A World Without Alcohol Unites in Psychedelic Clarity at Climate Summit

Ah, another jaunt to yet another timeline where humanity has decided to experiment enthusiastically with its capacity for both innovation and absurdity. In this version of Earth, the world took a peculiar turn centuries ago when fermentation—yes, the process responsible for beer, wine, and all the fondly abused spirits—was outlawed repeatedly, catastrophically, and permanently. Oddly, this prohibition wasn’t motivated by morality or religion but an unforeseen result of a 13th-century papal edict declaring yeast “an agent of the devil.” It’s the sort of bureaucratic calamity that makes one wonder if, in a cosmic sense, Earth is something of a joke. Somehow, this stuck.

Fast forward to the present: it’s 2016, and the Paris Climate Agreement is making waves here as it did back home. Yet, as I strolled through the conference halls at COP22, I couldn’t help but marvel at how the total absence of alcohol has sculpted society into something terribly… sober. Not sterile, mind you—there are vices aplenty—but sobriety rules the day here in all of its clear-eyed, self-congratulatory glory. The absence of alcohol has been compensated by two minor developments: first, the mainstreaming of psychedelic tea as the dominant social lubricant; and second, the global fetishization of “caffeine sommeliers.” I’ll address these separately, as they deserve both ridicule and respect in equal measure.

The psychedelic tea craze—referred to in hushed, reverent tones as “Mysti”—originated from a South American cactus accidentally boiled by Mayan farmers in this timeline’s 1450s. Now mass-produced, “Mysti Sessions” have become a cultural phenomenon. At the climate summit, diplomats huddled in designated “Lucidity Tents,” sipping from steaming ceramic bowls while naturally radiating a faint aura of connection and compromise (or possibly just hallucinating the edges of consensus). Yet the experience is hardly casual. There is ritual, of course—complex bowing gestures and breath exercises before you so much as lift the teapot—but alas, the effects are primarily administered by committee.

A drink tended to evoke mild introspection at first, followed by public epiphanies on the interconnectedness of all life (as repetitive speeches demonstrated). But what struck me most was the mood: neither the combative belligerence of drunken conference-goers nor the wide-eyed sobriety I’m used to—just this mellow, synchrony-seeking unity that frankly made debates about carbon credits a little saccharine for my taste. Without the sharp-elbowed inspiration of a good scotch or two, the negotiators here talked so much about how they *felt* about methane that they nearly forgot to discuss what to *do* about it. I’ve seen less kumbaya at a Woodstock food stall—but perhaps it works for them.

As for caffeine: good grief, this timeline has truly outdone itself. Coffee beans remain the world’s second-most-traded commodity, but in the absence of alcohol, humans—ever-resourceful creatures—have elevated coffee-drinking from a simple daily necessity into a high-society ritual breathtaking in its seriousness. The caffeine sommeliers, distinct in their starched aprons and knit berets, jostled through the conference halls like ushers of divine enlightenment. Oh, the theater they enacted! One graphically swirled hot water over a silver-tipped filter while reciting, “This bean hails from the eastern slope of Kilimanjaro, with base notes of optimism and regret.” I was then handed a cup so strong my ancestors (and theirs) briefly rose to their feet.

The Paris Accord’s announcement later that evening—equal parts celebratory and solemn—was toasted with Mystic Tea and roasted Kenyan espresso shots. My timeline’s champagne-soaked receptions, with their laughter, blunders, and ideally embarrassing selfies, never seemed quite so charming by comparison. Here among the sober, the crowd cheered with eerie decorum, tears of heartfelt clarity glinting behind their eco-friendly glasses. I admit it was touching to see world leaders forge a historic pact—but imagine if they’d done it with red wine-stained teeth!

The grand irony of all this, of course, is that this timeline’s climate change catastrophe is worse than our own. Turns out, hundreds of years of laser-focused sober judgment somehow failed to prevent people from mistaking short-term profit for long-term ruin. Perhaps they could have benefited from an extra dose of drunken existential despair—or a hangover’s lingering humility—to spice up their decision-making. Who knows? It seems too much clarity can leave one blind to the obvious.

For now, I’ve left Marrakech and brought a Mystic Tea sachet along as a souvenir; I’ve been assured one sip is the closest thing to enlightenment without a monastery. Perhaps it’ll make me a more insightful traveler—or perhaps it’ll just make me hallucinate that yeast is the devil’s work. Either way, I’ll keep you posted.