The Highs (and Lows) Of Finding Cannabis Abroad

Praise the high heavens for the weed we have in ‘Murica (Courtesy of Jefferson VanBilliard)

As a lifelong resident of California, I’ve always had cannabis at my fingertips. From smoking spliffs behind the gymnasium at high school dances to sneaking a vape pen on an International flight (which we don’t recommend anyone do), my experience with Mary Jane has always been pleasant and rewarding (thankfully). This all changed as I boarded my red-eye flight to Cabo San Lucas with my heterosexual life partner Jeph. The horrors that followed are all very real, be warned.

I can blame it on the fact that I’m not a morning person, or maybe it was the back-to-back canceled flights and my poor wardrobe choices. Either way, my brain seized up as soon as the TSA agent made eye contact with me. His eyes seemed to scream, “hey guy, you better not even think about bringing that thing past me”. Sweat dripped down the small of my back as I forced the rest of my THC infused lemonade down my throat. I threw away the empty bottle, my Pure disposable vape pen, and any chance I had at enjoying the Cabo sun while stoned.

The flight into our Mexican paradise was anything but pleasant. A bag of Funions and an egg salad sandwich should be avoided while standing on god’s green Earth—and on planes they should be considered toxic material. That didn’t stop the woman next to us from opting to devour both while taking the last pair of headphones our zealous stewards had on board. I sat watching Black Panther without sound and dreamed of a world without hunger, murder laws, and mayonnaise soaked bread.

We arrived at our hotel, dropped our bags, and headed off into blistering heat of the night. After a blur of tequila shots and what we assumed were tacos being sold out of an alley, we awoke in our twin sized hotel bed. Jeph suggested a short nap on the beach and a few more tacos would soothe the sting of our hangovers, but I knew there was only one thing that could quell the drum-circle happening inside of my head. Marijuana, weed, the chronic, regardless of what you call it, I was searching for it. Thankfully you don’t have to look very far in Cabo for flowers, as the streets are lined with men whispering whatever drug they assume you’re looking for. It must be my hair because I passed several “Molly’s” before a man with a green backpack said the magic words.

Help (Courtesy of Jeph)

We agreed to a fee of $30 and an awkward handshake before I made my way along the boardwalk, towards my comatose companion. I glanced towards a Ruth’s Chris and a Haagan Das while contemplating why the city looked more like Main Street in Huntington Beach rather than another country. With no time to spare we gathered our belongings and prepared to get a bit of relief back at the hotel. I tore open the bag and groaned. The smell was similar to a spice rack, unused and forgotten in a pantry at your grandmothers house. The flowers were hard and devoid of any qualities you would call “good”. After a survey of the tools we had available I settled on a discarded beer can from our previous night’s festivities.

Unsurprisingly the taste wasn’t any better, a cloud of lemon scented nightmare fuel coated the deserted wasteland I used to call my lungs. I coughed and laid down on the tiny bed I suspect the front desk gave us as a cruel joke. My head seemed to somehow hurt worse than it did before, and my mouth tasted like jet fuel. As we returned to the pool for more tequila I swore I would never bring a child into such a cruel world where weed like that exists.

After several booze-soaked days and a stolen jet ski, our lawyers told us not to mention, our return flight brought us home to the safety of the Orange Curtain. I silently thanked the budtenders that painstakingly work to keep lawn clippings sold as pot off our streets and set a course for my personal favorite dispensary in OC. Temple of Supreme Purity is located at the end of the 55 freeway and more importantly, the end of my vacation. Jackie greeted me, and before I could say “dos cervezas,” I was walking out the door with a syringe of Tropical Haze concentrate oil from Naked THC and headed home to experience the euphoric effects from my couch. I can’t say that all the cannabis outside of California is a bad as my experience, but I can say we still have the best.

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