This entire post is adapted from an e-mail I wrote to some friends. If you're a potential employer (and/or just somebody who doesn't like marijuana) reading this, please take this as fictional writing.
Our marijuana plant was looking good but had some peculiar brown spots on a few leaves. So I did what any concerned parent would do: take pictures of her and bring my camera to the grow shop to talk to Dr. Greenthumb (thankfully, the experience was not as intense as the Cypress Hill video). He said it needed more nutrients, but he also told us that even with the nutrients she would not be ready to harvest for another two months.
Sarah and I were heartbroken because in a month, we would be leaving Barcelona and our dearest Sprout (that's our plant's name) to travel around Spain for six weeks. This meant that Sprout won't be ready by the time we have to leave -- and when we plan on hiding Sprout in a big park where she'll most likely die we've been told.
Upon receiving that terrible news, I made the next logical step and looked further into becoming a member of Barcelona's Cannabis Social Clubs. I actually didn't know that Cannabis Clubs were legal in Barcelona until a few days earlier, but soon after I was on my mission. I figured if I become a card-carrying member I'd have all the advantages of Amsterdam without the shitty winter weather and higher cost of living.
So once again I went to the grow shop doctor to seek advice. He quickly rattled off the locations of the two closest associations.
The nearest one was a 8 minute walk from my apartment and sat on a tiny dead-end street that would be rather sketchy if it weren't for the fact that every street here is beautiful. He didn't know the exact address, but told me I'd be able to find it by scent and loud music.
Twenty feet down the dead-end street, I saw a guy smoking a massive joint and figured he knew where the shop was. However, it turned out that he was just a dude smoking a massive joint who had no idea where the shop was. He offered me a few hits, and walked me to a tiny window that lead into the back of a Argentine empanada shop (tasty empies by the way). The mysterious voice from this dark window told us the shop was right behind us.
I rang the bell of a door that looked no different than any other graffiti-covered door on the street, but no one answered. As I took a step back I realized the graffiti actually revealed a giant mural of a girl smoking a joint. I rang once more. Again no answer.
On to the next one.
This shop had an exact address, making it much easier to find. I followed two guys through a set of security doors into a highly organized and proper waiting room. I took a number and sat down while trying to sneak my eyes past the velvet curtain to see the smoking room.
As my I focused my attention ahead to a "doctor's office," I thought about what ailment I was going to make up and how I would say it in Castilian. Then I took a pamphlet to read up on the club and also daydream about getting a Club ID which would allow me to 1. legally buy marijuana and 2. be able to put my ID # and name down on the betting board to guess the final of the next day's Classico Barca-Madrid match.
Before I wasted more of my time, I decided to ask the receptionist if I would be able to get an ID card without a Spanish residency card. She asked me if I had a referral. I told her I did not. She replied that I needed a referral and until I had one, I would not be welcome in the club.
She even went as far as taking back the pamphlet to protect her secret society.
There I was kicked to the curb. Not allowed in just because I wasn't one of them. I felt just like an African-American in pre-Civil Rights Movement America... provided that African-American had access to every other imaginable right, except the right to purchase marijuana from a legal dispensary.
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Follow up: Three weeks after writing this e-mail, I'm happy to report that with the help of some Performance-Enhancing-Nutrients, Sprout bore her fruit and everyone lived happily ever after.
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