Last tolerance break in Paris
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Ahhhhh…. The T-Break, AKA the tolerance break: A topic that's pervasive in both the medical and recreational cannabis space these days. No matter what your thoughts - whether you are a cheerleader or chastiser, a willing participant, or in my case, had the T-break foisted upon you, this is not a diatribe on the pros and cons of taking a tolerance break. It is a journey into the unwanted absence of my love, cannabis, in the city of love itself.
Have you ever traveled with cannabis? More than likely as a stoner, you have. Pre 9/11, I regularly boarded planes with nothing less than a ¼ ounce in my pocket, usually triple bagged. That quickly became history, as TSA became more interested in the volumes of liquids brought onboard, our shoes and belts, as well as my contraband. Bringing weed on a plane became the epitome of who I was as a stoner, but I also had no great urge to be detained by Homeland Security. Fortunately, as stoners, we usually have a network of friends, family, and fellow heads scattered across draconian state and country borders helping us make travels all the sweeter. For me, that person was my stoner cousin, Nina.
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My cousin Nina and I were very close. Both only children, she was the closest thing to a sister I will ever have, and we are only two years apart. Long story short, Nina met a guy online – a guy in France. Word was that marriage was imminent and the wedding meant traveling overseas. A seven-hour flight lay ahead, the first long-haul for me, across the pond, as they say. I thought the flight would be no big deal, minus seven hours without a cigarette and traveling with my family.
I figured, once free of the family, the wedding, and France, I would treat myself to a week in Amsterdam while the family flew to Rome to see the Pope or something. The major issue was making sure Nina had weed: Period, point blank. And she PROMISED that she would. A rare thing for my lovable but sometimes not all that dependable cousin. To be clear, traveling with my family wasn't going to be a nightmare, it just wasn't the ideal option to be traveling with Mom and Nana. Despite this, I knew that some weed would be just what I needed to ease into the trip, and Nina had a friend in Amsterdam supplying decent weed and hashish.
The Departure
Not even gonna try to sugarcoat the flight. Up until this point in time, the longest flight I had been on was three hours. As a 6’2” human being now faced with a seven-hour flight, I was stressed and pulling bong hits straight to pick up. I had a plan: I just had gotten some Blueberry and two very potent kief cookies that would hopefully keep me baked for both the airport trip and the duration of the flight. After seven hours in a tin tube at 30,000 feet, let me tell you, Dear Stoners, I would have sparked a fatty in the Paris airport if I had to. It’s probably best I didn't, but I also didn’t realize the spike in my anxiety was a harbinger of things to come, and maybe not just travel jitters.
Upon arrival I was greeted with an awkward hug. I started to notice that Nina was avoiding eye contact. Being a Pisces, both cursed and blessed with crazy good intuition, my sober stoner senses were on fire. Her silence only compounded the fact that I was about to meet the in-laws soon, in fact, it was her fiancé and his mother who picked us up at the airport. Something was off. Awesome, my mood was growing dark like the late October sky.
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After about an hour (Paris is huge) we arrive at the hotel where my Mom and Nana will be staying in Paris. Except the wedding isn’t in Paris, it's on the Brittany Coast of France, the Côte d'Émeraude. News to me. After Mom and Nana finally got settled, Nina and I get dropped off at her apartment; A comfortable one bedroom they just so happen to share with a full grown, completely untrained, gigantic, and erratic Belgian Shepherd.
At this point, Nina finally fesses up: there was no weed. Apparently, she still owed her friend in Amsterdam money from the last package he sent. By the way, this is the friend I would be staying with once I got to Holland. Anyone wanna guess what my anxiety levels were at? To say I was pissed would have been an understatement. I refrained from freaking out and told her that if she couldn't pay him, I would, and to get that shit going ASAP! After dinner, the remnants of the two kief cookies, paired with a jet lag chaser sent me into a coma.
Little did I know this would be the best sleep I'd get until I got to Holland.
The Sights, The Sounds, The Wedding
For most, Paris is a dream vacation destination, for me, not so much. To the 28-year-old me, it was a family trip and not very exciting. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s got history, food, art, iconic landmarks, all of which are nice, and I'm sure had the Green Goddess been waiting for me things would be different, but as it was, I was going stag in the most romantic city in the world and I was feeling it hard.
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After a few hurried days hopping the Metro and seeing various cathedrals and landmarks– The Louvre being my personal favorite, particularly The Egyptian wing– we were off to Saint-Briac-sur-Mer. The site of the wedding was a prieure or priory, as we know it in English. It’s a living space and travel lodging for both monks and nuns. If my memory serves me, the place was built in the 12th century, impressive. I happily settled in. I felt more at home on the coast than in the city.
The wedding went off without a hitch, the reception was fun, although much to my dismay, alcohol was a lone standout at the party. I went to bed that night hoping for an end to this trip, knowing full well that I had three more days in cold, miserable Paris, with a psychotic dog and no weed in sight. Amsterdam seemed so close yet so far away.
By the time we got back to Paris, my brain and body had had enough. I was adamant that Nina had to pay her friend, not only was it the right thing to do, but this is a guy I’m supposed to be staying with in Amsterdam. Letting me stay at his place was a huge favor to both me and Nina, and pissing him off was not on the list. As it turned out, three more days of no weed was a gauntlet I wasn’t prepared to endure.
Le Courrier
Like many places around the world, the mail in Paris is unpredictable at best. I came to find out that Nina’s “friend” is actually an ex-boyfriend and an amazing human. Turns out, he sent a little something before he was paid for the last package. It was 8AM and HOLY SHIT!!! Finally! Casually duct taped to the back of a postcard, like no big deal, a quarter of none other than Jack Herer, a legendary cultivar. It was my first time sampling the strain and I’m not going to bullshit you; I skipped like a schoolgirl. As I was about to go into emergency DIY pipe mode, Nina remembered she had one of those tiny, round bowled keychain pipes. Apparently, they’re not just sold in gas stations across America! For now, this tiny little fucker would have to suffice.
We each smoked two bowls even though the metal was hot enough to give us second degree burns. Naturally, we were late to meet up with family. As we stumbled downstairs, laughing our asses off the entire way, a wave of relaxation came over me and I felt showered with the love of the Green Goddess once again.
Those last two days, I was able to gain a small appreciation for Paris. Of course, at first sight, my mom knew what was up, and all Nina and I could do was giggle. Penance for our tardiness would be smoking my mom out later that night.
A day later, I was train-bound to Amsterdam with a personal guide and as much weed and hash I could afford. Smoking that first joint on the 3rd floor of a coffee shop overlooking the streets, I marveled at the last week and how the absence of cannabis truly altered my experience. Though a T-break may be beneficial for some – and I support every cannabis user's right to consume as they please – choosing to stop your meds should always be your choice.