Baby's first hookah

If you know me at all, then you'll never believe what I did Friday night.

I'll give you a clue. It starts with "h" and rhymes with "ookah."

Why this is a big deal: Up until my jaunt to Jerusalem Cafe with a few gals from work, the closest I'd ever come to smoking anything was kissing a couple of Marlboro men.

By now, my naivete is showing, but I'll continue: When we trotted up rickety stairs to a dim, brick-encased room italicized by exotic instrumental and the distinctly warm fragrance of tobacco, I felt transported. This was trippy.

Several clusters of 20-somethings and a lone middle-aged man occupied tables that were topped with the contraption, which resembles an antique lamp without its shade. The patrons chatted casually between drags from a hose that snaked out of the base.

My friends and I sampled a rose-vanilla flavor, which at first tasted pleasant, then got kind of gross after awhile. I wished we had tried a fruity flavor -- like mango or pineapple. Next time?

The other thing is, I didn't inhale. Partly because I feared health repercussions, but mostly to avoid the subsequent coughing fit that would expose my inexperience. Of course, we gave up the ruse once we started taking touristy pictures of each other with the hookah.

Would I try it again? Maybe. Do I hate when people ask and answer their own questions? Yeah. Yeah, I do.