DIALOGUE: DUTCH IS THE ONLY WAY TO GO - TO POT

No idea what we're doing or why we are here. Kate and I get to Amsterdam
all cricked from another night in a train. Pre-rush hour peaceful, the
place looks good. Rail-worn and ragged, we don't. Undaunted, we head into
town, set for action, our hopes ever high.

The world's largest e-mail place is our first port of call because it's the
only way we can connect with Kate's friend. Open, it boasted, 24 hours a
day - except just as we got there it closed. So it's off to the Saint - a
nudge-nudge, wink-wink coffee shop because in our state there's nothing
else we can do. And, when in Rome - we subscribe to that theory - some
space cake sets the tone for the day.

"Who we gonna be?" Kate wants to know, her cake kicking in. "What shall we
have for new names?" I can't even think, let alone change my name, until
I've at least changed my clothes. We start dreaming of health spas. We're
getting desperate for some major ablution.

Painfully aware of how grubby we've got, a shower becomes the all-consuming
desire. Now, don't ask me how, because you'll never believe it, but in
desperation I make some inquiries. He might be a psychopath or some kind of
freak, but who cares, because he'll let us use his bathroom. We follow him
home past canals - it's surreal but worth every cent.

Once clean and fed, Kate goes to check if her friend Hillary has made a
connection. I make like a regular and go back to the Saint, but just coffee
this time cos the cake's still in my system. But the best-laid plans: I got
totally blazed when offered a joint by a couple at the bar. Two crazy
Americans had just rolled off a plane, they're so weird I'm obliged to
describe them.

First, one starts telling me about the band he is in, do I like punk rock,
would I fancy a listen? Pulling his T-shirt away from his body, he pushes
it into my face, and there on his chest is the band's name, Hybrid Mutants.
Even straight, this would still be quite strange.

The man's coffee arrives with the cream and the sugar and the cute little
cookie on the side. This moves him sufficiently to sing a song in its
praise, oddly in the style of Sid Vicious. Climbing down from the table, he
shyly confesses it's his first time out of the States. Unless, he wonders,
you can count a week in Alaska. His wife's not sure either if Alaska can
count and insists that he take some more pictures.

So while Hermann is snapping and praising his coffee, his wife tells me she
got drunk on the plane. They couldn't believe that the beer was all free so
they drank from Kentucky to landing. Chneyt, the proprietor, takes it all
in his stride: he's seen it all and perhaps a bit more.

He generously invites us to stay at his home and it's a serious kind of
offer. I can tell he's sincere, a no-strings sort of thing, not like some
which have abundant conditions.

I have now no clue why Amsterdam's never been on my must-visit list in the
light of my hope for a more permissive New Zealand. I mean, if I were to
pigeonhole myself in terms of substance use, I'd class myself as a pothead.
And Holland confirms a lot of my theories about how effective relaxed laws
(combined with regulation) can be. It's also the first time in Europe I've
been high. What a pleasure to smoke straight-up weed.

Although - this should please my mother - now there's no legal reason to
keep off the grass, I'm doing it less than I ever would at home. I've
always pooh-poohed the possibility that my fondness for pot stems from it
being illegal, but perhaps that's been part of its charm.

But pot or not, I like it here - coffee shops, bicycles, tulips, canals and
the tap water is totally drinkable. The movies have intervals, which is
really quite cool, although the language goes over my head.

And finally, when we'd just about given up hope of ever being found in this
lifetime, Hilary locates us with an open-arms welcome. Amsterdammit, we're
closer to home.