Tour

We were in a cafe on the Israeli-side of Jerusalem; the 'sixty-seven war' not-that fast-past: and somehow an Arab, which is what I probably thought-him, no concept of the term Palestinian then, offered us-each: a little block of hash, about half an index-finger in size, eighth inch thick. He invited-us to come to his place in the old quarter of Arab Jerusalem. We crossed the border on-foot, not-guarded frontier. Where am I now? I was a little hesitant, but then it was adventure. Not going to be tour-dumb. The roads were dusty, or were only-dust, and Greek-like-stone and stucco, sedate delap-a-dated houses, not-bright, dull, dingy, the old city of Toy. It was a mythical city, if so foreign to me.

It was a one-room stone house, with a-small dusty dirt-yard, cement floor-sparse, some furnishings; like a-bed in the corner, and a wood-table in the center of the room; where we sat-around on dilapidated chairs. We were to smoke some hash, my first-time, and we did; the Arab making a mini-cigar of the stuff, which he-lit and passed-around. I was not affected. The Mr California character however had quite a ride, mounting his imaginary motorcycle, half-crouch in the room, even a leather-jacket for lies-sake, knees bent, arms outstretched; hands on the handlebars, right-wrist rolling back and forth, and from some internal utterance; the behemoth of a Harley, roaring down the road, shifting gears. I looked at the Arab, and he looked at me. We shared a whimsical while. Actually, I wondered if I was supposed to act like, for some instance; to fake or not to fake, but faded fast. I am me. It had no effect. Embarrassment began seeping across the concrete floor, and he slowed the bike down, shut-it-off and prop-standed it

Mr. California let on he was no stranger to dope, and could be added, much experience; a biker almost. He thinks this is how, he is supposed to act when stoned. I myself had no experience, but could figure at least; that this was not it. I felt nothing and acted as nothing. I asked the Arab, "Have you got a toilet?" It's just a where I'm from and expression - meaning where is the bathroom? He was offended. "Of course I have a toilet", he said, "It is outside". It was an outhouse in the yard. I squatted in the oblong, tall, deteriorating structure; with a hole in the floor.

At my hotel that evening, again I tried to get-stoned, out on the balcony with my pipe. And again - nothing. I threw the hash away. It was dangerous to carry around, and to be caught by the authorities. Jail for nothing - I didn't even get high and this was my first and second time ever. My third try was in Haight Ashbury, and if I got stoned with a group of people I didn't notice.

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