Mom and I took our English friend Tina to a Lou-a-vulle horsey expo, and on the drive home, we stopped at a horse racing-themed restaurant. Tina rescued ex-racehorses whom she’d feed and heal and love, and the ones who could do it became tourist trail horses. The ones who couldn’t had homes for life and great care.
The waitress came over to take our drinks orders, and Tina inquired which beers they had. Without batting an eye, the waitress replied, “It’s a drah cowntee.” Tina was confused, so mom told me to explain it to her while she ordered lemonade for Tina, and what she and I wanted.
I quietly explained dry counties, and she exploded, "WHAT?! And you call this a civilized country?!"
She was relieved to return to far more civilized Detroit 
and hit our nearby friendly party store for some good beer and a bottle of rum.
During my suburban high school career, friends hipped me to to an East Side ahem party store that was a Chambers Brothers pot peddling front at St Jean and Charlevoix. We’d go there when all other possiblities were exhausted. It was near an auto plant sat in the midst of a vast “blasted heath,” and the surrounding “residential” area was mostly blight and burned out buildings. This was 1983-4.
Small manila envelopes with New York New York stamped in red were exchanged at BJ’s Party Store for $5 each, and contained about 2.5 - 3 J’s worth of stemmy, seedy stuff. A guy who worked there frequently greeted me with a cheery, “New York fan! New York fan!”
