Amsterdam, Netherlands — 2005
I met Dean in the basement of the Flying Pig, coming down from my first bad mushroom trip, feeling shaky and misplaced in the world. He was much older than me, and was the first person I’d ever met who had made a life out of traveling. He wasn’t vacationing, or backpacking through Europe, or on a Gap Year. He had no home base.
I trusted him immediately because his unmooring was so much more unstable than I felt — and he had chosen it. He had spent several months in Amsterdam, and was friends with the proprietor of the coffee shop that that year had grown an award-winning bud for the Cannabis Cup. As we smoked, his truths became mine. “It’s possible to live on dreams,” he said. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”