Scott crossed over the bridge that spans the wide Amstel con- scious of the small high speed car and scooters that dart about the tiny streets. He turned right as instructed and looked at the street names on the left. While Scott spoke reasonable French, Dutch escaped him. Bakkerstraat. Was that the name? It was just an alley, but there a few feet down on the right was the JPL Coffee Shop. JPL was the only retail establishment on Bakker- straat, and it was unassuming, some might call it derelict, in appearance. From a distance greater than 10 meters, it appeared deserted. Through the large dirty plate glass window Scott saw a handful of patrons lazing on white wrought iron cafe chairs at small round tables. The Coffee Shop was no larger than a small bedroom. Here goes nothing, Scott thought as he opened the door to enter. No one paid scant attention to him as he crossed over and leaned on the edge of the bar which was reminiscent of a soda fountain. A man in his young twenties came over and amiably introduced him- self as Chris, the proprietor of the establishment. How could he be of service? "Ah . . . I heard I can buy marijuana here," Scott said. "Ya, of course. What do you want?" Chris asked. "Well, just enough for a couple of days, I can't take it back with me you know," Scott laughed nervously. "Ya. We also have cocaine, and if you need it, I can get you he- roin." Chris gave the sales pitches verbally - there was no printed menu in this Coffee Shop. "No!" Scott shot back immediately, until he realized that all drugs were legal here, not just pot. He didn't want to offend. "Thanks anyway. Just some grass will do." "How many grams do you want?" Grams? How many grams? Scott mused that the metric Europeans thought in grams and Americans still in ounces and pounds. O.K., 28 grams to an ounce . . . "Two grams," Scott said. "By the way, how late are you open?" Scott pushed his rounded spectacles back up his nose. "Ah, sometimes 8, sometimes 10, sometimes late," Chris said while bringing a tissue box sized lock box to the top of the bar. He opened it and inside were several bags of pot and a block of aluminum foil the size of a candy bar. "You want hashish?" Chris offered. Scott shook his head, 'no,' so Chris opened one of the bags in- stead of the candy bar. "You American?" A voice came from one of the tables. Scott looked around. "Here," the voice said. "Me too." The man got up and approached Scott. "Listen, they got two types of ganja here. Debilitating and Coma. I've made the mistake." "Ya, we have two kinds," Chris agreed laughing. "This will only get you a little high," he said holding up a bag. "This one," he held up another, "will get you stoned." "Bullshit," the American said. "Their idea of a little high is catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican shit we smoke? They'd give it to the dogs."