Pubdate: Sun, 04 May 2014
Source: Philadelphia Inquirer, The (PA)
Copyright: 2014 Philadelphia Newspapers Inc
Contact:  http://www.philly.com/inquirer/
Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/340
Author: Ilene Raymond Rush
Page: N1

The Latest Legal Tourist Attraction Is ... Sort of Like Buying Milk.

COLORADO'S NEWEST SIDE TRIP: POT

DENVER - We were four female independent journalists of a certain 
age. Let's say circling above and below 50. We were vodka-martini 
type of women, white wine chilled, maybe in extremis a whiskey on the 
rocks. We bonded while attending the Association of Health Care 
Journalists conference in Denver, between meetings on the epidemic of 
allergic reactions among children, the health dangers of fracking, 
and a seminar on the effort to map the brain. But while we hustled 
from meeting to meeting, our reporters' instincts drew us to the big 
story literally at our doorstep: Marijuana was now legal in Colorado.

Speaking for myself, I was intrigued. And apparently, since the 
legalization of marijuana went into effect on Jan. 1, I wasn't the 
only one. According to the travel site Hopper.com, search demand for 
flights to Denver has risen by 6 percent since Dec. 1, while demand 
was up 14 percent by Jan. 14. Last year, the study notes, search 
demand for flights to Denver during the same period "tracked at or 
below the national average."

The last time I came in contact with marijuana was probably about 
seven years ago, when a friendly bystander passed me a joint at a 
Rolling Stones concert. And before that, let's say many, many years 
ago, possibly back in graduate school, where a ganja-obsessed 
classmate threw giant pig-roast parties on an Iowa farm that he had 
rented out in the country. While I had inhaled, I was not a druggie, 
by any means. And yet the idea of doing it legally held a certain appeal.

So on a warmish Denver afternoon, between a session on the gut 
microbiome and a conference cocktail party, the four of us embarked 
on a mission possible - a trip to a recreational marijuana 
dispensary. It wasn't difficult to find one: We simply asked the concierge.

On the cab ride to a much sketchier neighborhood than where we were 
bunking at the Denver Grand Hyatt, we joked nervously about our 
destination. We knew there were two kinds of dispensaries: the 
medical sort, marked with a green cross, and the recreational sort, 
marked, in this case, by a large psychedelic mural painted on one 
wall of the building outside. We disembarked and walked a block, some 
of us debating the wisdom of our decision but rationalizing it in the 
spirit of inquiry.

Opening a heavy door, we stumbled inside, where we were left to cool 
our heels outside the actual recreational dispensary in a whitewashed 
anteroom that reminded me of a laundromat. Ahead of us lounged 
several more predictable-looking patrons, youngish men with ponytails 
and jeans. Yet to their credit, no one gave us the fish-eye, although 
we were still clad in our conference finery.

A sign next to the inner door announced the rules: You had to be 21 
to enter, you needed an ID before admittance would be granted, and 
anyone coming from out of state couldn't buy more than about a 
quarter ounce of weed. (Coloradans can leave with up to an ounce.) 
Purchase was required; gawkers were not welcome. And no photographs 
were allowed. The entire atmosphere was rather formal and a little 
antiseptic, befitting a dispensary.

After about a 10-minute wait for the earlier patrons to finish their 
transactions, we were finally permitted inside. The dispensary, like 
the hallway, was a very bare-bones affair. The same whitewashed 
walls, a few T-shirts hanging on the wall advertising the dispensary, 
and a no-nonsense pot navigator who walked us through the displays.

Smoking weed was out of the question. Although you do get a whiff or 
two of reefer as you walk down Denver's 16th Street Mall, smoking is 
banned in public and we were all staying in nonsmoking rooms. So we 
concentrated on the edibles, gummy bears and various candy bars. The 
main difference seemed to be that you could have doses that were 
portioned out, such as in the gummies, or products that let you 
determined the dose on your own by how much you swallowed.

After a little back-and-forth, we decided on a bottle of gummies that 
came prepackaged, 25 for about $30. We could have bought a candy bar, 
but with the bars you had to portion the amount yourself, and we were 
after a buzz, not an accidental binge.

We listened as the pierced and soft-spoken salesperson very 
professionally explained the deal. It would take 45 minutes for a 
single bear to take effect, followed by a high that could last five 
to six hours.

And then, before we could fully digest what we had just done - bought 
pot legally - our crew drew a mighty sigh, pocketed our stash, and 
landed back on the sidewalk.

After all of our nervousness, pot shopping turned out to be 
surprisingly simple and no more exotic than buying eggs or milk. It 
almost seemed too easy, too simple, too clean. For a second I longed 
for the old days, when buying pot was a stealthy affair, when you had 
to know someone who knew someone who knew a guy. All of the romance was gone.

Returning to the conference, we attended a cocktail party, a little 
alcoholic buzz accompanying our actions even before we touched the 
bears. Then we went off to dinner, at a lovely restaurant called Red 
Square, which offered a hundred types of vodka along with Russian 
specialties. It was after dinner and the after-dinner drinks that one 
of the women pulled out the gummies. "Now?" she asked. The moment had 
come. You aren't supposed to down pot in public places, but 
stealthily we embarked on sharing a single orange bear. Given the 
five to six-hour high, we decided to split the little bear, and each 
of us wrestled with a section: a head, a foot, an ear. Despite its 
claim to be "candy" the taste was rather foul, sour and grainy. Also, 
the consistency was off and it proved difficult to divide. And then? 
Well, it was just as you might expect. We giggled our way out of the 
restaurant into a candy store next door that was stocked with 
old-fashioned Fruit Stripe gum, actual gummy bears, and striped 
saltwater taffies. Then we poured into a taxi for the ride back, 
during which everything, and I mean everything, seemed pretty hilarious.

Although one member of our group was pretty worried that we were 
going to destroy our professional reputations - actual pot paranoia! 
- - our driver seemed completely oblivious to our condition, or 
completely inured by this time to the tourist trade. He dumped the 
lot of us back at the hotel, where, despite having eaten a huge meal, 
we ended up back at the bar to drink Diet Pepsis and iced teas 
(cotton mouth - how had I forgotten that?) and munch a huge serving 
of french fries.

By now the only question on our minds was what to do with the pot 
that was left - 24 pristine bears. Taking drugs out of state was 
illegal. I hit on a brilliant solution; I pulled aside our waiter and 
asked him if he might be willing to take our stash off our hands. 
Without blinking, he agreed. In exchange he told us a tale of Snoop 
Dogg arriving at the Grand Hyatt, where there is a fine of $250 per 
room for smoking. Snoop apparently had plans, and set down a $2,500 
check for 10 rooms at registration, saying, "I guess you know what 
I've come to do."

Was this story apocryphal? Maybe, or maybe not. But it fits the mood 
of Colorado at the present, people arriving in the new Wild West and 
feeling as though they're getting away with something when, in point 
of fact, they aren't.

The next morning, slightly hung over, I met one of my compatriots in 
the hotel bar for a farewell Diet Pepsi and Diet Dr Pepper. When the 
waitress brought only the Diet Pepsi, we pointed out her mistake, and 
oddly, she started to laugh. We quickly exchanged glances. Was she or 
was she not? We shrugged. These days in Colorado, you can't be sure.
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MAP posted-by: Jay Bergstrom