The ceiling of the Irish pub was low. If I wanted to, I could hop up and touch it. But the floor was sticky enough to slow my shoes, so I guessed the ceiling wasn't much more clean. A four-piece band was too loud for the small space. Somebody forgot to tell them INXS didn't matter that much anymore. In the line for the bathroom, a man spoke to me quickly in French. I had no idea what he was saying, but held up two fingers, hoping he would understand the men's room only had two toilets and they were full. He rolled his eyes and patted me on the back. He understood, but followed me in anyway. I thought he was going to piss in the sink. He didn't.
At the bar, they served the Guinness cold with shots of Jameson's on the side. Eventually, the band would take a break and Jim Morrison's voice would blare over the crowd. I thought for a second how seven years before I'd stood at Morrison's grave and wondered why I was there. Then I wondered why he was there. While I was thinking, some young citizen of the Principality of Monaco headbanged past me, singing in broken English, "Let it roll, baby, roll."
I'd been on the road for two weeks at this point and thought I should just go to bed. But the Guinness tasted good and, frankly, I was lonely. Even when you spend your days surrounded by hundreds of people, there are times you'd give anything just to be sitting on a back porch deck drinking beer and playing guitar wih your buddies.
As I walked out to the bar patio, a television producer walked up and said, "Poker at the Grand. You in?" As my mind worked through the hundreds of valid excuses for declining, my mouth said, "Yep." Minutes later, I was walking through Monte Carlo's hilly streets on my way to a hotel room game.
Those games were going on everywhere for stakes from ten to two hundred thousand euros. In fact, that two hundred thousand euro game was the talk of the bar patio. Reportedly, a well-known player (yes, you have heard of him) was stuck 150,000 from an online massacre the night before and was trying to make it back up. Don't ask who it is. I have mental filter.
Poker in Vienna
Frankly, I was just about done with poker. I'd watched and played more than my share in the past two weeks. In the after hours, I'd play online in my room and lose. In the off hours in the cardrooms I'd play and win. And then I would play and lose. The peak of excitement came during a 3/6 limit game (essentially American 4/8) with BadBlood. We occupied the one and two seats of a table for much longer than we should've. I dropped the hammer on top pair by flopping and rivering a seven. It was a very winnable game, which BadBlood proved and I mocked by losing my buy-in and going to breakfast.
After BadBlood left, I continued to work. After the tournament was over, I had a few hours to kill and decided to play a little more. I was up about 100 at the softest table I'd seen in a while. I didn't understand the old, smoke-soaked men who played this game. They didn't understand check-raising. They didn't understand betting for value. And when they made the nuts, they flat-called. And, as you might expect, I was bored. I wanted to play bigger, but the next highest game was the equivalent of a 15/30 game and I only had enough cash on me for one buy-in. I didn't want to go in behind.
I noticed the other running game was full of action. A drunk Swede in the four seat had the entire table on tilt. When he bet, he did so by knocking his stack over onto the table. When it was his turn to act, he's always ask how much. And he never shut the hell up.
So, I don't know why I moved over there. I guess I was looking for something other than old men who didn't speak English.
I ended up right next to the drunk Swede.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"America." I said.
"I don't believe you," he said. "If so, you're the first American I've met who speaks English."
Ah, hah.
"And where do you live in America?"
"South Carolina."
"Ah, there's a song about that, yes?" He started humming "Sweet Home Alabama."
"That's not it," I said, knowing I should shut up. "That song is about Alabama."
"I'm quite sure you're wrong," he said. The rest of the table was glad he'd found me as a target. "Sweet Home Carolina," he sang over the crowd.
This had been going on to varying degrees for some time. The table had repeatedly asked the floorman to take some action. The floor didn't seem to care until the entire table revolted. Facing a mere six euro bet on the river (after having made the nuts, by the way), the guy sat and refused to call or fold. He just sat there pretending to think. Finally the floor told him he had one minute to make a decison.
'Fine," he said, "I call" and knocked 100 red chips into the center. He won that hand, but that was it. The floor man brought the kid some racks. The kid pretended to be agreeable, but started racking his chips by putting them in the rack sideways. Finally, the floorman did it for the kid. He had 170 euros, which the floorman brough the kid in cash.
"What is this?" the drunk said. The floor explained that was his money.
"Where is the rest of it?" the drunk said, muching on a piece of toast dipped in ketchup.
By the time it was over, he kid had exploded in a rage, demanding to see the security tapes which he believed (incorrectly) would prove he had more than 500 in front of him. I smirked a bit as security escorted the kid out into the parking lot. The show almost made up for the fact I gave back my winnings from the other table.
And to Monte Carlo
So, I was about done with poker. In Monte Carlo, I played four sit and go tournaments and suffered just about every kind of beat you can imagine. I came to peace with it as I sat playing with the Russian buy-a-bride of a European player (I have to assume he bought her, anyway). So, I lost. I've done enough losing recently, I think I haven't been lying when I tell people "I'm a better writer than poker player, and that should tell you a lot."
Action had been everywhere. Chinese poker games, 1000 euro ten-person tourneys played by World Champions, entire poker tables filled with Europeans playing online poker on their laptops.
And yet there I was on my way to a hotel room game with a crew of TV people and PR folks. When I got there, I wished I had gone back to my room. It appeared there would be little in the way of poker being played. Two pretty, young English girls were gnawing on medium rare hamburgers and tossing back glasses of wine. A producer was demonstrating his ability to open beer bottles with just about anything. He did it with a cigarette lighter (easy), he did it with a cell phone (not as easy). He started doing it on the bed frame but stopped when he ripped some paint off. He started using the brim of a Yankees cap before the owner took it away from him. He finally failed when he tried to use a poker chip and the chip shattered in four pieces.
Finally, the game (a ten-person tournament) got started on a room service table. By the time we'd reached four people, I shared the chip lead, one of the players was asleep, and the floor was covered in beer. I suggested a four-way chop which was immediately accepted.
As I walked back to my hotel room, a player who had cashed for a goodly sum in the tournament was walking back with what I still assume was a prosititute. If I'm wrong, I guess I'll have to apologize later.
It's been two weeks and I get to go home in about six hours. If you've read this far, you'll likely agree, while sometimes neat and sometimes exotic, this gig ain't necessariy as glamorous as it might seem.
Then again, it sure beats digging ditches.