3. Best-Ever-Taxi-Ride
It was only-mid autumn, but the Baltic winter-weather was making an early appearance. Light autumn snow was lazily falling vertically outside the windows of Helsinki airport, the large flakes portending the start of winter, and more immediately, the closing of the runways which would result in my inevitable stranding on this Friday evening, and possibly for the whole weekend!
Don’t get me wrong, I love Finland, Helsinki is a fine city, its airport is efficient and stylish, its quirky sauna-loving population, but after a long hard IT sales-focused week I had been longing to be back in my home town of Amsterdam with my beloved partner in life (and “crime?”), a glass of red-wine in my hand, a half-eaten hash-cake on the table, while pondering and pontificating on the mysteries of the universe in my local coffee-shop, the “Kwantum Kat”, with Marvella my “good-lady”, and anyone else who would listen!
It was back in 1997, a previous century from now. It was almost a “cusp” year; the dot.com bubble was still inflating, people were getting richer and companies were taking financial risks, but it was also just before the era of smart phones, do-it-yourself budget-airline bookings, flat-screens, the Euro, LED lighting, Satnavs, Google, and the rise of the social media giants. Happy days!
One-by-one the flight-destination on the main display-board were being cancelled. In those days displays used to make wonderful electro-mechanical clicking noises as the information was refreshed, the whole process taking many seconds. This added to the airport anxiety experience as flights would often flip directly from “Please Wait” to “Final Call”, initiating a mad, free-for-all queue-jumping, granny scattering dash to the gate, only to be told “we like to get people here early”.
But now there were no final-calls, just “Cancelled” in a bold red colour. After 45 minutes the “Remarks” column on the board was completely filled with the word “Cancelled” in red, with just a single destination surviving each refresh. It was Destination Copenhagen! Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen near-by in laid-back Denmark, with its hippy free-state of Christiania just waiting to welcome me back once again. My problem-solving consulting-instincts then kicked-in big-time.
With my yellow Ericsson mobile-phone I got through to the large UK office of the US supply-chain consultancy for whom I worked, then talked the situation through with the lovely Lena on the front desk and waited. Fifteen minutes later she rang me back, my ticket now re-assigned to Copenhagen and a night’s stay at the poshest hotel in the city-entre before flying on to Amsterdam tomorrow lunchtime. I then rang my good-lady with the change-of-plan. That’s all you had to do in those days, no double-authentication, no bots, no fuss; just a real human there to help you. Happy days indeed!
As the short-hop flight flew metres over the waves into Copenhagen airport I finished-off my complementary business-class red-wine, and checked the time; 8.00 pm, getting late. No problems landing, off the plane in minutes, followed by a Schengen borderless arrival, and there I was at the taxi queue in the fading light, with only my pc and travel bag as company. But what a queue, it seems everyone was “washing-up” in Copenhagen and waiting for taxis for the centre.
After another 30 minutes I was at the front of the queue, the taxi drew up and I was in. As it was already 9.00pm I decided to go directly to Christiania, stay a little while, then check-in at the hotel. The driver asked “where to?”, I replied Christiania, and then he slowly turned his head round to look at me directly and asked in a stern voice “are you going there to buy drugs?”.
I don’t quite remember what my thought processes were. I was thinking of replying “no, just …”, but that was the problem, why else would you be going to Christiania at that time? Anyway, my sub-conscience took over, and I just heard my own voice squeak “yes”; I was on automatic! At which point the completely unexpected happened. The driver replied “fantastic”, I know everyone in Christiania and I’ll take you to a part of it where no-one’s allowed in; to the dealer’s café, and to meet the Queen. He then cackled “I’ll take you to my dealer” and repeated it for emphasis. “Do you get it?”; I did.
The ride to town was somewhat “intense”. Within minutes it became clear Ken, my friendly, loquacious driver was “off-his-head” on speed. I think speed is a terrible drug, but who am I to judge? My main concern was that he was talking directly at me throughout the journey, head turned while keeping eye contact on me and not on the motorway. I just decided that fate had taken over, go-with-the-flow, so I might-as-well relax.
I remember the bulk of the 30 minutes was spent with him detailing and lauding the Danish prison system from an insider’s perspective, with its permissive view on cannabis use, which kept the prisoners happy and the guards relaxed. As we came to the outskirts of the Christiania complex (an old military site), he parked the taxi, put the meter on-hold, told me to put my pc, coat and bag in the boot as there were “undesirable types” around. Also, we wouldn’t be that long. I then I followed him in.
Left, right, up-and-down we went. I could never have remembered the route. Then in the near darkness we had arrived at the door to the dealer’s café. There was no security as such, just an open sliding-door leading to a small glass-covered and dark smoke-filled space, an old courtyard of approximately 15 by 15 metres. Apparently, the glass roof was added as it used to get very cold during winter time; typical Christiania ingenuity!
And as we entered this dark-space my eyes adjusted to dim the light. There were groups of people, almost exclusively men, in separate huddles equally positioned around the walls. There were about 10 groups in total, each one consisting of approximately 5 people. As my eyes got accustomed to the low-light level and the thick pungent smell of marijuana I began to identify some of the groups.
The first on the left were the motor-bike gang the Bandidos, standing with their cuts proudly proclaiming allegiance. These were big men, wide actually, lots of face hair, and they reminded me of prints of ancient Danish kings. A trestle-table, not unlike what you see at a village fete fronted them, and supported not the home-made apple pies or the elderberry wine, but industrial quantities of hashish in cling-filmed mini-bales of 20 by 30 by 60 centimetres, stacked in a pyramid 5 high.
The next group were career “crims”. Each had long leather coats, rarely made eye contact and spoke in whispers. They too had a similar trestle-table of their wares. Then came the hippies with their grass and weed, with one of them actually wearing an Afghan coat (I swear), so I felt much more at-ease. At the opposite corner of the room from the Bandidos were the Hells-Angels. Then more “crims”; you get the idea! So, now it was all plane to me. This was the central cannabis/hashish wholesale market for all of Denmark, and very probably the whole of Scandinavia and beyond. Each group respected each-other in an honour-based relationship in this common “neutral” trading-space, and I was feeling a little “out-of-my-depth”.
Ken then marched me forward with him to the centre and looked round, then smiled. I noticed the background-noise was dropping and eyes were turning to Ken and me, but mostly me. This was probably because no-one had ever seen me before, and being a paranoid bunch, wanted re-assurance. Who was I, what was I doing there, and most intriguingly, “why-the-fuck” was I wearing a business-suit, posh shoes and a tie?
Then Ken spoke in Danish, not my best language, but common German roots allowed me to get the gist; “All ok, stranded business man looking to relax, meet the Queen-Dealer and sample her wares”. A little wave to everyone and we were off again, stopping at the far-end. Through the smoke, which you almost had to swim-through, appeared an arm-chair on a mini stage supporting the ghostly outline of the Queen.
She was holding a spliff that was burning down to the roach, and was “stoned-as-a-turn”, her eyes peering unfocussed into the ether. Dyed, long red-hair in ringlets untidily cascading down either side of her middle-aged, lived-in-looking face, and over her new-romantic styled print dress, the vision completed by lace-up boots on legs slightly splayed legs.
Behind her stood two younger ladies, chatting to each-other. Next to the chair on her right was a floor-lamp. Not a contemporary high-style Danish affair, but a 30’s style one with a dim light shining through its tasselled shade. Somehow this first-impression was working well. On her left instead of a trestle-table there was a coffee table, loaded with the ubiquitous hashish cling-film mini-bales in an untidy sprawl, with two of them opened ready for smelling and sampling. Also on the table were scales, papers, a tobacco wrap, cardboard for roaches, three-or-four brightly coloured Zippo lighters, a calculator and a machete. I judged/hoped the machete was there for cutting the hash into smaller pieces rather than for protection. Everything was in-place for a try-and-buy customer experience!
To the left and right of her were two dogs lying-down. I don’t like dogs, and I’m certainly no expert in regional drug-dealer dog-breeds, but these they were. Not like British ones such as the pit-bull-terrier but Danish equivalents; brown, muscular build, shortish legs, big head and jaws. The good news was they were obviously stoned as well from all the smoke. I saw the one on the left open its eyes and try to get-up. Its back legs didn’t work that well, so it decided to yawn, before closing its eyes and relaxing back-down to the floor. A very positive sign indeed.
Waking the Queen and bringing her back into the “here-and-now” was a process, nothing like a quick startle-reaction recovery. Ken’s little tug initiated a series of semi-coordinated events. First movement in the arms caused the ash to drop off her spliff, followed by the spliff itself. These were both spectacularly caught mid-fall in an ash-tray wielded by one of her “ladies-in-waiting”. I was impressed. Then a cough, the yes began to focus, the legs were pulled-in followed by a repositioning upwards of her body as she pushed down on the two arms of the chair.
She was back! A few words in Danish were exchanged between her and Ken, followed by a look of intrigue, then in very confident English with hardly a hint of Danish she asked “how much do you want?” accompanied by a waft of her arm over the mini-bales of hash. I was ready for her, this was my chance to “set-my-cred”, not only for me, but for IT consultant everywhere, the residents of Amsterdam, and all hippies, however old or young we were.
My brain “whirred”, doing real-time-calculations across the pre-Euro currencies I had on me, all with regard to the difference between the wholesale market set by the Queen, and the retail market I was familiar with. I calculated and within a fraction of a second the answer confidently spewed out through my lips; “50 grams”. This in retail terms is a big-hit and ten times the maximum allowed coffee-shop purchase in the Netherlands.
This paused her slightly, and I could see the problem. She dealt in kilos (literally) and I bought in grams. She thought it through, then replied “take as much as you need” and pointed to the machete. Now cutting-up hash is not anything I have ever done, but how hard can it be? I took the handle, judged the slither-size to remove from the open bale, pushed in, and… nothing, not even a scratch, causing my cred-score to take a sizable hit. But rescue was at hand as one of her ladies took the machete from me, and started rocking it over where I had tried. Within ten seconds it was done; a thick, pungent slice had fallen sideways, just as if you had cut a cake.
The Queen then gestured towards the papers, tobacco and cardboard for me to construct my own joint. At this point I dropped my first bombshell; “actually, I don’t smoke; I gave-it-up over ten years ago”! I waited for a fraction for the surprise to build, then I dropped my second; “I eat it instead!”. Then with a little difficulty I broke-off a huge chunk of hash from the slice, about a week’s worth for the average old-stoner, and in front of everyone, I ate it (“dropped it” in old “acid-speak”). What was their reaction? Were they surprised, curious, impressed, but most probably, concerned?
This amount would typically be seen as a “heroic” intake inevitably leading to nonchalance (0 minutes), munchies (15 minutes), giggles (30 minutes), paranoia (45 minutes), incoherence (60 minutes), catatonia (75 minutes), and deep-sleep often involving snoring (90 minutes). However, an adult life-time of “practice” in the UK, followed by a years’ intense “training” in Amsterdam, had turbocharged my tolerance and prepared me for this challenge; Queen-versus-Consultant. All I had to do was remain conscious and engaged for an hour-and-a-half, then on to the hotel to collapse on the bed, and honour would be shared. I was ready, and actually, it did go pretty-much to plan, with the occasional “wobble”!
(0 minutes - nonchalance): I first asked for chairs for Ken and me. Two plastic chairs from the top of a stack were then frown-down onto the flagstone floor by the ladies. We sat down, and then the Queen and I just talked, as you do (Ken had wandered-off fairly quickly). Firstly payment; “no need, samples are free”. We then discussed similarities and differences between our chosen vocations, how things were currently going, prospects, customers, frustrations, etc. It was all very business-like, two professionals discussing our supply-chain expertise, hers focused on “import/export”, and mine on IT systems-support. We then compared conditions. She was extremely happy now with the glass roof as previously the market was open to the elements. For me? being put to work in a room with no windows was my gripe. All in-hand, all OK.
(15 minutes - munchies): A potential customer stopped-by. Half a kilo – done. Krone and hashish exchanged. Suddenly black coffee appeared, accompanied by those little amaretti biscuits; delicious. I had no problem in being able to refuse the offer of a second, let alone a third. Just keep talking I told myself, listen a lot, and say little. All in-hand, all OK.
(30 minutes - giggles): I knew this this was going to be my highest avoidance risk. All I had to do was to keep silly ideas out of my head, or if they got through the blood-brain-barrier, to extinguish or smother them quickly. Just don’t think of anything funny. Then unfortunately the trigger happened, the offer from the Queen of another coffee, but this time with sweets. There they were, the dreaded Danish brightly -coloured wine gums in a small cardboard box, each colour with its own unique taste. My rational consulting-brain tried to take control as I tried to convince myself there was nothing remotely funny about their brand name; “Spunk”.
This surely was a perfectly sensible name; good use of the letter “k”; any marketeer would be proud of the choice”. However, it was a losing battle and I had only seconds to avoid a debilitating attack of the giggles. Smother the word was the answer, and “Sputnik” sprang to mind as I blurted-out “are you interested in space?”. She looked a little surprised, who wouldn’t, but then came my saviour follow-up “if not space, then how about music? Rock, techno, Ibiza, trance, blues, jazz, classical?” to which the Queen replied “Metal”, then paused, and fine-tuned it with “Danish Metal”. She was away now in her area of expertise; just the occasional nod from me, drop in the occasional Rammstein or Metallica insight, and the danger was gone. All in-hand, all OK.
(45 minutes – paranoia): Were people looking at me? Of course they were; I would be in their shoes. So, no paranoia at all; people really were looking at me (a typically circular Mary-Jane insight!). All in-hand, all OK.
(60 minutes - incoherence): I was now completely “metalled-out” and needed to “break-out” before I descended into a stupor. I then noticed her red-hair hair was almost aflame with colour, which flowed almost seamlessly through the patterns on her dress. I thought “God, this is strong-stuff!”. Fortunately, Ken arrived back, and I took-back control by announcing “to the hotel then”. I thanked the Queen, and she offered me her hand, which I instinctively kissed. That’s the one-and-only time I saw her, beautifully “framed” there on her throne, with her ladies-in-waiting by her side, and two sleeping dogs at her feet. This caused me to ponder if Crufts should have a drug-dealer-dog section where the finest animals on the planet could be judged, and what the winning trophy would be: a severed arm in a dog’s mouth? (Shit, this stuff really was good! Just concentrate). Lastly, I gave a little wave to her, then to the café in general but making no eye contact! Finally, and perhaps slightly cheekily, I bit-off and swallowed another chunk of hash as I followed Ken back to the taxi. All in-hand, all OK.
(75 minutes - catatonia): It was a quiet and short ride to the hotel situated on the main shopping street at the centre of Copenhagen. I thanked Ken so much, and paid him double the meter price. All in-hand, all OK.
(90 minutes – deep-sleep): I checked-in, then took the lift to the 2nd floor, found room my room, opened the door with the key (they used to give you keys then, not bits of plastic!), dropped my bag and pc, and did a theatrical forward-fall onto the bed for a five-minute rest before doing things properly. All in-hand, all OK.
I woke the next morning, which was a Saturday, with a ringing in my ears. I was, of course, still face-down in my jacket, suit, tie and shoes. Just the big-three consulting questions, then, in this situation: “where-the-fuck am I?”, “what-the-fuck day-and-time is it” and “what-the-fuck am I doing here anyway?”. The ringing persisted. Mobile phone – it’s the sales-boss, and he’s congratulating me on my performance yesterday! I grunt at appropriate moments. I know senior managers whose whole success has rested on their ability to nod and grunt at the right time without actually saying or contributing anything, and I was following their script. It works well.
Then it was a shower, followed by breakfast and a taxi to the airport and home to Amsterdam. The next month back in the regional-office in Bracknell at the heart of the UK’s Silicon-Valley, I was constructing my expenses and came to Ken’s taxi ride. My colleague Shirl came over as I transcribed the numbers, and as she was a kindred spirit, I told her about the trip. I entered the description, and paused at the last column “Comments”; one I had always left blank before, but this time there was no hesitation as I entered “Best-Ever-Taxi-Ride”.