Getting baked in California

By Gillian Terzis

In the Golden State, where I live, attitudes towards marijuana have always been permissive. A skunky whiff rarely raises eyebrows. Yet the drug is not exactly aspirational. Unlike cocaine, it does not suggest proximity to material wealth; unlike Modafinil, which keeps you awake, it is not associated with a ravenous desire for overachievement. If anything, marijuana has been typically linked, not always inaccurately, with drift.

But things are changing. For one thing, getting a medical marijuana card on the West Coast has never been easier. In some instances, you needn’t leave your house: you can be diagnosed over Skype in less than 15 minutes, and your medication can be delivered to your door via apps like Meadow and Eaze. If you do make the trip to a dispensary, you’ll find that the fanciest establishments feel like private clubs. One of my favourites, the Barbary Coast dispensary in San Francisco, brims with Chesterfield sofas and mahogany worktops. A knowledgeable budtender – a kind of weed sommelier – is on hand and will happily extol the virtues and flavour profiles of various strains.