Wake 'N' Bake

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"For six miles a vein of the purest, most perfect crystal runs under Nelson." Bubbles, the matronly proprietor of Cannabis Culture, spoke through a window connecting the shop to the cafe. She was explaining the healing powers that draw the broken and infirm to Nelson. Heads nodded as if the connection between the alleged vein and the alleged healing powers was obvious.

In support of Bubble's assertion Jim added, "Every time I come to Nelson I loose something. This time I lost my hat. Last time my Braille watch stopped working," He stared at us through glass eyes that gave him a prophetic authority, The Blind-Seer of Thebes.

Jim's cell phone rang. "Hey, come down here, there are a couple of Americans here." A few moments later we were joined by Chris, a former computer programmer from Vancouver who came to Nelson with his band four years ago and never left. The conversation rambled from politics to new age philosophy. Everyone had a story about how they came to Nelson.

D's social acumen was short circuited by the strange conversational topics that were like beads strung along a thread of logic only visible to the initiated. She became uncharacteristically quiet.

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An hour earlier D and I stumbled out of Mountain Hound Inn in search of breakfast. "Is that a maple leaf or a marijuana leaf?" D asked, pointing to a previously unnoticed sign on the side of a house a block away. I had heard that marijuana was quasi-legal in British Colombia, and that Nelson was on its way to becoming the new Amsterdam. I had dismissed this rumor as wishful thinking shortly after arriving in Nelson, but now I wasn't so sure. The sign did look suspiciously like a marijuana leaf. We temporarily suspended breakfast plans to investigate.

Inside the homey Cannabis Culture were the usual assortments of pipes and T-shirts for sale. Through a tiny window I could see customers sipping coffee in an adjoining cafe. Bubbles greeted us. She launched into a speech about the struggle to legalize marijuana in Canada. As she talked she produced a tiny box from somewhere and poured from it a small pile of marijuana onto the counter. "BC Bud," she interrupted herself. As she talked she rolled a few joints. I didn't want to say anything for fear of breaking the spell. She looked up and said, "I can't sell you marijuana, but I can smoke this with you if you buy a cup of coffee." It sounded like a win-win situation to me. She led us to an adjoining room that housed the Psyche Deli. A cute Canadian girl stood behind the counter. She wore layers of unmatched wool clothes and spoke with a mesmerizing lilt: "Yaaah, hey?" She made us a couple of cappuccinos. We could pay her later, she explained, but we wouldn't see her again and would end up leaving a "donation" on the counter.

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