Meeting Weedonardo da Vinci: Or, How I Learned to Roll a Joint With a Crutch
You never want to find yourself rolling a joint in the bathroom. I have found myself there just once, and it was undoubtedly the last time. How did I end up there? Stigma. Let me back up.
My partner Stephanie and I were traveling in Aruba, a 15-hour stop on a 6-stop cruise for our honeymoon. This was well before we learned how easy it is to bring cannabis onto a cruise ship with us, but that’s a different story for another time.
Upon landing in Aruba, we wanted to get high on some good Dutch weed. Aruba, being a Dutch province, has a steady influx of cannabis from Amsterdam, as well as excellent sources from South America, of which Aruba is positioned just north. I don’t know the statistics exactly, but it feels like half of the locals on the island are Dutch, many of which are in the Dutch Marines, which have training exercises there.
Luckily I have a close friend who lives on the island, an American named Mark, who bartends and works the local restaurants. It’s a small place, so he knows everybody, and even though he doesn’t smoke weed, he knows all the people who do. This was why he was able to make a connection to a surfer from The Netherlands flush in supply to help us on our journey. The guy’s name was Ruell (pronounced “rule”), and he had flowing pale gold surfer locks and an incredibly ripped torso, bubbling up over floral board shorts to the point that I was initially concerned I might lose my new bride to this gorgeous laid back stud.
Of course, weed is illegal in Aruba. While everyone I was with assured me that the Aruban police don’t care, I’m from Texas. In Texas, the situation is the polar opposite; at least, it was in 2007 when this story took place. In almost every county and city of that accursed state, one can land a 6-month bid for having any amount of cannabis on one’s person if the system so inclines itself to throw the book at you, done regularly to black and brown people.
I’m not black or brown, so I’ve never been arrested for weed in Texas. However, the insidious thing about policing individual freedoms is that it puts eyes over our shoulders, which are a constant burden. It’s a weight that you don’t realize is there until you move to a state that doesn’t police your personal choices, and you feel the release from worry that you might lose everything and end up in prison just because you like to get high (or need to medicate, which is an even more important point).
Stephanie and I were visibly uncomfortable when the locals were trying to reassure us that we could just roll a joint in public without harassment by the police.
Ruell (he rules!!!) offered to roll us a few, but I fancied myself a joint rolling master back in college and couldn’t let my ego suffer the blow of not rolling my own that day. Egos suck. And, as I discovered that night, they often lead you to a wet, dirty bathroom.
Of course, it wasn’t just ego that made me want to roll joints in a beach toilet stall; it was also the stigma I mentioned above. While I can leave the State of Texas, I can’t leave the stigma of criminalization that hovers over every minute of the Texan cannabis experience. However unlikely, my fear of being busted and going to an Aruban prison played the biggest role.
I leave my beautiful new wife at the bar with the sexy Dutch surfer (and Mark, who does not fit those descriptions) and walk over the wet sand-laden sidewalk that leads into the bathroom. This is not a nice bathroom. It’s not quite Trainspotting levels of disgusting, but it’s somewhere between the two options. As it was dripping wet and sandy, it was the least ideal place to roll a joint, with the exception of skydiving, perhaps.
Hiding in the stall, I attempt to roll this joint on my lap without a rolling tray. Not only is the bathroom wet, but so are my board shorts. The weed is in a plastic sandwich baggie, so I take some out and then use the baggie as my “rolling tray.” Side note, plastic baggies are not suitable rolling trays.
It takes a long time. Maybe 15-20 minutes. Someone comes in to use the restroom, and I pause rolling until they leave. But then I’m the weirdo quietly sitting in the bathroom, not making a noise. Just sitting there, thinking about how much fun Stephanie is having with the guys back at the bar. The person leaves, and I finally finish the job.
The joint was an embarrassing disaster. I left the bathroom defeated and red-faced.
At this moment, the Dutch surfer stepped in to save the day. Without judgment, he showed me how they roll joints in The Netherlands. He rips off a piece of the cardboard cigarette package he has and makes a crutch (some might call this a filter tip) to roll the joint around.
In almost no time, he produces this beautiful conical joint with a tight filtered end, so the weed doesn’t enter your mouth when you hit it. Steph and I both share a glance, jaw-dropped.
I know, I know … this is rote and normal nowadays. Well, let me tell you, in 2007, for a Southerner especially, this was weed innovation technology displayed before our eyes. I was utterly amazed. Keep in mind my frame of reference for smoking in Texas meant most of what we used was designed for discretion, which meant very little joint smoking in general.
Here’s a list of ridiculous things we had or used to get high “discreetly”:
A pipe made of nuts and bolts that can disassemble immediately (but will still smell like poop tar, so not sure of the utility of this feature)
A one-hitter dugout made of plastic designed to look like a box of dental floss
Various ceramic and metal one-hitters that looked like cigarettes
Ruell lit the joint and passed it to Steph and me. We gained instant respect for Dutch weed at this moment, because this joint proceeded to wreck us in the best way. As it passed between Steph’s hands and my own, she was so stunned by the sheer artistry of Ruell’s roll, the innovation of the filter tip, that she dubbed the Dutch surfer Weedonardo da Vinci.
To say that Weedonardo changed our cannabis consumption ritual forever is an understatement. He certainly led me to be the expert joint roller I am now. Should I ever find myself rolling another joint in a bathroom stall, I’ll know exactly what to do.
Thank you, Weedonardo, whoever and wherever you are.