take long.

A brief pause to talk a bit more about weed. I’d rolled my first pure weed spliff in years the night before, and that’s the first thing we smoked on the boat. No wonder we were so battered. Even though a pure spliff is the holy grail, something I never roll from a stash at home, we just get too stoned off it too quickly, even passing it around between three. I roll no more pure joints, mixing them 50:50 with tobacco from then on as normal. My companion had been rolling from his stash of two buds of Silver Haze, the first from Voyagers and then from Balou. I couldn’t tell any difference from my Shoreline. We’d also tried the Jamaican weed from Voyagers at €5 a gram, and it was dry and full of sticks, exactly as you might expect for the price. It might have done well as a filler for a hash joint. We threw it away. After we return the boat (and a triumphant final communal toilet stop in the VPHI, to the repeat annoyance of the doorman), it was clear that we needed to stock up on smoking material.

Thorbeckeplein is on the way back, so we stop off at Bushdocter for supplies. Surprisingly enough, even though it’s only late afternoon, they’re closed, but apparently only for about ten minutes. Enough time for the organised criminals to leave the building. We sit outside, roll what’s left of our stash, and wait for the doors to open. It doesn’t take long, and it turns out the weed fairy has brought an enormous tub - the size of two or three reams of A4 paper - of Lemon Haze. Even to my untutored eyes and nose, this is the real deal. Dark green, flecked with orange pubic hair, pungent even just standing at the counter. No need to give it a big sniff.

We buy the minimum two gram deal (€22), and also three pre-rolled spliffs - two Blueberry and one Special (€3.80 and €5). Oh, and I get a gram of Super Polm (€11). Having boasted profusely of my preference for hashish, yet smoked nothing but bud so far, I need to substantiate my claim. Outside again, we spark the one we rolled before and examine the Lemon Haze a bit more closely. It’s a real stinker. I’ve read some weed described as smelling of rotten fruit, and that’s the perfect way to describe the rich, humid, gym-bag funk when one’s nose is shoved right in the bag. She’s a beauty - a single, crystal-laden, two gram bud. The finest cannabis I’ve ever laid eyes on.

This is great. I've just got back and I'm sat here completely slashed off the nepalese i ate at schiphol, reading this and laughing my tits off. Sterling work mate!