That Time I Got High And Flew to San Francisco--by Bryan F.

When I was in high school and for a few years after, I smoked pot. That pot was dirt weed from Mexico that sometimes had chicken feathers in it from being transported on chicken trucks crossing the border. It was usually brown and kinda harsh but it got you high. Of course, you and a couple of friends could easily burn through a 'lid' (a one-ounce baggie) in a weekend. It was only ten bucks though, so not a big deal split three ways. There was Columbian, and Acapulco Gold out there, but it was more expensive, fifteen to twenty dollars an ounce and hard to find.

The pot I smoked to get me through a very deep depression and some PTSD after my Mom’s death was all the new stuff. Hybrids, vape cartridges, and wax concentrates and all sorts of products offered, at least here in California at outrageous prices. They actually have online menus to order from and some dispensaries are not very dependable about quality. It’s supposed to be medical grade but, the only medical grade that I have ever imbibed, that earned the designation was the BC pot (from British Columbia) I would get from the pot cooperative in West Seattle. These dispensaries were established after pot was legalized in Washington state but they were still subject to harassment from law enforcement. After making a phone appointment you drove there, you had to walk down an alley and sit down in the living room of this old house that was the rear part of a duplex and wait until you were called. You got whatever amount they decided and there was usually only the one strain. I was living in an AIDS house in South Seattle at the time and one of the residents was a guy that was about the age I am now. We became good friends and he showed me the ropes. I’d accompany him on the long ride in his tiny red beat-up car over to the well-hidden dispensary by way of the Alaskan Way Viaduct that cracked during the 6.8 Nisqually earthquake in 2001. It was 1999 when we crossed it to get our most excellent medical-grade marijuana and we made a lot of trips. We would sit on the enclosed porch with no door that was on the rear of the old behemoth farmhouse that was then one the houses rented by the Seattle Aids Project to house people with HIV/AIDS that were having housing problems or needed supervisory care. Most were just on disability with insufficient income to meet the rental rates in the area. This was not the hospice, that was Bailey-Boushay House over on Capitol Hill in Seattle proper. The benefits of the new AIDS drugs were already having a significant impact on the health of the HIV/AIDS population.

Capitol Hill, Seattle, Wa.

We spent many hours for those six months I lived there on that semi-enclosed porch. We smoked till we couldn’t move and then lit a cigarette. This really pissed off big shots from the SAP that had to pass through to get in the house. One woman would always say with a smirk, ‘smells like cancer out here, I’ll stink all day’. We would just giggle (I no longer smoke cigarettes as of 2002).

So those are a few of my marijuana stories and I have a lot of them, but one, in particular, stands out. It’s about that time I got high and flew to San Francisco.

It began back in 1980, when I told my employee at the little Mom and Pop jewelry store that I was managing in Upland California that I was planning a trip to San Francisco. She was my favorite and the coolest of the three employees that worked with me. Her boyfriend was Iranian and he and his family left Iran around the same time that the Shah of Iran fled in February 1979. He somehow was still able to travel to Iran and did so on occasion. I don’t know what his business was but his girlfriend, my employee, told me she had something for me when I told her I was going to take a weekend flight to San Francisco. She said it was a special joint packed with hash from Iran. I’m thinking, oh good, I’ve never seen SF high before.

Back in the 70’s and 80’s you could fly PSA (Pacific Southwest Airlines) to San Francisco out of LAX (Los Angeles Airport) for next to nothing. I think it was $29.00 round trip. So I got packed and drove my brown 1978 explosive Pinto to the airport. Part of the way there I pulled the joint out and lit it thinking that flying high might be fun. I took two tiny hits. The joint was a pin roll and I thought it was a bit chintzy, but hey it was free. In just a few minutes I was so high I could barely drive. This had never happened to me before. I use to drive up steep highways, a three thousand plus foot climb to Crestline in my little ‘64 ‘bug’ when I was a kid. Usually, three girls in the car getting a ride to a party up there to meet boys; the cool ones that were there to ski on the weekend. They always got me high, but it was never like this, careening down the 405 freeway and all I could see was streaks of light. I drove by feel and memory and very frightened. I learned that weekend that one hit was quite enough and not while driving on the freeway at night.

This is what it looked like to me that night.

Vintage LAX.

I got checked in at the airport; remember, no security then and the gate agents didn’t seem to mind that I appeared high as f#ck. I sat down waiting for boarding and was so high I ran into the bathroom and threw up. I think it was the stress of the drive. That had never happened before. I stayed high all the way to SF and of course that notoriously turbulent flight route was particularly bumpy that night when the cool air from the ocean met the warm land air. Maybe that’s why the fares were so cheap.

I remember my coke can going airborne and landing perfectly on my tray with no spillage. I guess the level of turbulence was unexpected or they wouldn’t have been serving. So that was really something. We finally landed and the long trip from South SF where the airport is located to the Marina District where I always stayed was time enough to get mostly normal, so there were no weird looks from the motel clerk. I took another tiny hit in my room and slept like a baby.

I took the joint with me both days on my outing and got high as I walked the streets up and down the hills looking for something interesting and out of the way, as was my habit. SF always had a sparkle to it. When you drove in on the highway from the south there is a moment when you first see the neighborhoods off the freeway and the buildings all appear white and glistening if the sun is shining. I’ve never encountered another city that would match its vibrancy. It’s a magical town and adding the neurological effects of this extraordinary hash joint just enhanced it tenfold.

I guess the most interesting moment was at Ghirardelli Square. I was hungry and wanted to eat at a nice place. Something I almost never did. I found a place on the third level of Ghirardelli Square that seemed like a good place. When I walked in I realized the whole front of the restaurant was glass looking out on Fishermans Wharf, Alcatraz and the Bay. It was stunning but the hostess eyeballed me really hard. I had just taken a hit about ten minutes before and was sailing. She seated me anyway and I ordered some seafood and devoured it and the view.

It was a most satisfying trip and I think the joint was finished the second night. I flew back home on a much less turbulent flight and still a little high I think. Best trip ever.

Remember to not smoke Iranian hash and drive. That part was not fun. I mildly scolded my employee for not warning me about the potency and then profusely thanked her for the gift. She just smiled and giggled.