I forgot my pipe

In Toronto, I was never offered pot. Never. I say this because every time Mar and I walk through the main squares of Lisbon, we are offered hash. Countless times a man would walk by, and quietly blurt out “’ash?” In the time it took him to utter that syllable, he’d flash a chunk the size of two zippo lighters. For all I knew, the stuff was chocolate. We always declined, subtlety and politely. I guess carrying a backpack in Lisbon is like sporting dreads in Toronto.

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