So, there my wife Fernanda and I were, on one of the TriMet loop trains in Portland, Oregon (I can't remember if it was the A or B loop), and had recently gone over what I believe was the Broadway Bridge. We were passing the Oregon Convention Center, when we saw a sleek retail facade, which we quickly realized was some kind of marijuana business (it actually looked a bit like a contemporary high end clothing store). My wife and I marveled at its' very professional looking exterior (the medical marijuana dispensaries back home in San Francisco look to me from the outside to be engaged in something very illegal), and agreed that it would be fun to see what it was like inside. We remembered that our taxi driver from the airport had told us that a recreational marijuana bill had recently been passed locally, and decided to get off the train to check it out (we were equipped with an all day pass for the TriMet, curious minds, and were on vacation).
As we approached the entrance, I was filled with nervous excitement; I very much enjoy new experiences, but also have intentionally not smoked marijuana for a very long time, and thought I might be tempting fate a bit. Anyway, we entered, and after having our names entered into the system by the nice people at the front of the place, were buzzed into the main room in the back, where we were welcomed by a very friendly, burly looking gentlemen. He proceeded to tell us about the contents of the store, as well as what was available for purchase and what we would need medical marijuana cards to buy. I had a lot of questions, and the man there was very informative and seemed happy to answer them.
There was a lot of information on the labels of the different cylindrical glass jars, and he told me (with the help of a woman from the front desk that had come back to either assist, listen or monitor), what each strain was beneficial for, medically speaking (in my experience, all marijuana was good for basically one thing; getting high). Most of all, I was interested in who got to name the strains, as many had names that I found quite amusing, such as platinum animal cookies, Tyra Banks, and my personal favorite, headband (seen in the picture below). He told me that they were all named by the individual growers, and I was a little disappointed. I think that perhaps in the back of my mind I was hoping that I could perhaps be a person that names these strains for a living.
Next, the burly gentleman asked if I would like to smell some of the strains (I could already get a kind of group smell just by being in the room), and I was amazed how unique some of them smelled. When he said for example, "this one smells like grapefruit", it really did, and when he said "this one smells like petrol", amazingly it did too. I found it quite remarkable, and I'm as sure as I can be that it was not his power of suggestion which made them smell as he said they would for me.
As I slowly read and smelled a number of varieties, I came across a palm-sized burlap sack, and the man told me to sniff it (it was filled with whole coffee beans) before smelling each variety to clear my nostril palette, if that's the correct way to put it. He said that the judges at marijuana growing competitions do that. I certainly had never thought about the idea of such a thing existing!
I remembered that when I used to buy and smoke marijuana that smelling it was the best way that I knew how to ascertain the quality and grade of the stuff; never did I think that smelling the substance could be so interesting in itself.
Although we didn't buy any of the products, I did leave a nice tip to the worker who provided us with all of the friendly, useful information, and I felt like I had just been given the best marijuana experience I had in immediate memory, and my clear-headed state had allowed this to occur.
Smelled, not smoked
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