The Vatican Connection


Can * nois * seur ( Kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

Our visit to The Vapor Room, 607A Haight Street @ Steiner in San Francisco, proved to be a singular experience. Registration is easy, and not mandatory for the first visit. One enters a comfortable, low-ceilinged roon with a number of long tables fitted with vaporizers. The dispensary in the rear features a wide range of strains, edibles and concentrates, as well as their signature grinder. The staff is friendly, polite and low-key on sales, giving one time to make a selection. The atmosphere is quite restful with good music and a large, clean, fish tank to reflect on. We brought some take-out coffee with us, made our selection ( Orange Crush ), then were given a bag by the management and sat down to vaporize our herb. Within minutes everything was in its place and deeply mellow. A righteous club well worth checking out, The Vapor Room is a spiritual oasis in a sea of commerce.
Orange crush is a dense sativa with distinctive red leaves on a dark green field. Its' effect is like coming home after a tough day at the office, taking off your shoes, hooking your tail to a flying beast ( ikran in Navi ), and soaring off on a glorious journey to the floating mountains. Definitely a staple in any well-stocked stash.


The Vatican Connection



That May, Rome basked in balmy sunshine. i had taken a room in a pensione, located in the center, near the Spanish Steps, mainly because it came complete with meals. At this point i was on a thin budget. My suitcase, stuffed with nearly six pounds of hash was under the bed, reeking like bad shaving lotion at a prom. The first day i went out and bought a scale, six souvenir vases, and various packing supplies. i divvied the hash into six parts, which i put inside the six vases. ( Should you wish to read significance in the numbers, i refer you to Madonna. )
Having packaged and addressed said vases, i hiked over to Vatican City, home of Saint Peter's Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, and the Vatican Post Office.
There, at the Vatican Post Office, i dispatched six packages to my investors in New York. That done, i settled back for the long wait, a month or so i figured, before the checks rolled back... optimist that i was. Meanwhile i enjoyed my extended visit to the eternal city, walking the cobbled backstreets crammed with throwaway art, be it the faded remnant of a mural on some ancient archway, or odd skull carvings on a church, or the big marble foot ( il piedone ) near Rome University, the magnificent sculpted fountains everywhere, and my personal favorite, The Pantheon, which, at that time, still maintained its integrity as a pagan temple. Today its been co opted by the ever voracious church, which installed a makeshift altar and rows of pews inside, thus destroying-and desecrating- the divine symmetry of its circular interior.
Then too, was the easy pace beneath the city bustle, shared by most of its stylish citizens, the outdoor cafes, lolling on the Spanish Steps, browsing Campo Di Fiori's morning market, checking out the local movie stars ( real and imagined ) on Via Veneto, but by the third week i needed to make some decisions. My daily visits to American Express yielded no checks in the mail, and i was seriously considering returning to New York. About that time, perhaps in search of inspiration, i was practicing automatic writing and cut ups, much in the manner suggested by William Burroughs and Byron Gysin. During one of these sessions i jotted "four in the corner pocket please", in my diary. The next day, while walking the city, i spotted a flash of blond hair belonging to a lovely female, seated in a passing cab. i waved, she didn't seem to notice, but the cab slowed for a light. My deal was this: i wouldn't run, but if the light held i would walk up to the cab and speak to the lady. The light held for a long while. i knocked on the window and began my rap, asking if she'd join me for coffee. She shook her head, i persisted nicely, getting her name ( Magi ), and suggested we meet the next day at Piazza Del Popolo. As the cab went on its way i noticed where i was...the corner of The Four Fountains.

Suggested Reading: The Girl who Played With Fire by Steig Larsson

Suggested Listening: Chet Baker and Gerry Mulligan

The Damascus Connection

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

Heads Up: Check out The Big Lebowski, now appearing at Medithrive, 1933 Mission Street between 14th and 15th. Like its namesake this hybrid sativa is a big, amiable bud, with surprising complexity underneath. It hangs for a good long time and leaves one feeling hale, mellow, and ready to roll.


The Damascus Connection

So there i sat on the mountaintop at Baalbek. My prospects-and my cash-dwindling, and my visibility growing uncomfortably with each passing day. After all, how many times can you study the ruins? So after making one last sweep of the rug market, and another tour of the Temple Of the Sun, i set out to find another connection. Shortly after lunch i went over to the cab stand and chose a driver that looked amenable, using whatever psychic currency i'd accrued during my months of meditation and semi-silence.
From my diary: "We had a talk which resolved itself at his home, the house way out of town...any town...I was back to the era of the first Arab people who wandered the hills with mule and flock, or camel and tent...The afternoon wore on, slow. I was on top of my vibrational count. i kept it simple, smile...I made some worry beads out of something I happened to find in my hand..."
People came to visit at my friend Ahmed's modest house at the side of a country road. we talked, sipped tea. We had chicken dinner and talked some more. A hookah appeared and we sat under the stars and smoked. More people came. Somewhere in there a deal was made. i slept at Ahmed's house that night. Sometime after dawn i awoke. Another diary entry: "I wake up...my friend's beautiful daughter hands me a towel and I go outside to wash...the caravans already on their way. A boy runs to the house for water, the caravan moves on. The woman on the mule angles slow but steady until the boy begins to run after them, looking ahead as he rejoins..."
So it was arranged. After a breakfast of tea, sugar and bread we drove back to town, where i checked out of the hotel. We then drove back to Ahmed's place, where i packed 2.5 kees into my bag. Ahmed seemed to be in a great mood, even buying a colorful oilcloth for his wife's kitchen table. We then drove out to the bus stop where i watched my bag get heaved onto the roof, hugged goodbye, and then back down the mountain to the big city. Diary entry reads: "A tigress of a city. Old Arab section for miles on one side, the other side a bay velveted with hotels...light grey flannels, blue vicuna blazer and a white boat of some sort, say 100 feet and 40 passengers, that's the style..."

i took a room at the Omar Kayham Hotel, but money was getting short. i made a collect call to the Twins in New York, and waited for the money to arrive. Every day i took a long walk along the promenade edging the bay. The St. George Hotel had a busy yacht basin, the Phoenicia was an impressive white tower. Stopping in the Phoenicia's air conditioned lobby in hopes of finding a Herald Tribune less than a week old, i spotted a cool looking barber shop. It occurred to me that trimming my lengthy locks before going through customs might be a wise idea. It turned out to be an excellent idea. i walked out into the sun with one of the best haircuts i've ever received... Flash Foward: San Francisco 2005. While dining at one of my favorite restaurants ( Zarzuella) i discovered the host was from Beirut, and mentioned the great haircut i got at the Phoenicia Hotel. The host told me his father used to get his haircut there. Not only that, but when the hotel was rebuilt, after the wars, they went out to find the old master barber, and reinstalled him in his shop.
There are very few good haircut stories...

Baalbek Haiku: The water jug placed/ in the shade of the stone/ at the side of the road

Finally the wire arrived and i purchased a ticket on a charter flight from Damascus to Rome. The plane was due to arrive a 6a.m. Ironically, the bus taking us to Damascus, Syria, had to negotiate the same winding road that took me to Baalbek. Because we were all boarding an immediate flight, there was minimal border check in Syria. The flight was uneventful, and at 6 a.m. yawning Italian customs inspectors just chalked the bags without looking. i was home free in Rome...

Recommended Reading: Without Stopping by Paul Bowles