My husband tells me that man wasn’t Jason Alexander, but I think it was. In fact, I am more certain of it now than ever.

What I don’t know is why Jason Alexander would be shopping at our local grocery store a couple of Saturdays ago.

So this is how it all began:

Once upon a time… No, not like that, but it does feel a bit like a fairy tale.

It was more like this:

We were in our local grocery store last Saturday when I first spotted him looking at onions. I was standing beside the bananas, which is close to the onions, although that’s not important. I just want you to know that I didn’t see him from the far side of the store, over where the butter and eggs are, which has to be at least a mile.

He was pushing a basket and appeared to be alone. I failed to see what else he had in his basket or if he decided on white, sweet, red, yellow onions, or no onions. I really should have been more observant, but I was a little bit in shock. I am leaning toward white onions, though. They are the most expensive.

I walked up to my husband, who has always appointed himself as master of the basket while I traipse along behind. But now that I think about it, that is a good idea: it gives me more time to observe, which is why I was able to spot Jason Alexander in the first place.

I whispered, “Look, look — over there.”

“What?”

He doesn’t hear so well, so I said it louder, but in no way shouted, “See that man looking at the onions, the one in the coral-colored shirt?” It was a lovely shade of coral, by the way. I have compared it to a Benjamin Moore paint chip called “Rich Coral, 028.”

He nodded, but I think he probably didn’t hear me that time either because there was not one iota of enthusiasm connected to that nod.

“Doesn’t he look just like Jason Alexander to you?”

“Who?”

“Jason Alexander, the actor who plays George Costanza, on Seinfeld.”

“Oh, yeah, a little,” he concurred (but only a little).

Well, the next thing I knew, we were standing at the cheese aisle looking at cheeses, and I looked to my left, and there Jason was again, but this time we were only about three feet apart. I can really zoom in at three feet.

I turned to examine him more closely. He looked up at me from the Camembert and gave me a full, Jason Alexander-like smile, his eyes all crinkled into slits.

I was shocked.

First of all, it is a rare thing to see a stranger smile these days; sometimes your friends don’t even smile. No stranger has ever smiled at me this way. Lately I’ve noticed that some strangers pride themselves in looking at you and through you simultaneously. I am not impressed.

Every now and then, you might get that little half-smile grimace combo, or a smirk, but this wasn’t that. He seemed absolutely delighted, even thrilled, to see me. It was as if he were there looking for me; it was never for the onions.

I was embarrassed because he had caught me staring at him, but his eyes were kind and seemed to say, “I see you recognize me. You must be a fan, so thank you for that. I’m on holiday here in your beautiful town and just trying to relax a little between gigs. It’s a real zoo out there; you just can’t imagine. Hey, listen, sweetheart, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this our little secret.”

Did he wink at me then? I’m not sure. One eye did seem to get smaller. Let’s just say he did.

While it is true that facial expressions and eyes can often say more than words, I do hope he didn’t call me “sweetheart.”

I smiled back, but it was more a stunned smile than anything else. It was not my best smile, I’ll admit. I turned away quickly and feigned intense interest in the French cheeses and didn’t look at him again, at least face to face.

I saw him next looking at the jars of olives. So, what was he doing? Perhaps having the crew over for hors d’oeuvres with crackers, cheese, and olives? This is interesting. I wonder what the onions were for? Was he going to pickle them? I think red onions would have been a better choice. I could have shared my recipe with him. There is always a shoulda, woulda, coulda, isn’t there?

But there was more than just his smile. This man was the height and build of Jason Alexander, although it’s hard to be sure since I have only seen him on television and totally out of proportion. He had a body shape like Jason Alexander, of that I am sure.

His mostly balding head and the hair color and way he combs his hair were the same.

He wore similar glasses.

His smile, as I have already told you, was identical.

Now, I ask you, was that Jason Alexander or was it not?

My husband says it was not and even told me, “Maybe you should run away with him.” Sounds a bit like jealousy to me.

There is just no telling what you will see when you go out and about. I have learned from a life of disappointments that it is always better not to expect anything; that way you are never disappointed. It seems to be working.

I just came in from today’s grocery shopping, and I saw nothing of real interest or value because I was looking for Jason Alexander again. I will have to clear my head of that — once I’ve told everyone I know — so that there is room for another surprise or sighting.

When I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Did I Just Imagine It? was originally published in Ride the Wave on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Smoking weed in Jamaica was never on my original bucket list. Once I knew we were heading there, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to add to my list of planned activities. When in Rome, as the saying goes.

I quit smoking cigarettes more than eleven years ago. I stopped smoking pot much longer than that. I have this vision of my lungs having finally returned to a pristine, virgin state after all these years. I wasn’t too keen on filling them with smoke again, but hey, this was Jamaica. Surely I couldn’t come all this way without smoking a little ganja. Yah Mon.

Finding someone willing to sell it isn’t difficult here. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is selling pot from the moment you step out of immigration. It’s hilarious. Once you tell them you’re Canadian, they are even more determined to find you the good stuff.

It seems Canadians have a reputation as professional pot smokers here. And if you’re from British Columbia, you might as well have a PhD in marijuana… the royal marijuana red carpet comes out.

I started smoking pot when I was twelve years old in Ontario. Yep, twelve. The same year I started smoking cigarettes, and for exactly the same reason… peer pressure.

We had moved to a new and much rougher neighbourhood in June of 1978, just after my twelfth birthday. School was out for the summer, and I didn’t know anyone. I was desperate to make some friends, so I headed over to the neighbourhood park, where a group of kids a little older than me were hanging around.

I walked over, doing my best to look confident. I didn’t have the slightest idea how to introduce myself. One of the boys was smoking a cigarette.

“Do you smoke?” he immediately asked.

“Yes,” I answered impulsively, completely unprepared for what might come next. I’d been there all of thirty seconds and already telling lies.

He handed me a cigarette, and suddenly I was committed. I lit the thing awkwardly, held it between my fingers, and did what I thought smokers were supposed to do. My parents smoked, so I’d seen how it was done just by being around them, but this was a first for me.

“You’re not inhaling,” one of them accused, pointing at me.

“Yes, I am!”

Of course I wasn’t, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I took another puff and tried really hard to suck just a tiny bit of smoke into my lungs. I coughed, choked, and my eyes watered. So much for looking cool in front of these kids, who were now laughing at me.

I realized that making friends in this neighbourhood was going to require a few lifestyle adjustments… and quickly.

I left the park, bought myself a package of Player’s Light cigarettes for a dollar and headed into the bush across from our house. I was determined that the next time someone offered me a cigarette, I’d know exactly what I was doing.

I came out of that bush an hour later, a little green around the lips, but smoking like a pro. I could roll a pack of smokes into my shirt sleeve, tuck one behind my ear, blow smoke rings, and even do that fancy little trick where you let a stream of smoke come out of your mouth to inhale it through your nostrils. I was quite proud of myself.

One hour and one dollar later, I returned to the park and made new friends. The feeling that I might vomit was gone before the end of the day, but that was the beginning of a 37-year smoking habit.

By the end of that summer, I’d added smoking pot, taking bennies, and drinking alcohol to my growing list of habits… how’s that for fitting in.

By the time I was twenty-four, I had a moment of clarity one day. I’d been smoking pot and getting high for half my life already. Half! I’d managed to spend twelve years perfecting a skill that required absolutely no ambition whatsoever.

I was working as a construction surveyor by then and living in a small mining town. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and there was only one grocery store. That meant a simple trip to pick up milk could involve running into my boss, my son’s daycare worker, the lady from the bank, and half the people living in my apartment block. And I was often stoned for these encounters… really stoned.

I would start my day lighting up the little roach from the ashtray beside my bed and end my day snubbing out another little roach to save for the following morning. When you’re a regular pot smoker, you tend to believe nobody can tell. Trust me, they can.

I began thinking that being stoned for every little activity outside my house wasn’t the smartest idea in this little town. I decided to cut back and smoke only on weekends in the privacy of my home.

This created a dilemma. When you smoke every day, you build up a tolerance. Stop for five days and then take a good hoot on Saturday night, and that shit can knock you right on your ass.

I was also discovering that I preferred drinking. Unfortunately, having a few too many drinks and then deciding to smoke a joint wasn’t such a good idea either.

There was nothing noble about my decision to give up pot. I just didn’t enjoy being THAT stoned anymore and running into so many people who were straight. Over time, I smoked less and less, until eventually I stopped altogether.

Thirty-six years later, I was sitting in Jamaica with a rather large joint in my hand. I had to laugh.

I took my first puff and started coughing. Apparently, eleven years without smoking cigarettes had made a difference. I waited a moment and tried again, this time taking a smaller puff. That worked a little better.

I certainly couldn’t keep up with the professionals I was smoking with, but I enjoyed it. Enough that I smoked a few more times before our vacation was over.

I did have one important question for the professional smokers in our group.

“Is the pot in Canada better? I remember getting a hell of a lot more stoned in Canada.”

The answer was immediate and unanimous. “YES!”

The Canadians in our group agreed that the pot back home was much stronger. Then they started talking about male and female plants, seeds, and growing techniques. Who knew I’d be getting a lesson in marijuana horticulture while smoking a joint in Jamaica?

I had to ask. After several piña coladas, hot-as-hell sun and a few puffs of Jamaican ganja, I wasn’t curled up in the fetal position in my hotel room, sucking my thumb. Seemed like I was expecting… something different.

I also rediscovered the munchies. Fortunately, we were staying at an all-inclusive resort with snacks available everywhere. That worked out pretty well.

When we moved away from Canada in 2011, marijuana was still illegal there. At some point while living in Ecuador, I read it was legalized.

The first time I returned to Canada afterwards, I remember walking out of my hotel lobby and noticing a small group of people standing off to the side, passing a joint around. I was surprised.

“Wow, they’re pretty open about it now, eh?” In my day, we would have been hiding behind the building, not standing around near the front doors!

Then I walked past a strip mall and noticed an actual weed store with signs on the windows and everything. And then I remembered. Ohhh yeah, it’s legal now. What a different time from when we bought our pot in little plastic bags, hid it from our parents, and worried about getting caught if the cops pulled us over.

I’ve lived a pretty adventurous life. I’ve scuba dived in the Galápagos Islands, surrounded by sharks. I’ve also eaten chontacuro in the Ecuadorian Amazon, one of those big, fat grubs that live inside palm trees. Mine was barbecued and served with sauce, thank you very much. I wasn’t quite brave enough to eat the thing raw and wiggling.

I’ve done some pretty adventurous things over the years, but apparently the thought of accidentally smuggling a marijuana seed into Panama is enough to make me paranoid. I’m looking in pockets I didn’t even know existed, just in case some stray piece of ganja or tiny seed has found its way into our bags. I’m not interested in explaining to a customs officer that I was just trying to experience Jamaican culture. At sixty, I have absolutely no desire to add international drug trafficking to my resume.

As I write this, we have only two more sleeps before we leave Jamaica and head to Panama for five nights. That’s vacation part two, and I’m already wondering what I might add to my bucket list there.

I know the locks of Panama are part of Panama’s claim to fame, but I’ve been watching ships pass through canal locks since I was a teenager. My high school was called Lockview, and from our classrooms, I could watch lakers being raised and lowered through the locks on any given day, while high on pot, of course.

Funny how life comes full circle. As a teenager, I was sitting in a classroom, high on pot, watching ships pass through locks. At sixty, I’m heading to Panama to see ships passing through the locks, having just smoked ganja in Jamaica.

It seems I haven’t changed all that much.

Smoking ganja in Jamaica was fun, but I have no intention of returning to smoking pot full time. That particular bucket list item has been crossed off, right here beside the pool in Jamaica, Mon.

I Quit Smoking Pot Decades Ago. Then I Went to Jamaica. was originally published in Ride the Wave on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.