Dave Pomerantz | Pom in Prague

The title of the column is "Pom in Prague." This particular column is about Amsterdam. What gives? I'm studying abroad in Prague this semester, but I am trying to cover as much of Europe as possible before I run out of cash. If anyone actually reads this column, they'll get to see how that works out. Now let's go to the land of tulips and Rembrandt.

Oh yeah, and legal marijuana. For those who partake in the fine college pastime of getting high, Amsterdam is a Mecca. Tell a stoner you're going to Amsterdam and the omnipresent glaze momentarily lifts from his or her eyes: "Oh man, that's gonna be soooo sweet dude," followed by a giggling expression of joy.

I'm here to tell you that I did go to Amsterdam and there's much more to the city than baked-out coffeehouses filled with tourists and Rastafarians. I didn't even get high the entire time I was there.

Ok, seriously though, of course I got high. Are you kidding? How could I go to Amsterdam and not smoke, even if it's just once? I mean, it's legal there.

As an aside: Dear Mom, if you've stumbled on to this column on the Daily's website, stop reading now. If you do feel the need to continue reading, please do not send this one to Grandma.

Not that there's anything wrong with getting high in Amsterdam. It's expected of college students. But what I said before is actually true: there is much more to the city than the coffee houses, and getting high was probably the least exciting part of my four days in Amsterdam.

Part of the reason is that when I smoked there, I passed out. Literally. I was quite unconscious for several seconds. Before my friends back home start to make fun, let me establish something: Dutch weed is very, very different from American weed. And when I say different, I mean a Google times stronger.

My passing out was made a thousand times worse by because I was with my 24-year-old sisters. For weeks I'd been nagging them incessantly about how boring they were.

"You guys better not suck when we're in Amsterdam," I kept saying. "You better come out with me and get drunk; you better come out with me and get high; you better not just hang out with Mom and Dad." (Amsterdam was the first city I traveled to in Europe, and the rest of my family was there with me before I set out on my own a week later.)

My sisters did agree to come out and smoke some pot. We walked to Amsterdam's famed Red Light District, past prostitutes gyrating in windows like caffeinated mannequins, and into a coffeehouse. It was called "The Greenhouse."

We bought the cheapest joint on the menu, and I, a bit over-anxious, started toking away like a chimney. Five or six hits later, I was getting dizzy. The next thing I knew, one of the bartenders was rushing from behind the bar to catch me before I fell off my stool. He did this with incredible grace and speed, which, in addition to his uncanny resemblance to John Turturro, reminded me of the "Sneaky Sneaky" guy from "Mr. Deeds." That was probably my last conscious observation.

In a few minutes I was fine. We were all high enough to find the humor in the situation. Thankfully, I had pen and paper on hand. Just so everyone knows that I wasn't the only family member smoking, here are a few examples of what my sisters were saying that night:

Lauren: "Some times I'm just in the mood to floss."

Lisa: "Yeah, yeah. But even better is when you use floss and use peroxide. That's awesome."

Lauren: "I always go to the dentist and tell them that I floss. Why do I do that? They know that I'm lying. They're dentists!"

Lisa: "Like, when I'm sober, my thoughts go AAAA BBB, but when I'm high, they go ABCDEFG."

I, of course, am not innocent of making similar remarks. For instance:

Dave: "My tastebuds feel like volcanoes...and my teeth are so squeaky and shiny. They're like glass teeth."

And my personal favorite, uttered immediately after I regained consciousness outside the coffee shop: "Hey. That guy looks like Balky Bartokomous! Get back here, you perfect stranger."

Lauren and Lisa, I apologize if this is embarrassing. While high, you said I could use your remarks in a column. That was very foolish.

But, as I said before, being high was definitely not the best part of Amsterdam. Even the most prolific of pot-smokers should sober up for a few hours to see the city.

If you do get to Amsterdam, there are three things you shouldn't miss. First is the Van Gogh museum. The collection is awe-inspiring and it also has a great deal of information on Van Gogh's life, his relationship with his brother Theo, and a collection of his letters, all of which provide a window into a sad and troubled life.

Second is the Rijksmuseum. It houses the works of many of Dutch masters. Most of the museum happened to be closed for construction when I was there, but it didn't matter. His paintings alone make the visit worthwhile. Looking at the eyes in a Rembrandt portrait, especially for the first time, gives you chills.

Last, my favorite: the Anne Frank House. The museum is the converted site of the Franks' "secret annex." I've been in Europe for some time now, and have somehow managed to travel exclusively in countries that were occupied by the Nazis. The Anne Frank house was by far the place where I felt most intimately and personally the terror of the Holocaust.

Of course, there's more to the city. Amsterdam is criss-crossed by canals, and the city's architecture is breathtaking. I've merely tried to hit as many of the highs - no pun intended - as possible.