HIGH ON (WINK WINK) 'COFFEEHOUSES'

AMSTERDAM - I was supposed to write this column about drug cafes, see? But
(as the song goes) "then I got high, then I got high, then I got high."
Man, I am so ... mellow. Better than a couple of hours ago, though. A
couple of hours ago, I was zonked.

(Disclaimer: It is not my practice to get high whilst working. I am not
advocating drugs. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME! This was an assignment.)

In the trailing haze of Justice Minister Martin Cauchon's recent admission
that he'd smoked marijuana in his youth (he's still only 39), there has
arisen (I'm told) a rekindled debate about loosening up Canada's drug laws.
Britain took that political toke last week, where those in possession of
marijuana and hashish will not be arrested for simple possession. Millions
of potheads lit up a spliff to celebrate; the national drug czar resigned
in protest.

But in Holland, where I felicitously happen to be at the moment, possession
of pot for personal use has been legal since 1976, which makes Amsterdam in
particular the mecca for stoners. A very laid-back place, especially in the
Damstraat area near the central train station, where the majority of the
city's 300 recognized "coffeeshops" -- euphemism for dope joints -- can be
found. (Of these, 86 also sell alcohol.)

Strictly in pursuit of front-line journalism, we set about investigating
these establishments yesterday, starting out the morning at Barney's
Breakfast Bar, a hole-in-the-wall (as many coffeeshops are) that comes
recommended in many of the local druggie guide books.

(Break here for munchie attack. Clean out entire snack content of hotel
mini-bar.)

At Barney's, run by a jolly Irishmen, I quickly settle on the full Irish
breakfast but have more of a quandary picking from the drug menu: hash,
weed, pre-rolled joints, seeds. A beggar's banquet of mood-altering
substances. Dutch Delight, Sky High, Zero-Zero, Afghan gold, Mother's
Finest, White Widow Special.

In a sentimental mood, I opt for a gram of Mazar-e-Sharif hashish -- it's
slick, black and oily. Also, relatively expensive at 11.50 euros. But,
hell, I'm on expenses.

A mess of bacon, beans and eggs, a pipe of monster hash -- nice way to
start the day. At Barney's, with only a handful of bench tables, patrons
are expected to jam in together. I'm squeezed in with a couple from
Birmingham, old-time tokers in their late 40s, who are just ecstatic about
the drug developments back home. "Bloody well time," snorts Andrew, a
pipe-fitter who has been coming to Amsterdam twice a year since he was a
teenager. "How can smoking a joint hurt anybody? It's crazy that we've been
putting people in jail for it. You don't see smokers starting football
riots, do you? It's relaxing, the last thing you'd want to do is start a
row." His wife, looking up from her copy of the Sun tabloid, murmurs
agreement as she expertly rolls a jay.

Feeling just a pleasant buzz, I meander down the street to Pink Floyd, a
psychedelic coffeehouse where every second song played over the sound
system is by that revered psychotropic band. Elaine, the painfully thin
girl behind the front counter, is just mixing up a batch of batter for the
"Special Cake" that is featured on the menu. I have a piece of it from
under a glass display. It's a ganja-green wedge, surrounded with pink
something-or-other. Cappuccino on the side, as Elaine complains about an
increase of heroin junkies from Northern Africa, whose presence is changing
the ethos of the soft pot neighbourhood. "They make trouble, they bring
crime. Lots of robberies around here."

Holland is specific about the quantity and variety of drugs that it will
legally tolerate. No more than five grams on any individual, only legal for
those above 18, no hard stuff. "The thrust of our drug policy is to
discourage use but combat the drug trade," a police spokesman had earlier
explained to me. "Making soft drugs legal minimizes the risk for users, we
have found."

The drug industry here is not heavily scrutinized, although any coffeehouse
found to have hard drugs on the premises will be immediately shut down.
Hence the warnings posted in most establishments: "No heroin! No cocaine!"

At Blue Velvet, stop for a milkshake and a couple of puffs on a
Tutti-Frutti jay. A large white cat jumps into my lap. Together, we scan
the International Herald Tribune. I read the same paragraph five times. I
cannot remember what I've just read.

ALERT! ALERT! As is rapidly becoming evident, soft drugs have become
remarkably stronger in the years since my youth. Most dope in Amsterdam is
substantially laced with high-quality THC. That doesn't put the grass and
hash around here into the hallucinatory category, but a serious high is to
be expected, especially for those long out of practice.

I am now entering the realm of completely silly. At Freeland, I shoot pool
and watch golf on the TV over the bar. Golf is a stupid game. It's even
stupider -- and slower -- with a buzz on. The owner and I cackle over golf
clothes, golf shoes, golf hats.

He switches the channel and I watch an entire episode of Cheers in Dutch.
This does not strike me as a waste of time. Somewhere in the back of my
expanding head, though, there's an unfinished thought nudging at my brain.

Something I'm supposed to be doing ...

In the Netherlands, there's even a Cannabis Retailers Union, and its
members stick professional decals in their windows. It's all quite
civilized and casual. And perhaps it's this attitude that permitted the
Dutch to go where no Just Say No program would ever dare to go. The
consensus is that cops should spend their time on more important matters
than hauling in nickel-and-dime (bag) users. And -- while statistics can be
massaged any which way -- there's no evidence that Holland's permissive
drug laws have led to a huge social problem or a surge in drug addicts.
Authorities claim there are no more than a thousand drug "nuisances" in
Amsterdam and about 5,000 hard-drug users. For the rest, drugs are a casual
and intermittent diversion.

(Break here. Have become fascinated with music videos on TV. Think Eminem
is poetic and profound. Wonder why I never realized this before.)

I'm looking at a stack of individually wrapped Sweet Tooth joints. Think
these would make nifty souvenirs for friends back in anal-retentive
Toronto. Then I think again.

At Popeye's, I surf the net. And surf contentedly in my head. The man
behind the drug bar is playing a mean air guitar ...

Ducking in and out of coffeehouses now, getting a top-up off second-hand
fumes: Global Chillage, Rookie's Bar, La Grotte with its zebra stools. The
Doors, with Jim Morrison posters on the wall and a yellowed ad for a
Psychedelic Rock line-up at the New Haven Arena, Dec. 10, 1967: The Doors,
Sly and the Family Stone, Jefferson Airplane ...

Write a column! That's it. I'm supposed to be writing a column! Yet
deadlines suddenly don't feel so imperative. Don't worry, be happy.

Order a pint of Amstel at Pub Emmelot, which doesn't sell dope. Watch the
crowd go by in the company of fellow beer drinkers. It's noisier in here
than at any of the chill-out drug cafes. And, in truth, I prefer the more
convivial atmosphere of a saloon. Alcohol is my preferred poison.

Prime Minister Jean Chretien, saying he would leave any movement on
reformed drug legislation to his justice minister, doesn't sound opposed to
the idea -- this, three decades after Canada's Le Dain commission
recommended that cannabis should be decriminalized. Even the Canadian
Medical Association is cool with the idea. After all, with an estimated 3
million Canadians using marijuana and hashish, however sporadically, it
seems silly to classify them as criminals.

I don't know how it would go over in Toronto, though, a city ruled by
health Nazis. Legalize pot and it might lead to -- smoking cigarettes!

Really must take a nap now ...