Many of us embedded in modern metropolitan living swoon with shock to learn that many global destinations exist where our beloved cornucopia of beautiful, nurturing, warm, and tingly drugs are not sold on every corner. I like traveling to far-flung places, but I feel the ache when watching the sun melt into the sea without a spliff, and can hardly stomach the blasting house music and buck-toothed teen harlotry of Central Europe’s farm-town discos without some old fashioned MDMA. Plus, maybe an imported bump or two of Ketamine would have kept me from more than a couple of beds that turned hostile come the morning light. I learned my lesson young. Either travel with drugs, or enter the great unknown: a world of endless connections and false promises, a surfeit of shady rides to cinderblock warzones and perpetual rip-offs by gobbledygook-spewing pseudo-pirates whose day-labor tools moonlight as rusty shanks once they get within sniffing distance of money belts and fanny packs.