In France, I kept on stepping over broken glass (blame the protesters) and tear gas canisters (blame the police).

In Canada, streets are littered with strange plastic tubes you’ve probably never seen before if your local weed dealer is an UberEATS driver and not a government-approved retailer.

This is what it looks like.

Turns out I live in a country of stoners and I had no idea for years.

I didn’t rush to the nearest cannabis store when the Cannabis Act came into force on October 17, 2018. In fact, I didn’t pay much attention to the legalization process because I was busy with four-year-old Mark, among other things. I did hear about it but I was assuming it was part of a new anti-drug strategy to maybe stop pursuing charges against cannabis users and surely, there were like ten of them in Canada. I mean, Canadians seemed way too law-abiding and health-conscious to get high—this is a country where smoking tobacco isn’t socially acceptable and where people almost hide to drink alcohol.

“You do know that half of the country has basement weed grow rooms, right?” one of my Canadian friends laughed when I mentioned I doubted the whole “legal pot” thing would take off.

I did not.

Apparently, Feng and I are in the minority.

I don’t drink at all because I don’t like the taste of wine, beer and liquor. Feng might have a beer once a year, usually when we travel. We don’t have any alcohol at home and since it’s stupidly expensive in Canada anyway, it’s not a pastime we tried to explore.

Now, the shocking part—I’m very inexperienced when it comes to drugs. I smoke tobacco (easy on the stone-throwing…) but that’s it. Oh, sure, I was handed a joint a few times in concerts in my teens. Did I ever inhale? Most definitely. Was I ever high? Most definitely not. Like most teens, we were talking about weed and other fascinating illegal stuff more than we were doing it. Besides, I had no money.

Then I got hooked on travelling at 16 after my first trip to China, and drugs and travelling don’t mix well. First, there’s the whole legal aspect of it—you probably don’t want to get caught buying or smoking weed in a foreign country, or else you may be stuck abroad for a long, long time. Second, most travel problems can be avoided by staying in control, and this included not getting drunk or stoned.

I don’t need drugs. Travelling is my drug.

And this is why I was pretty much a weed virgin when dozens of cannabis shops started opening all over Ottawa. Hell, one morning I woke up in boring suburbia with three (!) weed shops within walking distance.

It was only in the summer of 2019, when Feng and I spent a weekend together in Toronto, that we decided to see what the fuss was all about. Honestly, I was mostly curious about prices, selection and the whole purchase process—getting high wasn’t the main goal.

The first time we tried to buy weed, it was too late. We had spotted a shop on Queen Street earlier in the day but couldn’t remember exactly where it was, and we weren’t even stoned. Was it before the Starbucks, past the Starbucks?

I noticed three people smoking a joint on the sidewalk.

“Wait,” I told Feng. “I’m just going to ask them.”

The second I said it, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase the question.

“Ahem, sorry,” I started because “sorry” is always a good way to start a sentence in Canada. “Where did you buy your… ahem, marijuana?”

“Oh, Honey Pot, two blocks this way!”

And so we walked “two blocks this way” but it was 10:01 p.m. and the store was closed.

“Argh!” I complained. “We missed our chance by a minute! I mean, it’s not the weed, I spent 36 very happy years not smoking it. It’s just frustrating to be one minute too late.”

“Tomorrow,” Feng shrugged. “Want a Coke instead?”

So we just bought two Coke cans instead of a joint. Mind you, it was very hot, it was a smart move.

The next day, I ended up going alone because I walked by a pot shop and I figured, why not. I showed my ID—you have to be 19+—and started browsing as if I was grocery shopping. Pre-rolled, flowers, edibles…

“Are you looking for something specific?”

The employee had red stoned eyes so I trusted him right away—he must have been good at his job.

“I’m really not sure,” I replied.

“What do you normally get?”

“I don’t usually smoke pot,” I explained.

“Oh, edibles, right?”

“Nope.”

It suddenly dawned on him that I was a virgin.

I left with the most beginner-friendly joint you could humanly buy—it was cheap too, around $6.

How was it? Much stronger than I thought. At first, it felt weird, vaguely unpleasant. Then it really got to me—a tiny part of my brain was trying to control the mostly unresponsive rest of it as if I was attempting to be the person I knew I was but definitely wasn’t right now.

It wasn’t particularly fun or enlightening. I just waited for the high to go away, which is probably not the point of getting high.

Apparently, I like my world unfiltered, in good and in bad. I’m not morally opposed to getting stoned or getting drunk but it’s not for me.

And honestly, I’m a bit worried about this whole “cannabis culture” thing in Canada. It’s everywhere. It’s hard not to notice it between the smell, the number of stores and the many discarded packaging on the ground.

North America has bigger drug issues to deal with right now with the opioid crisis and I don’t think prohibition is the solution. But still, I can’t help thinking there’s something wrong with society—and that getting high isn’t a long-term solution or key to happiness.