She sighs. “Get me to California right now.”
P
HILIP
S
PITZER
worked from 1966 to 1969 as a literary agent for John Cushman Associates, then the American affiliate of Curtis, Brown, London, representing hundreds of British writers. In 1969 he formed the Philip G. Spitzer Literary Agency, representing a wide range of fiction and nonfiction writers, as well more than a dozen French publishers. He specializes in general fiction and literary crime fiction, as well as the nonfiction subjects of politics, sports, and works of sociological interest. This is his first
written
work of fiction.
tips for the pot-smoking traveler
by philip spitzer
My wife and I rarely travel without weed. In spite of all the risks and possible consequences involved, it’s nothing next to traveling without it. After all, my wife and I met in Paris—but we might not have without the weed. Since that worked out positively, why change it?
Our prescription still reads, Take two a day or as needed.
Like anyone else, we have had our share of close calls whether alone or together. And this story is about close calls, although the episodes are not intended to be a deterrent.
Last Exit to Brussels
or
Tip #1: Check Your Weed’s Potency
In 1984, I was traveling to Paris to visit my family. I had to find the most reasonable fare, which turned out to be round-trip to Brussels and a train from Brussels to Paris. I was only going to be in Paris for a week, and so I brought along one ounce of pot, which I casually slipped into my jacket pocket. While still at JFK airport in New York. I had plenty of time to roll a joint, step outside, and have a smoke. The ounce being a last-minute addition, I wasn’t certain of its strength. It turned out to be high-voltage pot, enough to induce paranoia, which I was not used to. During the night flight I imagined that someone of authority had seen me smoke, followed me to the plane with the intention of making an arrest in Brussels, where the consequences would surely be more severe. Unlike the usual calming effect of the drug, I was unable to sleep, one eye open the entire flight. As I arrived in the Brussels train station, I was still scanning my surroundings to make sure I was not being followed. Like a spy or a fugitive, I made my way across the station, every passerby a possible threat.
My train ticket put me in a compartment with three other travelers, each of whom left at various stops in Belgium, and I soon found myself comfortably alone and finally relaxed.
Just as I was dozing off, there was a knock on the compartment door. It opened up to reveal a police officer standing in the corridor, mumbling something about drugs! Had I really been followed, after all? Had one of my fellow passengers, smelling the weed in my pocket, turned me in? Or was I experiencing the lingering paranoia of the joint I had smoked hours earlier? All of these possibilities (along with the rest of my life behind the bars of a Brussels prison) flashed before my eyes, ending with my bulging, odiferous jacket pocket no more than a meter from the police officer’s nose.
It took me awhile to come to my senses and understand that the officer needed to use my compartment to strip-search a passenger suspected of having drugs. I welcomed the officer, but not until I had already fled to the relatively fresh air of the corridor where I managed to stop shaking and consider the irony of my situation
(Rule #4: Never confess until asked.)
Would I even put myself in such a situation again? But of course!
Club Med or Bust
or
Tip #2: Talcum Powder Is Best Applied Dried
Like everyone else, my wife and I have discovered all sorts of ways of concealing our pot while traveling, just about everything short of disabling dogs at the airport. But one of our best efforts came close to landing us in a Mexican jail.
It was 1990 and we were traveling to a Club Med in southwestern Mexico. We knew that the nearest village was as tiny as it was remote, and we suspected that the Club Med (especially this one, focused on middle-aged guests and families with children) would not be a likely place to score drugs. My wife had rolled a dozen joints and buried them in a container of talcum powder. Safe enough, it would seem, especially if you considered the profile of the passengers: Screaming children and fat, middle-aged fathers wearing basketball jerseys and sneakers that looked to be size Shaq. A motley middle-class group that the authorities would surely ignore.
Customs was situated outside the terminal building (“terminal,” in this case, seeming like the operative word). We disembarked and took our place in a line, which snaked back almost to the plane. The building was hidden from our sight by various types of shrubbery, as if intentionally camouflaged. When the station itself finally came into view, we were shocked to see what was taking place. As each passenger took a turn before the agents, he or she was asked to press a large button of sorts, in plain view of everyone else. If the light that came on green, the passenger could pass through without inspection. If the light was red, the passenger was ushered to the side and his baggage was inspected. But not just inspected. Every item of clothing, every pocket, every gadget or container, was taken apart and pored over. Was a cavity search next? Possibly. Probably.
I broke out in a cold sweat, as did my wife. My trembling hands quickly surveyed the pockets of my jacket and trousers, which I had not worn for some time. Of course, each of the pockets on my jacket harbored at least one roach, which I managed to drop into the bushes as we inched along the path. I kept picturing the agents opening that container of talcum powder, laughing their asses off triumphantly, then checking our asses, and finally leading us off to a damp, stony prison cell (without a cell phone, without a call to our embassy, without our lawyer or our families). We would surely spend the rest of our lives there, dreaming of Club Med cocktails on the beach at sunset while we dined on tostada gruel and Montezuma’s Revenge water.
My wife and I walked up and hit the dreaded button together, holding our collective breath. I can still see my shaking hand reach for the button, which somehow turned green. A miracle. We could breathe again—though I think it was several minutes before either one of us did.
(Rule #2a: Whether you are traveling to Club Med, Disney World, or even on a Carnival cruise, do not take anything for granted.)
Did I learn my lesson? Of course not.
The Safety of Amsterdam
or
Tip #3: Don’t Skip the Dry Cleaners
I was going to be in Belgium for a business meeting and asked my wife to join me. After the three-day meeting, we would take a train to Amsterdam for a few days. The business part of the trip was going to be serious and boring; thus, no need to bring along any reefer. (Why waste good weed on boring business meetings?)
Business concluded, we headed to Amsterdam, just a few days into the trip. The train ride was long and tiresome, a local as it turned out that stopped frequently in Belgium and then Holland. We had planned to get to Amsterdam in time to check in to our hotel and then go out to dinner, and though the train ride seemed to take forever we made it in time, the trip uneventful.