Security Line, Schipol Airport, Amsterdam, Netherlands

“Shit dude!!!!! Our flight is at 11 not 1! WE GOTTA LEAVE NOW!!!!!!”


We were super-high but not stoned enough to miss our flight so we called a taxi. As my friend is getting off the phone I look at her and hold out the cone shaped container that the joint we just smoked came in. Now it’s holding the keef we found last night.

“Dude, what am I going to do with this??”

“I don’t know, that’s up to you but I still think you should bring it”

“I was going to sanitize it and put it up my vagi….”


As it stops, we throw our luggage in the trunk and I slyly hide the container in my purse. Schipol is about 15 minutes outside of the city so I had to think quick. Making the best high decision my mind could muster, I put it in my pants, as close to my crotch as possible. I have already triple checked everything and made sure that no loose flower was coming back just the buds that I stuffed into a couple of my tampons. Nothing crazy, but enough to enjoy 5-7 spliffs upon touching back down in Madrid. Taking any amount of ganj across international borders is illegal but using my high sense of logic, I figured this amount was so insignificant that they should look the other way; I mean I am not a drug mule, I am an international student. Talking myself into this state of confidence, I put my backpack and purse on the security belt and walk through like I don’t have keef stuffed down my pants and weed in my bag.

I come through the other side of the detector and there is my purse…but the belt is stopped and my backpack is no where to be seen. The belts starts moving and as my backpack makes its appearance a male security guard asks if it is my bag.

Calmly (but still extremely high) I reply, “Yes, it is.”

“Do you mind if we search it?”

My mind starts racing. I know that is not where the ganj is, I stored it is my pants and in my purse which is now safely between my feet on the ground.

“No problem,” I say.

My friend and I exchange looks, both thinking the same thing. Could I have missed some? Could someone, super high, accidentally have mistaken my bag for theirs in the hostel and loaded me up? I had no idea but the consequences of my actions were starting to become clear and the confidence I had built up was disappearing like the Great Houdini.

“Ma’am, unfortunately you can’t take these with you.”

The look of relief on my face could have indited me.

“Really? Even if they are unopened?”

Smiling he replies, “Even if they are unopened.”

“Well can you guys put them in your break room or something? I would hate to see two bottles of delicious hot sauce be thrown away.”

“No, unfortunately that is illegal as well. Why do you have these anyways?”

“We both are studying in Spain and there is no hot sauce and we miss it!”

Laughing, he throws both bottles in the trash, zips up my backpack and hands it back to me. I gather my belongings and we head to the gate, board and eventually touch back down in Madrid and head to my friend’s place.

Both sad from hot sauce deprivation, we decide only one thing can cure our woes. We pull out the tampons, I reach down into my pants and pull out the keef cone, we grab a paper and just enough loose tobacco and before we knew it, it was like we were back in Amsterdam.

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