Dying in the City That’s Seen It All -- guest post by Tova Es

When I decide to spend a few days of my semester abroad in Amsterdam, I truly have no idea the city is famous for its wild lack of restrictions on recreational marijuana. But so it goes: my first run-in with an illicit substance comes in the form of a blueberry muffin.

I’ve never even been drunk before, but now I’m wafting towards a staircase, trying to go get some air. I take three steps, then stop.

 

“Shit,” I murmur softly. “I don’t think this was a good…”

My body decides I will spend a little while not existing. 

After I’ve been nonexistent for a bit, I hear a sound in the darkness. The sound is a male voice somewhere above me. “Sit her up, sit her up,” he’s saying. I start seeing again, and a pair of skinny Amsterdammers are lifting me into a seated position on the coffeeshop floor. 

“Oh, geez,” I say. “Sorry about that.” I’m on the floor. What am I doing laying on the floor? How have I made such a gauche scene? I’m so embarrassed I might pass out again if I could wake up somewhere else, with more dignity. 

“Don’t worry about it,” says the authoritative young man standing over me—maybe the shop supervisor. “Happens all the time. It’s very normal. Here, drink this.” He hands me a bottle of extremely sweet orange beverage. “Be sure to drink that. Drink the whole thing. And don’t get up too fast.”

I sip on the drink obediently, trying to demonstrate that I will be no more trouble to anyone.

The city passes mazelike in a wash of forms and textures. 

Amsterdam’s trash cans are not optimized for puking. They are mounted to poles and have a built-in lids, so the openings are narrow horizontal slots. Useless. In a French fry restaurant, I approach the man at the register. “Excuse me,” I say calmly, “can you please call an ambulance?”  

“No,” he says.

I stare at him. Maybe there’s a language barrier. “An ambulance?” I say hopefully. No response. 

I turn and look at the scattered patrons in the dining area. They’re all snacking and chatting. I still can’t focus on any one face. My voice takes on a tinge of hysteria. “Can someone call an ambulance?” 

They observe me silently.

“Okay,” I say brightly. “I guess I’ll just… die…”

***************************

There’s nothing quite like going home to a hostel, even when you haven’t just almost died. The feeling of being in a strange city across the planet from where you belong, but still somehow having shelter. A home base, a place you know won’t kick you out woozy and lost onto the mean streets in the middle of the night. I fall asleep jaded, but with some satisfaction. Once everyone ends up safe in a bed, you can call it an adventure. 

If there’s a moral to the story, it’s this: never consume a lethal dose of weed in Amsterdam, even if you can figure out how. You’re not getting an ambulance.