'd heard all the hype. Amsterdam is the indulgence capital of Europe, heaven on earth, a Disneyland for stoners, junkies, and sex-fiends. I'd never bought any of it, but since I qualify as two of the three aforementioned miscreants I figured I'd check it out for myself.

You really only need two things to have a blast in Amsterdam: a guide and money. Hell, if you just want to get stoned like the tourists you only need money, but you'd better have a shitload cause you're guaranteed to get ripped off and are unlikely to smoke anything better than the crap found on any street corner in San Diego. But if you want to see the real Amsterdam, the side of the city that sucks people in and dangles them in a dense fog for the rest of their natural life, you need both.

arrived in Amsterdam around 9 a.m. Friday, quickly changed some lire into gilders, and went in search of my guide, an old college chum who moved to Amsterdam last year and has impressed a significant number of locals with her dope smoking prowess. Harriet's toked her way into the upper echelons of the Amsterdam marijuana elite and is now, you might say, a pillar of the community. I found her waiting in front of the train station brandishing a middle-finger sized joint made from, I was told, a rather mediocre crop of local bud. This we smoked on the station steps, not 20 feet from three of Amsterdam's men in blue. Out of habit, the 'noids kicked in. Then they morphed into pure fear and loathing as one of the officers headed our direction. Harriet was calm; I was deciding which direction to sprint.

"Excuse me," said the cop, "there's no smoking in this area. Could you maybe move about ten meters that way?"

We scooted the 30-odd feet, but the 'noids took off for good, never to return while we were within Amsterdam city limits.

Once we were reeling from the "mediocre" Dutch doobage, Harriet led me on a whirlwind tour of Amsterdam. At least it felt like a whirlwind. Quaint little Disney-esque houses flew past like they'd just been plucked off the monochrome landscape and were headed for a technicolor Oz. Coffeeshops — the kind that serve things a little more interesting than coffee — zoomed past while Harriet, a women who's received the gift of gab many times over, prattled on about which ones to check out, which ones to avoid, and in which ones to watch your wallet. The Grasshopper and the Bulldog — the most famous ones in town — topped the list of must-not-see's. Bicycles swept through the crowds like Pamplonian bulls, narrowly missing tourists, busses, and cement stumps randomly scattered along the sidewalk which, I would soon discover, were at the exact height of my testicles. An hour and several bruises later, the tour stopped at an establishment called Barney's Breakfast Cafe.