Only met them once. Never forgot them. In 1984, the University of California at Berkeley had so little dormitory space that even freshmen had to hunt for expensive off-campus living accommodations. I sublet a bedroom from a Turkish woman in her late 20s or early 30s who worked in a bank in San Francisco. →[More:]

One night when I came back from a movie at the great revival house they had in town, she was in the living room with her somewhat younger boyfriend, who was rolling a joint. After she introduced us, he asked me if I'd like to join them in a smoke. When I told him that I'd never tried it before, he offered to show me the ropes - explaining that I probably wouldn't feel much my first time anyway.

It wasn't a memorable experience beyond the novelty of its illegality and I never saw him again. But I've never forgotten his generosity in sharing his stash with a perfect stranger. Especially since his girlfriend and I - a landlord and tenant forced to share the same toilet - didn't particularly like each other.

Whenever people mock stoners on the Internet, I remember him and think that the sub-culture has positive aspects that don't receive enough credit.