I really need to stop being surprised at this point. I keep thinking that my weird and wild stories have come to an end. That I can’t possibly have another interesting tidbit for this blog. Every trip has a finite amount of excitement and I have severely overdrawn this excursion’s account. But, time and time again, Seattle manages to crank out another one.
My Airbnb host was kind enough to allow me to interview her for this project. She grew up in the 60s and was a part of the hippie counter culture. I thought that it would be a nice addition to my small archive, a sweet old lady that has seen cannabis culture grow and change over the years.
I was not expecting anything too out of the ordinary. So, imagine my surprise when I learned that, back in the 80s, this cozy little bungalow used to be a grow house. And a damned good one too. These intrepid growers shipped product all over the pacific northwest and even down to California.
Of course, it was. What else could this place have been? An antique store would have simply been too mundane. Even my accommodations apparently required a backstory with a little gravitas.
Oh, but the ride wasn’t over yet.
“Did you happen to notice those holes in the walls of your room?”
“Well, those were made for the ventilation system.”
A loud thud reverberated throughout the house as my jaw hit the floor. The place where I had been living for the last two and a half weeks, my humble little writer’s abode, my attic sanctuary, used to be a happy little cannabis nursery. Call it fate, call it serendipitous, call it whatever you will.
I’m done. You win Seattle.
Your bemused playwright,