Confession time

Now that I’ve gently broken the news to Luke (a.k.a. Mr. Soak-Your-Pipe-Tobacco-in-Brandy-to-make-it-Smoother), I guess I can tell the rest of the world. That would be “the world” as in the five people who read this journal. I’m talking to you.

When I went to Seattle in late June, my daughter, five of her girlfriends, and I went to a hookah bar. Yes, it’s true. I smoked a hookah pipe. The girls had been planning to go for months, and it just so happened the last chance they had before several of them left for the summer was during the week of my visit. They invited me along, and of course I accepted.

This is how it went. The seven of us approached the twenty-something Pakistani (we’ll call him Mohammed) behind the counter. None of us had the first clue how these things are handled. One of the girls spoke up. “We want to rent a hookah pipe.”

Mohammed looked us over then grinned. “Okay. Pick your flavor.”

“Flavor?”

He pointed. “Over there.”

We walked to the shelf and eyed the titles, most of them fruity. After a brief discussion, we returned to the counter. “What do you recommend?”

“Grape.”

“Okay. We want grape.”

He chuckled. “I bring it out to you.”

We crowded seven chairs around the small round table on the sidewalk. Mohammed brought the hookah with its one hose to be shared among us. He explained the process, stepped back, and watched.

The girls–none of them smokers, and a few of them squeamish about sharing germs–proved themselves true adventurers. We passed the pipe round and round the table, laughing at ourselves. Mohammed laughed, too. I think we made his night. At one point, he showed us how to blow into the pipe to clear one of the chambers. Don’t ask me how the thing works. I just know the water in the bottom cools the smoke, so when you draw it into your mouth, it’s like sucking in flavored air without the burning sensation common to pipe smoking. (I’ve never smoked a pipe, but Luke tells me the smoke is hot. Makes sense. It is on fire.) Hookah smoke isn’t hot. It rolls pleasantly over your tongue with its subtle pick-your-flavor taste.

None of us managed anything fancy like the caterpillar’s A, E, I, O, U rings in Alice in Wonderland. But everyone agreed my technique was best. I tried to explain to them it was more like drinking through a straw–filling your mouth with a non-liquid beverage, then spitting it out. I told them not to breathe it. But they coughed and sputtered and snorted grape smoke through their noses.

Grace watched me with a curious eye. “You’re really good at this, Mom. Are you sure you haven’t had experience?”

“I’m a quick learner, dear.” I really am. And a wonderful role model, too, don’t you think?

So, that’s my story. But don’t worry. I’m not hooked on hookah. It was an interesting experience, but nothing I need to ever do again. As far as I know.