Not surprisingly, pot — stories about it, hints on where to get it, (occasionally) the smell of it — is big at youth hostels, including the one I’m currently calling home. The other night, for example, featured a Canadian stoner holding forth on bong construction techniques: For a guy who seemed amazingly out of his head even whilst sober, he had an astounding grasp of engineering principles. There is something vaguelly disturbing about somebody who measures hits in terms of liters, as he reminisced about his favorite “bong bucket,” featuring a three-liter soda bottle. Then there was the Australian bloke who spent his New Year’s Eve with a group of Italians who had spent two days making the 10-hour trip from Milan to Berlin. In their baggage: quart-bags filled with homegrown green stuff — understandably leading to a longer-than-average trip.

My contribution to the conversation was a mildly humorous encounter on New Year’s Day. I was roaming the city in search of an open Internet cafe, anywhere I could check my long-dormant email. I stuck my head inside a headshop to have the following coversation:
Me: Sprechen Sie Englisch?
Clerk: A little.
Me: Is there an Internet cafe anywhere around here?
Clerk: You want to buy grass?
Me: Uh, no. I wanted the Internet, to surf the Internet. (I mime computer typing.)
Clerk: You want an Internet cafe where you can buy grass?
Me: Is there one around here?
Clerk: No.
Me: Ehh … Danke. Tschuss.