It's thirty years since I and my then girlfriend used to spend long weekends in Amsterdam smoking cannabis and being culture snobs. Not for us the vulgar 'bulldogs' beloved by dope tourists with thudding rock, the red-lit Walletjes or the hostels clustered around the station; we frequented a tiny cafe on an alley between between Spui and Singel called De Tweede Kamer, much favoured by local artsy Amsterdamers. We'd share a little blond Leb or mild grass spliffy after breakfast and before a morning spent in a museum or gallery to heighten perception, then maybe red Leb or Rocky (Moroccan) to sharpen the appetite before lunch, saving the oil and the sticky Afghan black for an evening in a live jazz cellar drifting with the notes. It was all very ... civilised. And it truly advanced perception; I recall we visited the Anne Frank House on a quiet afternoon and the intolerable pressures of remaining fearfully hidden in this secret attic space became palpable - we spoke in whispers and cringed at each tiny creak of the floorboards lest the sounds be heard below. However, like many folk, cannabis was a thing of one's twenties that one grew out of along with girlfriends.
News of the proposed Dutch ban on foreigners using the 'coffee shops' prompted me to check on Google whether my old haunt was still there - and yes it is (below), looking exactly the same as it did thirty years ago. I may just make a final nostalgia trip before the ban, though whether I can still remember how to roll a spliff after a quarter of a century of abstinence is another matter ...
