As I walked into a wood-trimmed Banana Republic-looking shop in Denver a few years ago, my brain registered a skunky floral scent.

Oh my God — I’m in a weed store.

It’s probably a combination of all the funny stoner movies I saw growing up, the “just say no” classes we were forced to sit through, and the possession busts I’d seen, but a part of me couldn’t believe they were selling pot in a store, all nonchalantly, as if it were sweaters and jeans. The guy behind the counter smiled over a glass-cased shelf of green buds and some other mysterious-looking products that I couldn’t identify but assumed were some exotic forms of marijuana.

Read the entire article by Naomi Martin from the Boston Globe here.