The triumphant return of the Reefer Queen: From Telegraph Ave to Jerusalem

So it all started when we decided to throw an art exhibit for our friend Laura Ben-David, to celebrate her breathtaking photos—like actual, soulful, frame-worthy art. Naturally, this called for wine, a few speeches… You know. Culture.

Photo: Tzipora Lifchitz

Now, I may or may not have had two glasses of wine and at least a dram of whiskey. Spirits were high, the vibe was vibing, and Shira, my fellow exhibit co-planner, leaned in and asked me the following question.

At least… I THINK she asked me the following question.

“Where can I find pot?” she whispered.

Now listen. I’m from California. Pot? That’s like asking where to find organic almond milk or a gluten-free muffin. It’s part of the starter pack. So I, being a loyal friend and cultural ambassador, said unto her with the calm confidence of a woman with absolutely no idea what she was doing: “Oh, girl. I got you.”

Spoiler: I did not got her. It’s emphatically been nearly 20 years since I could’ve gotten her.

But I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that get in the way of destiny. I dusted off the memory of my younger, more herbal self (Reefer Queen of Telegraph Avenue, 2001-2005), took a deep breath, and began what can only be described as a very quiet, extremely polite treasure hunt.

I made my way around the gallery like some sort of bohemian version overgrown Tinkerbell, tapping people on the shoulder and murmuring, “Hi, quick question—do you happen to know where I could get a little pot?”

I asked at least ten people. Possibly twenty. Honestly, it was a blur of very flattered, very confused faces. No one had any. But every single one of them seemed weirdly honored that I thought they might.

(Literally: “OMG Thank you for thinking I might know!!!)

At long last, one woman said, “Well, my husband’s on the way. He might be able to help.”

Yesshhhhh!!!

I returned to Shira like a victorious soldier returning from war, wind in my hair, eyes alight.

“Good news,” I said, beaming. “I found you some pot.”

She blinked. “Pot?” she repeated. “POT???”

I nodded proudly. “Yes. You’re welcome.”

And then, with the baffled patience of someone explaining basic geometry to an inbred golden retriever, she said:

“I didn’t ask for pot. I asked you where is the MIKLAT!!!”

MikLAT. Not pot. MIKLAT. As in: The BOMB Shelter. Because after all this is Jerusalem and we’re in the middle of a war.

And in that moment, time stood still. I realized I had just spent the last thirty minutes wandering through an elegant Jerusalem art gallery—essentially a sacred space—whispering about weed like some kind of stoner in stilettos.

I had become that person. The Californian cliché. The wandering herbal matchmaker no one asked for.

And let’s be honest—if a siren had gone off that night, I wouldn’t have known where the shelter was either. But half the room would’ve turned to me like, “Well, she doesn’t know where to hide, but she might know where to get us high.”

And that, my friends, is how I accidentally became the unofficial dispensary rep at an art show honoring the luminous photography of Laura Ben-David.

Jerusalem, baby.

We are here for it.