PETER Jörgne

You can follow Gavin on Twitter @nhgg and read his column in Cardplayer Magazine.

Timestamps

:30 hello
7:57 fat harry potter
23:05 GG

Strategy

Timestamps

0:30 – Hello & Welcome
8:29 – Strategy: a hand that will haunt you for the rest of your life
45:33 – Interview: Dara O’Kearney

Strategy

Blinds 6K-12K with a 2K Ante. Villain (350K) opens to 25K, Hero (500K) calls ATo on the button, everyone else folds.

Flop As 8s 6h. Villain checks, Hero bets 75K into 84K, Villain calls.

Turn 3h. Villain checks, Hero shoves, Villain calls.

I’ve read a lot of commentary on Olivier Busquet and Dan Colman’s t-shirts from the EPT Barcelona Super High Roller final table, and I was fortunate enough to discuss the issue at length with Olivier himself as well as with the always-thought-provoking Nate Meyvis on Episode 92 of our podcast.

Olivier conceded that he and Dan didn’t choose the best topic for breaking the ice, and I am sympathetic to the argument that they didn’t choose the best forum either, but I nonetheless respect the attempt and am deeply troubled by those who would assert that politics has no place in poker. These critics paint politics either as a matter of mere opinion to which everyone is entitled or, worse, a hobby or niche interest that people can reasonably choose to just not care about.

When politics is narrowly construed as liberal vs conservative, Obama vs Romney, then I can understand why many people see little point in engaging with it. But politics is much bigger than that: it’s about all sorts of decisions, made (or not made) by a variety of people in many different positions of authority, some far away but some as near as the brush stand. No one is an expert on all of these topics, and very few are experts on any of them, so there’s no sense in saying that only experts have the right to speak on them.

Professional Poker Players Are Not Rodeo Clowns

Robbie Strazynski claims that “Recreational poker players turn to poker for a break from everything else going on in the world. They also watch poker on television to see POKER, not politics.” Setting aside the impossibility of this warrantless assertion being true of all of the millions of recreational poker players in the world, Strazynski seems to believe that this is a good thing and that the role of the professional poker player is to provide this distraction.

That’s certainly not how I see myself, and Busquet also took issue with Strazynski’s assertion that, “Professional poker players play the game to make a living; not to make a statement, political or otherwise.”

Personally I’ve found studying poker to be extremely valuable to me in my decision-making and my general outlook on life away from the poker table. I’ve learned to think more clearly and rationally about certain things, had thousands of lessons in accepting with equanimity that which I cannot control, and become more familiar with mental biases to which all humans are prone.

I’m not delusional; I realize that people read this blog and listen to the podcast first and foremost for entertainment. Nonetheless, I hope that I present poker in a way that highlights the many positive habits of mind it can cultivate. And though I try not to go overboard about it, I don’t think I’ve been shy about overtly political posts. Sometimes they’ve dealt with policies directly related to poker and casinos, other times they’ve used poker as a frame for thinking about other political issues.

No Politics At the Table?

Many of Busquet and Colman’s critics invoke a supposed injunction against discussing politics at the table. Strazynski repeatedly emphasizes that he is all for political discussion on poker blogs, etc., and Victoria Coren claims that, “No politics or religion at the table” is “an old, old unwritten rule of poker.”  That’s never been my experience, and even if that has been a tradition in some circles, it doesn’t follow that that’s how it should be.

Many people, myself included, would argue that television’s ability to serve as a mindless distraction is its worst and most insidious quality. I support televising poker, but I don’t support catering to the lowest common denominator in order to make poker programming more appealing to a particular subset of the viewing public.

One of the other arguments against political discussion at the table is that it can be a divisive, polarizing topic that undermines camaraderie. Then again the same could be said of sports, and that’s certainly a popular topic of conversation.

I agree that poker’s ability to get people of different ages, ethnicities, socio-economic backgrounds, and nationalities sitting together around a table is a remarkable thing. It seems a waste, though, to bring these people together and then insist that their conversations remain tepid and apolitical. Why should they not discuss weighty subjects on which they may disagree? Disagreement does not have to mean contentiousness, and besides poker tables often turn contentious for reasons that have nothing to do with politics.

Political “opinion” also isn’t (or shouldn’t be, anyway) an opinion in the same way that my favorite color is an opinion. Politics ought to be a debate, and people ought to actively investigate positions that they don’t fully understand but are not inclined to agree with. Being open to hearing out the opinions of others, and learning to express your own opinions in ways that make them appealing to people who don’t already agree with you, are important skills that are rapidly eroding in the age of the internet.

As Rob King says, “I am of the view that politics is a major part of everyday life. I was raised in a political household where politics were part of the daily discussion at the dinner table. I really can’t understand why people are afraid of talking about such politics more. It’s as though people are unaware that political decisions impact the average person’s life in a massive way.”

It’s certainly common for players to discuss poker-related politics, such as a change in rake structure, minimum or maximum buy-in, or other policies at the room where they are playing. They may also discuss policies at competing poker rooms, live vs online poker, or legislation likely to affect poker and gambling. Obviously the UIGEA and the Black Friday indictments were both common topics of discussion at brick & mortar poker rooms.

More to Come

I realize that I’ve stacked the deck here by drawing on examples that have a clear and direct relation to poker. In the second part of this post, though, I’m going to look at a few examples that bridge the gap between niche interest for poker players and broader political issues. These are topics that in my opinion ought to be discussed much more than they are in the poker world.

Their execution may have been imperfect at best, but rather than chastising Busquet and Colman for not doing their part to anesthetize television viewers, we ought to take the opportunity to discuss what is the proper relationship between poker and politics.

The title of this post is in German because that’s where I am right now. My girlfriend and I have just embarked on a three-month Europe trip. My inability to play online poker has become a convenient excuse to travel the world, spending several months first in Canada and now in Europe. As far as occupational hazards go, these aren’t so bad.

In a sequel to my Gray Friday article entitled Three Days in Madrid, I described meeting two new friends after a last-minute decision to play the Grand Final of the European Poker Tour. Appropriately, both Soeren and Nico are also coming to Berlin for the EPT, and I hope to see both of them today. Nico and I traveled to Cannes for the WSOP-Europe a few months ago, but this will be the first time I’ve seen Soeren since Madrid.

In the last year, Nico’s home country of Spain has adopted legislation restricting its citizens to playing on Spanish-only sites, and Soeren’s home country of Germany threatens to enact similar legislation. Back in the United States, the patchwork of pending legislation at the state and federal levels is too complex for me to keep up with it. Although the holy grail would be legislation welcoming PokerStars back into the US market so that US players could compete against the rest of the world, at this point even the creation of a US-only market would be a vast improvement over the status quo.

For now, though, I remain a poker nomad. I play the EPT Berlin on Monday and hopefully the rest of the week as well. Last night a former student who lives in Berlin picked us up at the train station and took us to dinner. Soon we’ll be on to Amsterdam, where I hope to meet another former student and also spend some time with Richard “tzen1” Veenman, a member of PokerStars Team Online whom I first met in the Bahamas earlier this year.

A long-time blog reader offered us a couch to crash on in his Paris apartment, so that’s where we’ll be after the SCOOP. Then there’s hiking in the Swiss alps, hopefully meeting a student in Switzerland while we’re there, and then on to a small town in Germany for the wedding of one of my closest friends, who asked me to be his best man on this date in 2011.

I still haven’t answered any of those big questions, but I’ve managed to orient myself and muddle my way through a messy situation by focusing on what’s important to me: relationships with family, friends, and my girlfriend; traveling, meeting new people, and having new experiences; and making the best of any situation in which I find myself, doing my best not to look to the past with resentment or longing nor towards the future with fear or anticipation.

How did Black Friday affect you? What has your life been like for the past year? How do you feel on this important anniversary?

For as long as I’ve had this blog, I’ve started every year with a series of posts about my poker-related goals and resolutions, and I’ve ended every year by assessing the progress I made towards them. I set goals for 2011– my most ambitious ever, actually- but now it seems pointless to even look at them, as Black Fridayrendered them more or less irrelevant.  The best laid plans of mice and men, eh?

I’m not really in a place to start setting poker goals for this year, either, since I have no idea what the year will look like for me, poker-wise or otherwise. Not since my final semester of college have I felt this level of anxiety and uncertainty about my future. Those Big Questions are back: Where will I live? What will I do? Who will the people around me be?

I’ve spent the last week and and a half fending off questions, some idle and some concerned, at various gatherings of friends and family. My recent life as a nomadic poker professional was strange enough to them that they’ve learned to accept without alarm the fact that I don’t know where I’m going to be two weeks from now.

Online poker made enough mainstream headlines that random aunts and uncles knew something had happened. Explaining everything that’s happened to online poker and to me in the last eight months is a mouthful that hasn’t gotten much shorter despite the amount of practice I’ve had spelling it all out.

I want to be clear that I’m “anxious” rather than “worried” or “depressed”. There really aren’t bad outcomes, which is very reassuring. Making big decisions is stressful regardless, but it is considerable consolation to feel confident that everything will work out in the end.

The two big advantages that I have over my 21-year-old self are money and experience. I graduated from college with $10,000 in the bank, $50,000 in student loans, no job, and no plan. OK, I had a bit of a plan, but it was a stupid one.

I never would have predicted it, but poker proved to be the missing ingredient that salvaged that plan. It enabled me to live with my girlfriend in Boston, start a non-profit organization, and travel extensively. What began as a way to make ends meet while searched for a job has blossomed into a full-on career, a phenomenon that was highlighted when I joined PokerStars Team Online. Knowing that I was able to muddle my way through a period of anxiety and make a very satisfying life for myself once before gives me a lot more confidence for this go-round.

The funny thing is that after two years, the whole nomad thing was wearing a bit thin, for me anyway. I wanted a little more stability and to feel at home somewhere. This didn’t make its way on to the blog, but one of my goals for the year was to get more settled somewhere.

Fail. The girlfriend and I returned to Boston intending to settle in place there and work out some big decisions about where to go and what to do in the longer term. Those conversations were taking place in late February and March. You know what happened next.

Suddenly I was driving to Montreal on Easter Sunday to open a Canadian bank account in the hopes that it would facilitate withdrawal of the money I had online. Of course that was before PokerStars painlessly returned US players’ funds and before that other site did the things that it did (or before we realized what was going on there, anyway). There was a last-minute trip to Madrid, and although I didn’t cash in the European Poker Tour main event, my third top-100 finish in the WSOP main event certainly took the edge off of Black Friday. Then two months in the Canadian Rockies, a European road trip, two months in Vancouver (featuring another deep run in a live tournament), camping in Death Valley (do you know anyone else who flies to Las Vegas to take a break from gambling?), then my mother’s house in Maryland for the holidays and some undefined period thereafter. You can imagine how quickly family members’ initial concern for my professional well-being melts away when they hear that list of “hardships”.

The only advantage that 21-year-old Andrew possessed over the man I am now was having his twenties ahead of him. Before all the 30-, 40-, and 50-somethings start rolling their eyes, let me clarify that I don’t feel old in the sense that my best years are behind me or that I’ll never have the chance to do all those things I wanted to or anything like that. As usual, David Foster Wallace captures the feeling far better than I could:

I am now 33 years old, and it feels like much time has passed and is passing faster and faster every day. Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I’m starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life’s sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path and time speeds me through stages of stasis and atrophy and decay until I go down for the third time, all struggle for naught, drowned by time.

OK, it gets a little too dark there at the end. My own feeling is that, “It’s not too late but it soon will be”. I’ve managed to make remarkably few major decisions or long-term commitments in the last eight years, but that’s starting to feel less tenable.

As a poker player, my instinct is always to gather more information, and there’s still so much we don’t know about the Whos, Whats, Whens, Wheres, and Hows of online poker in the US. Whether not I’ll be able to supplement my income by playing online poker has huge implications for what I do and where and how I live.

Poker has also taught me to play the hand I’m dealt and accept that the eventual outcome may not be under my control. At the moment, I’m looking no more than a few weeks into the future. I’ve got a few more days in Maryland, then I’ll be in the Bahamas for the PokerStars Caribbean Adventure, then it’s a little vaguer but possibly visiting friends and family in some combination of Maryland, New York, and Florida, then in Boston for a Boston Debate League tournament, and then… well, that’s still a work in progress.

Skimming a year’s worth of posts actually turned up a quote that should conclude this little rant nicely. It’s from one of Jared Tendler’s post-Black Friday blog posts, and I originally quoted it in my own post-Black Friday post:

Right now you’re looking for answers. The problem is that some of you are so desperate for answers you’ll listen to almost anything or anyone. That desperation is very similar to feeling desperate to win. You’ll do almost anything to shake this feeling because the uncertainty is almost too much to handle.

The reality is that there aren’t many answers out there right now. If you try to force an answer too soon, you’ll be making the same mistake if you were forcing the action because you need to win money right now. You have to stick to a sound and logical strategy.

Happy New Year, everyone. Let’s make it a good one.

A: Good question. Let’s start by talking about the flop float: it’s close, but I don’t love it. You don’t say whether you had a backdoor draw, but I think that would be the deciding factor for me. When you’re playing against an UTG raiser, there’s a world of difference between floating with AJ and floating with AK. The trouble here is that you don’t dominate a lot of his bluffing range. He probably has some suited Js in there, but he’s probably not playing A9. That means that unlike with AK, when an A falls, you still just have a bluff-catcher if he keeps betting. And if you don’t improve, you may end up losing to a better A-high. That complicates matters, so without the added equity of a backdoor draw, I’d just fold the flop.

That said, a call isn’t bad, and you got a great turn. As you realize, that one’s an easy call.

On the river, you’re right that you beat only bluffs, and you’re now behind a larger part of his range. By my count it’s only a slight overbet, so I think it’s conceivable that he could shove a hand as weak as KQ for value.

Then again, as you say, it’s a good card for him to bluff. Without knowing more about his pre-flop range, it’s hard to say how many hands he has that need to bluff. Small pairs could easily turn into bluffs here, but I think better pairs like 88 or 99 probably check the turn, so that’s not a big part of his range. If he has suited connectors in there, he’d probably bluff those as well, but otherwise it’s hard to put him on air.

When I started righting this, I was going to tell you to call, but I’m now leaning towards a fold. I just don’t see a lot of air in his range, since you lose to all broadway hands.

The sticking point for me is when we get to Level Three thinking: your hand looks weaker than it is. When you call the flop and then overcards fall on the turn and river, that looks like a bad runout for you. Your hand looks like a pocket pair, and there’s a lot for a pocket pair to be scared of here. I’m just not sure that matters.

One way of dealing with tough decisions is to analyze your own range. If you fold AJ here, what would you call? Is AT in your range? How about JTs? T9s? JJ? 44? Would you ever play AK or KK this way? You probably should slowplay many of those hands when you’re up against a really tough player, so that you have coverage in spots like this and are a bit harder to bluff.

As much as it pains me, I’m going to fold this. It’s a good spot to bluff, but it’s also a good spot to value bet, and he doesn’t have a lot of air in his range. His range is just a lot stronger than yours in this spot, which is why he can bluff with impunity, but also why you need to fold.

Thanks for a really thought-provoking hand!

From there we took a subway to Tribunal for some botellon, the fine Spanish tradition of outdoor, public drinking. I’ve never been a big fan of bars, since I’m mostly going to talk to the people I’m going with and could do that more easily and cheaply with drinks at home, but there is something to be said for the atmosphere and for being among people. Botellon is the perfect combination: you’re outside with plenty of other people milling around, but you’re drinking your own alcohol rather than buying it at inflated prices!

The only catch is that while it’s largely ignored by the police, it’s technically illegal. After sitting cross-legged on the ground of the plaza for half an hour or so, drinking cans of beer we bought from roving Chinese merchants with six-packs, Nico suggested that we ought to move along. The police had shown up and did actually seem to be ticketing people.

We sauntered into a club he knew to have live music from time to time, but we didn’t stay too long because there was no band this night. After trying several times to explain to the bartender what a vodka martini was, I settled for a rum and coke. When that was finished, we went back outside to drink in the narrow street just outside the bar. In less than a minute, a Chinese merchant found us and we had beers in hand.

Roughly two hundred people, almost all younger than I, filled the street, retreating to the sidewalks only when the occasional, stubborn motorist slowly forced his way through the mass. Some of those motorists were police, but none showed any interest in the hundreds of open beer cans or the smell of marijuana that occasionally wafted by. The beer merchants were omnipresent when you wanted them but never pushy when you didn’t- they’d walk by saying, “Cerveza, cerveza!” but always in a way that made clear they were doing a brisk business with or without you.

A sudden shriek and splash of water interrupted our revelry. An old woman in a nightgown was out on her terrace four stories above us, dumping water in the general direction of the open-air fiesta. It wasn’t hard to sympathize with her: it was 3AM, the noise from the crowd was surely intruding into her apartment in a serious way, and it was clear that the street would be a mess in the morning.

Still, her aerial assault proved counterproductive. Everyone thought it was hilarious and began cheering and egging her on, some even offering themselves as targets. Amazingly, the old woman seemed to get into the spirit of things and started waving and blowing kisses jovially in between sorties. I thought I was in a safe spot but she very nearly got me, as it turned out that she also had access to the window adjacent to her terrace.

Even after she stopped throwing water she stayed up there for a remarkably long time. She’d been out there for probably two hours and was still going strong when Nico and I decided to call it a night.

We slept late into the morning, and then I packed and made ready for my departure before we went for lunch. Mediterranean food is wonderfully suited to my palette, but after two weeks of it I was hankering for something different. A quick internet search revealed that Madrid is one of the worst major cities for ethnic food of any kind. Apparently Spanish people traditionally prefer very simple preparations and tend to suspect that spice and sauces conceal subprime meat.

Nevertheless, my research turned up a small neighborhood called Lavapies that was rumored to have some good Indian places. It proved to be a fascinating couple blocks with not just Indian restaurants but Indian grocery stores and even a Bollywood movie rental shop. It didn’t seem to be a particularly Indian neighborhood, though. The vast majority of people strolling the street were white, and occasionally an African would offer to sell us hashish, but the only Indian people I saw were working at the restaurants.

All of the outdoor seating was packed, and the staff generally seemed more concerned about finding room for more new customers than attending to those already sitting. The food, when it finally arrived, was excellent and quite cheap, so it was all good in the end.

So after one last delicious meal it was off to the airport. Nico brought the infamous trance CD for the drive, and we talked about when we might see each other again. He’s planning a trip to to the States next summer, but EPT Madrid comes first, and having a place to stay drastically reduces the cost of playing, so maybe I’ll get to Spain once more. I feel like I’m getting to know Madrid reasonably well, even corrected Nico on something today, though I’ve spent less than two weeks there in total.

Likewise, I feel like I know Nico a lot better than the three weeks or so we’ve spent together in the last few months would suggest. We get along very naturally, and it’s always been easy and fun to spend time together, even in the large quantities of the last two weeks. “See you soon,” he said as I walked into the terminal, adding, “Somewhere.”

My heart beat eagerly as my eyes scanned the waiting crowd at Madrid-Barajas Airport. It’s nice to know that, after nine hours of traveling, there is a friendly face seeking out you amidst the anonymous crowd, but there was more to my anxiousness than that. The face I was looking for wasn’t exactly familiar: I’d seen it only once, in a photograph. But if Nico wasn’t here, I was going to be seriously screwed, with little money, even less knowledge of the local language, and no plan for getting to my hotel.

It tells the story of my first three days (though actually most of the best stories are from the nights) in Madrid, including significant hands that I played on Day 1A of the European Poker Tour Grand Final. Of course, I spent more than three days in Madrid, but the article is long enough as it is. I plan to share a few more stories on this blog in the coming days, so if you enjoy the article, keep any eye on this page for bonus material!

I expect he’ll post a more thorough recounting tomorrow, but he did have a Spanish friend relay the busto hand info for me to share –

It was shortly after dinner break, with blinds at 300/600, Andrew had around 45.000.

Young aggro player with big stack opened to 1400 UTG+1, then UTG+2 called, and MP1 3-bet to 4200.

Andrew 4-bet to 14,000 from the CO with AK suited, and it got folded around to the 3-bettor, who called.Then flop came AQx, the other guy openshoved for around 30,000 (close to the pot size), Andrew called and the guy had QQ for a set of queens.

Thanks Nicolás!

I stupidly managed to bring my laptop but forget the power cord, so I’m stuck making this crappy tiny post from the barely functioning WebTB-ish thing they have in the room.

But yeah, I’m here, just got back from a very nice Poker Stars reception where I ran into Shaundeeb, who introduced to a bunch of young internet players I previously knew only by screenname: Adam Junglen, MrBigQueso, FatalError, etc.

I’ll be playing Day 2B (Wednesday), and I’ll do my best to keep you posted. Hopefully I can get this laptop situation straightened out. Technically they have computers here I can use, but like everything here, they are gallingly expensive (the “nominal fee” for the fitness center is $15/day, which is also what I’m paying for this shitty internet.

Poker Stars, $760 + $40 NL Hold’em Tournament, 10/20 Blinds, 7 Players
LeggoPoker.com – Hand History Converter

BB: 4,540
UTG: 4,630
UTG+1: 5,300
MP: 5,600
Hero (CO): 4,970
BTN: 4,900
SB: 5,060

Pre-Flop: (30) A T dealt to Hero (CO)
UTG folds, UTG+1 calls 20, MP folds, Hero raises to 120, 3 folds, UTG+1 calls 100

Flop: (270) 8 7 6 (2 Players)
UTG+1 checks, Hero checks

Turn: (270) 3 (2 Players)
UTG+1 checks, Hero checks

River: (270) 6 (2 Players)
UTG+1 checks, Hero checks

Results: 270 Pot
UTG+1 showed Q T (a pair of Sixes) and LOST (-120 NET)
Hero showed A T (a pair of Sixes) and WON 270 (+150 NET)

Poker Stars, $760 + $40 NL Hold’em Tournament, 10/20 Blinds, 7 Players
LeggoPoker.com – Hand History Converter

BTN: 4,510
SB: 4,640
BB: 5,180
UTG: 5,600
Hero (UTG+1): 5,120
MP: 4,900
CO: 5,050

Pre-Flop: (30) 5 5 dealt to Hero (UTG+1)
UTG folds, Hero raises to 70, MP folds, CO calls 70, 2 folds, BB calls 50

Flop: (220) 8 6 9 (3 Players)
BB checks, Hero checks, CO checks

Turn: (220) K (3 Players)
BB checks, Hero bets 200, 2 folds

Results: 220 Pot
Hero mucked 5 5 and WON 220 (+150 NET)

Poker Stars, $760 + $40 NL Hold’em Tournament, 10/20 Blinds, 8 Players

LeggoPoker.com – Hand History Converter

BB: 4,250
UTG: 4,530
UTG+1: 5,100
MP1: 5,280
MP2: 5,000
Hero (CO): 5,220
BTN: 5,660
SB: 4,960

Pre-Flop: (30) K Q dealt to Hero (CO)
UTG calls 20, 3 folds, Hero raises to 120, 3 folds, UTG calls 100

Flop: (270) 4 K T (2 Players)
UTG checks, Hero checks

Turn: (270) 5 (2 Players)
UTG checks, Hero bets 175, UTG calls 175

River: (620) 8 (2 Players)
UTG checks, Hero bets 425, UTG calls 425

Results: 1,470 Pot
UTG mucked 4 Q and LOST (-720 NET)
Hero showed K Q (a pair of Kings) and WON 1,470 (+750 NET)

Poker Stars, $760 + $40 NL Hold’em Tournament, 15/30 Blinds, 8 Players
LeggoPoker.com – Hand History Converter

UTG+1: 9,340
MP1: 4,565
MP2: 5,180
CO: 5,395
BTN: 2,730
Hero (SB): 5,870
BB: 5,970
UTG: 6,400

Pre-Flop: (45) K Q dealt to Hero (SB)
4 folds, CO raises to 90, BTN calls 90, Hero raises to 420, 2 folds, BTN calls 330

Flop: (960) A 5 Q (2 Players)
Hero checks, BTN checks

Turn: (960) 2 (2 Players)
Hero checks, BTN checks

River: (960) A (2 Players)
Hero bets 450, BTN calls 450

Results: 1,860 Pot
BTN mucked 6 6 and LOST (-870 NET)
Hero showed K Q (two pair, Aces and Queens) and WON 1,860 (+990 NET)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I didn’t get to bed until 4AM last night, but I suck at sleeping in and wake around 9. For once there is no rain, and I am really not bummed about busting on day 1 of the tournament, since I now have two more days to tour Barcelona. I haven’t yet been to La Sagrada Familia (The Holy Family), a 19th-century cathedral designed by Barcelona’s homegrown architect Gaudi and probably the city’s number one tourist destination, so that’s where I’m heading today. I eat breakfast and make for the train station, about four blocks from the hotel.

Cultural Fact 7: In the US, one often sees signs prohibiting certain activities in public places, with two of the more common ones being “No panhandling” and “Do not step on grass.” The Barcelonan equivalents seem to be “No vendar flores” and “No futbol”.

On my way to subway, an old woman approaches me with a fistful of flowers. I try to shake my head and wave my hand at her to indicate a lack of interest, but she is shaking her head right back, as though there is something I don’t understand. “No, no, es Fiesta.”

“Um,” I stare blankly as she forces a stem into my palm. I know this isn’t free.

“Es Fiesta. One cent.” Seriously? I reach into my pocket and pull out some coins. I don’t have any pennies, so I offer a Euro nickel. She shakes her head and jabbers at me some more in Catalan. I think I hear the word “Angles”. She wants an American penny? A British penny? Sorry lady, no comprende.

She jabbers some more at me, becoming more and more irritated, and finally snatches the flower back out of my hand angrily and brushes past me. Fine, I didn’t want your damn flower anyway. Oh, and one more thing: no vendar flores!

In Which The Sagrada Familia Restoration Authority Slowplays and Allows Our Hero to Draw Out

There is a train station devoted solely to surviving this tourist destination in what is otherwise a residential neighborhood far from any of Barcelona’s hotspots. People from all over the world are waiting in line to get inside what appears to be an amazing building. It’s hard to describe exactly what is so distinctive about it, but the style is just incredibly complex and detailed and just very strange, not like any other building I’ve seen before. There are all sorts of spires and arches and stone figures and scenes carved into the building’s exterior. I can only imagine how fascinating the inside must be.

The line is long, but it moves more quickly than I expected, and soon I am shelling over 8 euros for the right to enter. Inside, there is scaffolding. Everywhere. And ugly green mesh fences. The tourists are herded around the perimeter of the church in a little circle, but there’s not much to see. Virtually everything inside is obscured by the scaffolds and all of the stained glass has been removed. When will I learn?

I angrily stomp out a single revolution of the cathedral’s interior and am prepared to go find a new park (so far these have all been awesome and free) when I see that the green mesh fence has deposited my fellow tourists and me near a second line. A sign warns of a thirty minute wait, and there is a fee of an additional 2 euros, but apparently I’ll be taking an elevator up into one of Gaudi’s towers, where I’ll have a close-up view of the roof and the highest spires and a very nice overlook of the entire city. I hate lines, but I feel like I’m priced in. So far I’ve shelled out 8 euros for a pretty crappy experience, but maybe for just 2 euros more I’ll end up with something worthwhile?

The time passes surprisingly quickly, and soon I’m crammed into an elevator with some Japanese tourists and hauled up into a tower. We step out of the elevator, and WHOAH! We’re on a narrow bridge connecting one tower to the other. On either side, a stone wall rises to just below my shoulders, and then there is nothing but a free fall to the street hundreds of feet below.

Heights in and of themselves don’t bother me, but when there is so little between me and a plunge to my death, I get a little freaked out. Even though people literally have to push past each other to get by, there is no danger that I’d just accidentally fall. I think my real fear is that any time I am standing on top of something like this, I hear a little voice in the back of my head whispering, “What would happen if you jumped? You could do it, right now. Nothing stopping you. All it takes is one stupid little decision, a little pressure on the balls of your feet, a slight exertion of some arm muscles, and it’s lights out for you, buddy.” Believe me, I’m not suicidal, just fascinated by how easy it is for such a seemingly small action to have such drastic, irreversible consequences. I’m at once repulsed and excited by my ability to affect my life and the world around me in this way.

The view, however, is amazing. We are just below the Sagrada’s one-of-a-kind spires, and the intricacy is captivating. Each is carved to resemble a tree, with individual leaves visible and dozens of tiny stone doves circling it all the way to the top. The more I think about how huge this building is and how every inch of it contains mind-bogglingly precise detail, the more awe-struck I am. It reminds me of something I read once about how it is impossible to determine the length of a coastline because no matter the scale on which you view it, it always contains infinitely many inlets and bays and harbors. Shown two photographs, one taken from a satellite and one from very close-up with a magnifying lens, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference.

Anyway, I try to enjoy the view but get off the bridge pretty quickly. Now I’ll be descending hundreds of narrow, winding stairs, but all along there are windows and balconies where I can see different parts of the building’s exterior and get a new view of the city, which spreads out for miles in every direction, a vast sea of dull white, clay red, and light gray buildings. This is easily worth the full 10 euros it cost me to get here. Sorry, Barcelona: you got me to make a mistake with my pre-flop call of 8 euros, but the implied odds were there, and you only charged me two euros to draw out. Better luck next time.

Cultural Fact 8: In America, an icon of a little white man appears to tell pedestrians it is safe to walk, and a red hand instructs them to stay put. When the red hand flashes, they have a few seconds to finish crossing the street before cars start coming, but as long as you are in the crosswalk when the hand starts flashing and don’t stop altogether, you’re generally fine without picking up the pace.

Barcelona features a nearly identical green man who gives pedestrians the go-ahead, and a red man who tells them it is not their turn. The equivalent of the flashing hand is a flashing green man, but there is an important difference: when that little man flashes, you hurry the hell up. You have approximately one second to get to the opposite curb before tires squeal and cars bear down on you.

Cultural Fact 9: In America, when there is no traffic light, white lines are painted in the street at an area designated a “crosswalk.” Although compliance is far from universal, pedestrians in said crosswalk generally have the right away and cars will often defer to them.

Although Barcelona’s streets feature similar-looking painting, do not be fooled. This is nothing more than government-sponsored graffiti and does not in any way compel drivers to slow down or yield to pedestrians.

Cultural Fact 10: In 1952, the municipal government of Barcelona commissioned M.C. Escher to design the city’s subway stations. The result was a maze of long corridors, stairs, and escalators that must be navigated to switch train lines. Entrances to the same station may be six or more blocks apart, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I once spent nearly ten minutes and traversed eight flights of stairs to change lines, all within the same station.

On the train, I crack out the guidebook and consider where to go next. I really want to show that uppity Montjuic that it can’t get the best of me, and two things in particular catch my attention. First, there is a sky car thing from the top of Montjuic down to the waterfront. Despite my earlier acrophobia, I really want to do this, it sounds awesome and like an amazing view. To get up the hill, it looks like there is something called a funicular. I know this is a word I’ve seen before, but I can’t remember exactly what it is. But hell, it starts with FUN, right? This is going to be great.

But first, there is Las Ramblas. Las Ramblas is a large shopping and walking boulevard that is another of Barcelona’s most famous attractions. It looks like I can get off the train, walk down Las Ramblas, then walk to the Montjuic funicular.

I’m underwhelmed. There is in fact a sea of people here, but most of them aren’t doing anything interesting. There are some pretty neat living statues where people have painted themselves very elaborately (moreso than I’ve ever seen on similar performers in the US) and pose for photos.

Also, for some reason, there are a ton of stalls selling live birds. These are about as depressing as mall pet shops, though a bit less so, since birds aren’t as cute as puppies. I saw one parrot who was nearly two feet tall crammed into a cage that was about 2.5 feet high. He was alternately chewing on the bars and calling out, “Hola!” to passersby. I know in Spanish that means, “Hello”, but I think it might be Catalan for “Help me!”

The main drag is boring me, but I see an interesting looking old church down a sidestreet. I wander through a neat little plaza and up to the church. I can’t actually go in, but I get some neat pictures, as it’s a much older building adjacent to some pretty modern looking ones, an interesting contrast. As I’m turning off my camera, a wiry old woman approaches and asks, in broken English, for change to make a phone call. Sorry grandma, I wasn’t born yesterday. In one fluid motion, my left foot pivots, my left hand deposits the camera safely into my pocket, my right hand delivers a haymaker to the old woman’s jaw, and I’m off and running.

Montjuic Redux

I haul ass over to the funicular.

New Vocabulary Acquired: “Funicular”- Slow, crappy uphill subway.

They should call it the gayicular. At least put it above ground so we can look out the windows while we’re going up. Damn, Barcelona, sometimes you make me so mad! But it’s only cuz I love you. Baby.

The funicular does not go all the way to the top, and this time I’m going up the opposite side of Montjuic, which as cool as the other side was barren. First off, it is covered in playgrounds, and not just any playgrounds, but badass themed playgrounds. One of them is made entirely of ropes, with ropes to swing on and climb on and even rope platforms to stand on.

Another one is like water-themed. There is a pump (broken, unfortunately, or I would have spent at least half an hour here) where I guess if you brought a bucket you could fill it up, then there are platforms and stuff like a regular playground, except they are connected by funnels and troughs and pipes and water wheels and all kinds of crazy awesome things.

I did ride a really long (like 30 feet at least) zipcord at one of the playgrounds, so that was something.

There are also quite a few gardens on this side of the hill.

Cultural Fact 11: Sleeping on a park bench does not seem to have any stigma attached to it in Barcelona. In fact, during siesta time, it is not uncommon to see men in business suits happily dozing beneath the afternoon sun.

Cultural Fact 12: Barcelonan women have a temperament befitting their Mediterranean environs. Virtually every time I saw a couple, no matter what age, the woman was generally either yelling and gesturing angrily at her partner or engaged in some public display of affection, ranging from walking with her hand in his backpocket (this woman was at least 60, which made it seem a bit more odd) to tonguing his ear on a park bench in broad daylight.

By time I near the top of Montjuic, my feet are pretty tired. Thankfully, there is a little stand with tables and chairs set up near a scenic view of the harbor. What to order, what to order. They’ve got food, beer, a full bar…. Hmm, I haven’t had sangria since I’ve been here, this seems like a good spot for it.

Big mistake. This place has a clear plastic tank of sangria like it’s lemonade or slushee mix. It tastes like rubbing alcohol mixed with fruit punch. I finish my fourth glass and resume my walk. Not far to the chairlift now. Then I’ll float gracefully down to the waterfront to get some lunch. This thing had better be cool enough to make up for the funicular catastrophe.

I’ll never know, because THE MOTHER [censored] CHAIRLIFT IS CLOSED FOR REPAIRS!!! This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.

But what’s this? Perhaps that bitch Fortuna has taken pity on me and decided to swing upwards: Montjuic Castle is just ahead. If anything can rival my love of chairlifts, it’s my love of castles!

This one turns out to be pretty neat, though not very old-feeling. The moat has been drained and replaced with a garden, but there is still a drawbridge and some turrets and stuff. I wander around for a while and take some pictures and am walking through a corridor into a new part of the castle when suddenly two men start yelling at me in Catalan. I spin around like a deer caught in headlights, and they keep shouting at pointing. Finally I am made to understand that I need to pay like 3 euros to get into this part of the castle. Fine, whatever, I fork it over and go about my business. A very loud alarm starts blaring, and there is more shouting and pointing. Eventually I figure out that I need to walk through a turnstile.

It seems this is a military history museum. Not something I would have paid for, but I am here now, so might as well look around. It’s kind of neat, with a lot of swords and polearms and guns and that kind of thing from all different time periods. There is also a pretty cool collection of toy soldiers from different periods of Barcelona’s history as well.

It’s actually a very large museum with a whole bunch of different rooms, and I do feel like I got my money’s worth, but on principle, I think I should be entitled to some kind of refund, because the door labeled (and I swear I am not making this up) “Machine Gun Room” was locked.

Level 1: Blinds 25/50

The 1 seat is late to arrive, and loses a big pot almost immediately after sitting down. He raises in late position and calls a re-raise from Gustav in the BB. The flop comes down Ace-high, Gustav bets 2000, the guy raises to 5000, Gustav shoves, and the guy angrily mucks, claiming he had KK. Well played, sir. Gustav shows an A.

The next big pot, Terrance raises to 150 from the CO, and Ann re-raises to 300 from the BB. The flop is K85, Ann checks and calls a bet. The turn is an 8, Ann checks, Terrance bets 1500, Ann raises to 3000, Terrance calls. The river checks through, Ann shows AJ, and Terrance’s KQ is good.

Ann picks up a few small pots with no showdown, but in every instance she has made small bets or raises relative to the pot.

Early into the third orbit, the table’s been playing tight, and I have yet to enter a pot. Terrance raises to 100 UTG, and I make it 350 in MP1 with QQ. Ann looks at her cards, looks at me, smiles, looks back at her cards, and calls. It folds around to Terrance, who calls.

Flop Jh2d3h. Terrance checks, I bet 600, and Ann starts shuffling her chips. She studies the board, looks at me, checks her cards, counts off some chips, checks her cards again, and finally raises to 3000. Terrance folds. I think for a long, long time, but I finally decide to throw away my overpair. I asked her about this hand later and she told me (honestly, as best I could determine) that she didn’t even remember the hand I was talking about. I take that to mean she didn’t have a set, as that would be more memorable, but I guess a big bluff would be memorable, too, right? So I don’t know what to think, but I’ve discussed it with a lot of good players, and in retrospect it seems like a pretty clear fold.

Next orbit, I make it 150 UTG+1 with 4c5c. The suave Swede and the short stack who showed up late call. The flop is 4h6c7c. Hello. Shorty checks, and I am about to bet when the dealer, who is talking to another dealer standing next to him and paying no attention at all, burns and turns an off-suit 5. I tell him I haven’t acted yet, and he puts the 5 next to the other cards, face up but an angle, and points to it. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Do you want to bet?” the Swede asks me impatiently.

“I’m still trying to figure out what is going on. We need to go back to the flop,” I tell the dealer. He points to the 5 again. The Swede folds out of turn. I call for the floor, since this dealer is making no sense. The floor announces that the 5 is burnt (not really a good card for me, even though it does give me two pair), I bet 400 on the flop, and Shorty folds.

Level 2: Blinds 50/100

The short stacks open limps in MP, Gustav limps in the CO, I limp Ah7h on the button, Ann in the SB completes, Swede in the BB checks. Flop is J T 3. Checks to me, and I bet 450. Swede calls, everyone else folds. Turn 4. Swede bets into me for 1100. I decide it would be fun to misplay this hand and just call, hoping that the river will blank so that I can represent a missed flush. Of course the river is a fourth heart, and Swede check-folds to a bet of 1800.

Not long after, Shorty calls an early position raise from Ann with T8s and pushes over a c-bet on an A-high flop with a flush draw. Ann shows AA and her set holds up, so she knocks him out, and he’s replaced by a fairly aggressive young guy (American, I think) in a PokerStars shirt. I fold fold fold some more, and observe that Gustav to my right is re-raising quite a lot, especially when in position.

With blinds at 500-100, aggro Poker Stars guy opens for 400 from the CO, and Gustav just calls from the SB. Looks like a good spot for a squeeze, since Gustav would almost certainly re-raise a big hand and I have played like one pot in the last hour. I make it 1600 with J4o and they both fold.

Level 3: Blinds 75/150

Terrance opens for 450 from CO-1, and I call with Kc Jc in the CO. He’s got about 4000 behind, and I cover. Flop 8d 8h 3h. He bets 450, I call. If my image is as weak/tight as I think it is, I should be able to take this away a fair amount of the time, and I could even have the best hand. Turn Kh. Terrance bets 800. I feel like so far I’ve represented a small to medium pair, so this is a good card for Terrance to bluff. I contemplate shoving on him, since he’s got less than a PSB left and if he has a heart, he’s got 9 outs on the river. I decide to call and call a bet on a non-heart river. River blanks, Terrance shoves for 2475, I call, he tables A8s, and I take a big hit.

Not long after, I get Aces and raise to 700 against an EP limper to take it down pre-flop.

Poker Stars, who limps a fair amount (generally I think with speculative hands when he thinks he’s been open raising too often, though he has limp-raised K’s UTG), tries to raise UTG but tosses out a black 500 chip without announcing anything, so the dealer makes him call. UTG+1 limps and I decide to just call with Ac Ks in MP2, both because raising when I know he wanted to raise reveals a lot about the strength of my hand, and because I don’t want to give him the chance to re-raise me. Button limps, SB completes, BB checks. Flop is Ac 8s 5c. Checks to me, I bet 500, folds to UTG, who check-raises to 1200. UTG+1 folds, I call. Turn is 6c, giving me the nut flush draw, and we check it through. Although this is a very good card for me and it seems like my hand is best, I can’t expect worse hands to call more than one bet, and I think the river will be a better place than the turn to get value. The river is an off-suit 7, putting a four-straight on the board. UTG checks, and I think for a while. I really feel like he has AJ/AQ, since he wanted to raise UTG, but I don’t know if they call a bet (they shouldn’t, in my opinion). And it is possible that he’s checking a better hand, since there are three clubs and four connected cards on the board. I decide to check behind, and his AJ no club is no good.

Level 4: Blinds 100/200

Terrance raises to 600 from MP1, I call with J T in CO-1, and Ann calls in the CO. Flop is T43r, Terrence bets 1100, I call, Ann folds. Turn is a 4 and puts a flush draw on the board. Terrance checks. I contemplate checking behind for pot control, but he could have 6 outs, and there are really 16 cards that I don’t want to see on the river. I bet 1400, and Terrance shoves for like 4000 more. I think for a long time and fold, and he shows me KK. I think the small turn bet saved me some money, since his river bet probably would have been larger.

With a little over 6000 chips, I find AQo UTG and raise to 600. Ann calls UTG+1, everyone else folds. Flop is Q 9 7r. I bet 900, Ann raises to 2000 (these small raises from her have generally been bluffs or weak made hands looking to take control of the betting). I shove for 3500 more, and she stares me down. “I really don’t think you have a Q,” she tells me, and I try hard to think unqueenly thoughts. “I’ve got to go with my read,” she announces. “I call,” and tables 77. The turn gives her a gutshot, but my hand holds up, and for the only time all tournament, I have a slightly above average stack.

Halfway through this level, we break for dinner, which proves to be the highlight of the event. We’ve all gotten dinner vouchers that enable us to eat at a special buffet the casino is spreading just for us. Holy wow: they’ve got oysters, swordfish, several kinds of shrimp, lamb, ham, chicken, breads, fruit, vegetables, and an equally dazzling array of desserts. As soon as Dan and I take our seats, a waiter brings us a bottle of wine, which unfortunately we’re hesitant to enjoy for fear of inhibiting our play, so it goes largely to waste.

Ann and I are the first two back to our table, and I comment on how great the dinner was. “I have to last until tomorrow just so I can get another dinner ticket,” I tell her.

“They didn’t have any rice,” she notes unhappily.

“OK, but they had everything else under the sun.”

“I was really in the mood for rice.”

Play resumes. The suave Swede limps UTG, Team Hink limps UTG+1, Poker Stars limps, Gustave limps, and I come in with 78o on the Button. SB completes, BB checks. Flop 9s 8c 3s. Checks to Gustave, who bets 600. My instinct is to call, but I think it through and decide that would be stupid. He tends to fire at a pot any time he thinks he can take it with a bet, and this could certainly be one of those situations. And while it’s not a super draw-heavy board, my call could very easily entice one or more overcalls behind me. If I raise now, I should be able to knock out the limpers (or find out that one of them has a monster) and either take it down or get it heads up in position with Gustave. I make it 1600, and they all fold. It probably doesn’t matter much that I have a pair there (though I think it does a little bit, and the backdoor draw counts for something as well).

Level 5: Blinds 150/300

I start catching even more garbage this level, and decide to make the best of it by nurturing my tight image. I definitely notice players, especially the three across the table from me (aggro Brit, Poker Duck, and Poker Stars), starting to target my blind for raises. For the most part I let them get away with, planning on punishing them once antes have kicked in. I do, however, try to monitor my image carefully and get away with everything I can without hurting this image. So from time to time, I just open raise any two from whatever position I happen to be in when I feel like it’s been too long since I played a pot. I’m looking for opportunities to re-steal as well, as there are a lot of aggressive players opening light, but Gustav on my right is jumping on a lot of the good spots first.

He gets caught eventually and ends up relatively short-stacked, so then his re-steals become all ins. Poker ducks, who has started raising nearly 3x per orbit, raises to 900 when I am in the BB, and I am planning on re-raising almost anything (possibly calling if it’s in a certain family of medium-strength hands that will play well OOP). Gustav shoves for 4500 from the SB, and I am severely tempted to shove KTo over the top. I seriously consider it for about two minutes, and decide that it is already a thin play, and the damage that I will do to my image by having to showdown KT in that spot is enough to make it a fold. Ducks calls with AJo (I can’t imagine him calling with that if I shove in for 12K) and his hand holds up unimproved against Gustav’s 98s. Those could have been my chips! His seat is filled by the Portuguese guy I met on the shuttle the other night.

Last hand before break, Ducks opens for 900 in MP1. I haven’t had as many opportunities to repop him as I wanted, and even though this might force me to wait a bit before restealing once the antes kick in, I decide not to let the perfect be the enemy of the good, as I could see him opening almost any two, since people are so quick to fold and go on break. I make it 2700 with J5o from the SB, and he folds.

Level 6: Blinds 150/300/25

These are tiny antes, but they do increase each starting pot by like 40%, and it works out well for me since I continue to pick up [censored].

Ducks raises my blind for the umpteenth time, and I find K J. This is one of those hands where I feel I’m better off calling, so I do. The flop is A 6 8, and we check it through. Turn is T, I bet 1200, and Ducks calls. River is A, I think for a while and check, and he bets 3500. I fold suspiciously.

Team Hink busts and is replaced by a guy in a Poker Stars shirt with his name (Simon Young) embroidered on it. I don’t know if this is someone I should know or if that’s just something you can spend FPP on, but he doesn’t seem to be a great player. He limps UTG, Portugal By Way of Connecticut limps in the CO, and I have AQs, the best hand I’ve seen in ages, on the button. My weak tight ass tells me to respect the UTG limp, but I grow a pair and make it 1500 to take it down pre-flop.

Level 7: Blinds 200/400/50

My stack is a little awkward for re-stealing right now, as the standard raise is to 1200 and I have about 12,000. Any re-raise commits me, and 10x the raise is a lot to commit with garbage. Unfortunately, the pot is opened ahead of me by one of the aggressive players on my right pretty often, so I don’t get a lot of opportunities to steal raise, either. Maybe I need to add a pre-flop call and flop/turn steal to my medium stack arsenal.

The aggressive Poker Stars guy busts out and is replaced by an older British guy who seems to know the aggressive young British kid. I’ve always heard there is a stereotype of Americans as boorish hold ‘em players, but this guy is a boorish Brit hold ‘em player. He is constantly complaining about the service, shouting “Senor!” or “Senorita!” and then throwing up his arms in exasperation when a waiter does not respond. He also likes to remind the dealers to muck hands immediately if the player is not at the table and other kind of trivial [censored] that even though he is right about it I wish he would just STFU. His name is Dave.

It folds to me on the button for the first time in ages, and I make it 1200 with 98o. Ann calls from the SB, BB folds, she leads 2500 on an AK5 flop, and I fold.

Suddenly a floor person is standing over our table with laminated white paper cards in his hand. [censored] [censored] [censored] he is breaking the table! Just when I wanted to start capitalizing on my tight image! I really need to get better at tracking when a table is going to break when I play these live events. [censored].

I’m moved to a new, less aggressive table, which is actually bad for me as I was hoping to start re-stealing more actively. Now I’ve got to establish an image and identify aggressive players all over again. Almost immediately I’m in the BB, and it folds around to the SB, a woman (Spanish, I think), who raises to 1000. I want to play so badly, but I look down at 83 and throw it away in disgust.

I find AJ in CO-1 and make it 1200 with like 8000 behind. It folds to the BB, who raises 4000 more. It’s the best hand I’ve seen in ages, but I know I have to fold it. He’s got no reason to think I’m up to no good and almost certainly has me crushed.

Next orbit the Spanish woman opens for 1200 from MP and I shove over the top with AJ to scoop a sizeable pot. Next hand I get AQ and pick up the blinds. Next hand I get 9’s and now I’m in MP1. I make it 1200 again, and a young guy in sunglasses and an Interpoker shirt quickly calls. The BB, a young guy (American, I think) in sunglasses and a Poker Stars shirt raises 4200 more. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. I’ve just picked up some chips, and now I’m going to have sacrifice 1200 of them. I think and think, trying to rationalize a shove, but there’s really no reason for BB to think he could pick up this pot enough to make a squeeze profitable. I raise from EP for the third time in a row, and I get a called quickly. I muck, Interpoker shoves, BB calls reluctantly with his QQ. He’s up against KK and goes busto.

I fold for a while, then get AQs in the SB. I’ve got 8000 chips, so it’s a great hand to shove over a standard raise of 1200. A kind of quiet player in EP min-raises to 800. I really wish he’d raised more. This is how much he raised last time he opened, so I’m not worried that way, it’s just that I wish he’d put more in the pot so a shove isn’t such a big over bet. I guess maybe I could get fancy and make it 2400 and shove any flop or something, but the pot is already more than 25% of my stack, so I just shove and take it down.I fold a bit more and the level is over.Level 8: Blinds 300/600/75

9000 isn’t so comfortable anymore. I go through the blinds once and I’m basically back in open shoving territory. I’ve still got some fold equity on a re-raise all-in, but not as much as I’d like. It turns out not to matter as I pick up 3’s in the CO and shove for 7700. Interpoker quickly calls from the SB, and I know I’m [censored]. He turns over 99, the A25 flop gives me nearly a 25% chance of winning, but I can’t get there, and I am busto! I track down Dan and Yurian and wish them well, then head outside to see if I can catch the Poker Stars shuttle. Oh good, I was hoping it would be raining!

The shuttle is outside waiting, but the only other people on it are Poker Stars staff. None of them say anything to me when I get on, so I just go sit by myself towards the back. I’m not really that bummed, as I don’t feel I made any real big mistakes and just got really card dead/cold decked. Besides, I’d already told myself that even if I did bust, that would be more time to enjoy my Barcelona vacation, not such a bad deal.

The Poker Stars people are talking about TV, and the American woman among them is lamenting that all the movies she wants to see are available in her room, but they are all in Catalan. Then she and a British woman get in an argument over whether US or British TV is better. At one point she remarks that reality TV is “sooooooooo good” and my brain rewards me with some great Teen Girl Squad memories. They ask the media guy for his opinion, and he tells them rather disdainfully that the US produces better scripted shows, but the UK has better reality shows.

It’s like three in the morning when I get back to my room, but remarkably I manage to find someone talking about poker on one of the two English stations I can pick up. Unfortunately, the show is unbelievably bad.

The “commentary expert” is asking the “poker expert” some “frequently asked questions”:

Q: What do you think of notoriously difficult to play hands like small pairs?

A: It’s a bad idea to play anything smaller than 88 in early position (they are talking about NLHE).

Q: And how about Queens? A lot of players aren’t sure what to do with those.

A: When you get Queens pre-flop, you need to raise enough that you can get rag Aces and rag Kings to fold. I advise people to put in a juicy raise, 5-6 times the big blind, to let people know you have a big hand. And even if you are called, you are just off to the races.

Puke. Now they return to commentating on what seems to be an online poker tournament of some sort. Based on the level of play, it is either a $1 tournament or a Pacific Poker tournament (maybe even both). Everyone is real shallow, blinds are 75/150 but few players have 1500. The commentators are approving of players limping suited Ace-rags in early position, overbetting top two pair on the flop “to protect against the flush draw”, and other poker playing abortions. I finally just turn it off and go to sleep.

Very little makes me happier than a huge, delicious breakfast, so I am already in a good mood when I take a seat across from a Norwegian guy who looked to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. We exchange pleasantries, which includes sharing Stars screen names, and when I tell him mine, he starts to laugh. “You were at my table, in the satellite I won,” he says. “I kept stealing your blinds.”

Son of a bitch! This is the guy I described in my first e-mail, who had me and another big stack to his left and kept raising the button with impunity. I smile. “If you ever had raised me, I would immediately. Anything,” he tells me.

“Well yeah, I know that now, but did you see how the other table was playing?”

“Terrible,” he agrees. “I knew I could outlast them.”

“Right, but for all I knew, you were just some idiot, too. I figured I could fold my way in, so I didn’t need to re-steal from you. I folded Queens once.” He laughs. Yeah, laugh it up, buddy.

His name is Yurian, and he actually turns out to be a pretty cool guy who works with asylum seekers in Norway. I didn’t ask for too many details, because I want to like this guy, but I’ve studied the treatment of asylum seekers in the US, and suffice it to say that if Norway treats theirs 1/10 as bad, they do some pretty inhumane shit. I have no idea what his job is, but I’d rather just assume Yurian is one of the good guys and not get into details.

By the time I finish breakfast and take a shower, the sun is out. I’m planning my day when I happen to glimpse my information sheet from Poker Stars and see that as part of my registration for the tournament, which I thought I had completed, I was supposed to sign some TV waiver. I’m tempted to ignore it and assume there will be some way to take care of it tomorrow, but they were such hardasses about the passport that I convince myself I should plan to get to the casino by 4PM, when registration closes, just in case. That should work out alright, as my plan for the day is to go to a park called Montjuic which looks to be walking distance from the waterfront area where the casino is located.

I enjoy a clear, sunny walk to the train station, but by the time I disembark, it is once again overcast. I can see a few blocks off the large hill that is my destination. There’s a beautiful palace built up the face of the hill, and thankfully escalators that will spare my bad knees the trauma of climbing several hundred stairs. I’m about halfway there when I feel the first drips of rain. I’m tempted to ignore them, but I soon learn that these few drops augur an abrupt downpour, and sure enough I find myself gathered with a bunch of well-dressed businesspeople beneath the overhang of a convention center.

It pours for a few minutes, then lets up. To my dismay, however, the escalators seem to have been turned off on account of the rain. I make it up two flights of stairs before I need a break. Conveniently enough, there’s a tourist attraction on this landing, a building designed by Mies van der Rohe. Apparently it is completely open, but he uses non-adjoining walls to close off the space, blending the inside and the outside or some such thing. From outside, I can see the contours of a single room, the gift shop, and a fountain beyond that. Looks intriguing.

I head over to buy a ticket and find that the “ticket booth” consists of some kid sitting outside on a chair collecting 3.50 euros (~$5). I pay him and step inside, where I can see three chairs inside of the room, a statue in the fountain, and NOTHING ELSE. There are no more rooms, there are no more fountains, there is no more furniture, there is FUCKING NOTHING. Ninety percent of the building can be seen from outside, so I gave that little bastard $5 to look at three chairs and a fucking statue. It reminds me of paying the American Indians $7 to stand in four states at once, except the Spaniards have no right to rob me because I don’t fucking live on land stolen from them.

I walk outside, grab the kid out of his chair, and drag him through the single room to the fountain out back. He figures out what’s going on and starts screaming, but I shut him up quick by plunging his head face first into the water. He struggles a bit but I hold him under firmly for a good minute or so. I don’t want to kill him, just give him a scare to let him know I don’t appreciate being hustled.

I’m not really looking to give the Mies van der Rohe Institute any more money, but I need to find a gift for my girlfriend somewhere, and she likes architecture, so I stop by the gift shop. Everything proves to be as absurdly overpriced as the admission to the building, and then I see the shirts that the cashiers are wearing. They are all black, with the slogan “Less is More” emblazoned across the front in white letters. Son of a mother [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored]!

Now it’s raining again, so I have to stay in the shop for a few minutes until it stops. At last it does, and I go climb more stairs to the top of the hill. From this height, I can get a lot of good pictures of the city spread out at the foot of the hill. Unfortunately, I feel a few drops of rain but have the good sense to take cover under the palace’s awning. This time the rain goes on for quite a while, so I take a few notes for this trip report. My plan is to report the number of times that I think to myself ‘it couldn’t possibly rain any harder than it is right now,’ but I get the message and stop counting at five.

Great gobs of rain continue to splatter onto the steps below me, and at long last the recede into a drizzle. It’s past noon, though, and I still need to see the park and get to the casino by 4, so I figure this is the best I’m going to do. I brave the elements one more time and head off in the direction I believe I need to be going (there aren’t really streets as such on this part of Montjuic, so my map isn’t too useful).

I make it as far as one of Barcelona’s Olympic stadiums before I am once again forced to seek cover. Wait wait wait, the rain slows, no sooner have I started walking across a wide plaza near the futbol stadium than I hear a boom of thunder in the distance. It looks like I’m getting near an overlook from which I’d like to take some photos, but I’m still a good 200 yards away, and I’m at least that far from the nearest shelter. I pick up my pace, but then I feel the first few tentative drips. Shit. I turn and run back to the first stadium just as the rain picks up and make it to dry land before the worst of it starts.

This time I remain vigilant, and the moment the precipitation slows to a tolerably drizzle, I sprint across the slick flagstones and reach the overlook. It’s less scenic than I was hoping, but I’ve come this far, so I snap a few photos. The sky actually seems to be clearing up, but I’m further away from the waterfront than I thought. It’s about 1PM, and I don’t think I can walk there by 3, but I don’t really feel like walking back across Montjuic to civilization either, so I decide I will just walk down the back side of the hill and find a train station or a cab or something.

Initially there are some stairs and trails leading down the hill, but they become less and less well-defined and seem to be leading me towards a large road but not any kind of area where there would be any kind of transportation. Shit. Now I really don’t feel like walking back up and across the hill, but I also have no idea where I am. I’ve still got three hours to spare, though, and the weather is clearing up nicely, so I just start walking towards the waterfront and figure I will come across something eventually.

Soon the path I am on goes from being paved to being little more than packed dirt. It passes a tiny, picturesque cemetery, and then ends abruptly at the top of a small cliff that is covered in cacti and brush. Shit. I backtrack and try going up and over the top of a different part of the hill that stands between me and the waterfront, but this path ends at a boarded up old building. There’s nowhere to go but back, so I finally retrace my steps all the way back to the road and follow that to a little neighborhood.

I obviously know nothing about the topography of Barcelona, and certainly don’t know what is and is not a dangerous neighborhood, but I’m definitely picking up on some warning signs. There are some boarded up buildings and vacant lots, but there are also a lot of people (including some families) out and about, which is a good sign. Also, there is construction equipment in some of the vacant lots, suggesting that they are actively being developed and are not just abandoned.

Still, I intend to be cautious, because as a foreigner who does not speak the local language, I’m an easy target. Thankfully I don’t have my passport with me and left a lot of cash as well as my driver’s license in my room safe, so my liability is limited.

My work with urban debate leagues has taken me to enough unfriendly neighborhoods in the US that I’ve developed a simple but effective set of precautions to take when in a potentially unsafe area:

1. Walk quickly and deliberately. I have no idea where I’m going, so I’ll have to fake it.

2. Stay on large streets where there are people out and cars driving past. I’m trying to find a cab or a train station, so that’s where I want to be anyway.

3. Don’t stare or make contact with anyone. This is triply true when it comes to women. No matter how attractive they may be, it is essential to do nothing that could be interpreted as checking them out. Looking at the wrong person’s sister or girlfriend is provocative in a way that virtually nothing else is.

4. Generally avoid exposing yourself to vulnerable situations. This means no asking for directions or taking out a map, unfortunately.

If Barcelona is anything like major American cities, then the public transportation system will be specifically designed not to serve this part of town. I look at my watch. 2:00. I should be near the waterfront now, though not the part where the casino is. Once I get there, hopefully I can just walk along the shore until I get where I need to be. It’s a decent walk along a highway to get to the waterfront, and as I approach, I realize this area is completely industrialized. There are lots of factories and warehouses and roads, but virtually nowhere to walk. I try to follow a street that’s going generally in the right direction, but soon the sidewalk disappears, and after a few trucks zoom dangerously past me, I realize I am essentially walking along the shoulder of a highway. No good.

I have no idea how to get anywhere from where I am now, and I am sure as hell not going to get a cab or a train here, so I’ve got no choice but to turn around and head back to the residential area. The sun is out now and at its zenith, and I’ve been walking for hours with nothing to drink, so I’m feeling hot, tired, and dehydrated. Good thing I decided to put on short pants today. By the time I walk back into town, it’s past 3:00. Now I’m frustrated, too. I’ve got no idea where I am, I’m supposed to be at the casino in less than an hour, and I have no idea how to get there.

Cultural Fact 5: Cabs in Barcelona are black and green, with little lights on the top that tell you when they are available.

I haven’t seen one of those in hours, but I see a yellow car with a sign on the top (ie what in the US would be a cab), and get excited.

New Vocabulary Acquired: “Autoescuela”- Driving school

There must be one near here, because I see about a dozen of these cars in the next forty-five minutes as I follow street signs to Montjuic, which seems to be my best option at this point. I’ve given up on making it to the casino when look at my watch and realize I’ve been miscalculating the time (I haven’t set it for Barcelona time), and it is actually approaching 3PM, not 4PM. It takes nearly half an hour more, but I finally spot a cab and flag him down.

There’s only one casino in Barcelona, so once I successfully communicate that word to the driver (which sadly takes a minute, even though it is “casino” in Catalan), we’re off to the races. He tries to tell me something that seems to be about the route he is going to take, but I can only smile and nod. At this point, getting ripped off is the least of my worries.

Cultural Fact 6: Traffic in Barcelona is a nightmare. It’s an old city that’s experienced several population booms, so the roads are just not prepared to accommodate the number of vehicles that travel on them.

I know we are not that far from the casino, and the driver doesn’t seem to be giving me the run around, but it takes better than twenty minutes to get there. As I pay the driver, I notice that it’s 3:50. Still time. I run across the promenade and into the casino, only to see a gigantic line at the front desk. I think I actually need to talk the Poker Stars people downstairs, not the casino’s people, and registration is supposed to close in like 3 minutes. I hurry over to the guy working the stairs and try to give him my ticket from yesterday. He points at my bare legs and wags his finger. Shit shit fuck the casino’s dress code! I completely forgot that “smart casual” means no shorts.

He doesn’t seem ready to let me downstairs, so I look around trying to find a Poker Stars employee wandering around up here. Check my watch, two minutes to spare. No one in site. One minute. There, across the room, I see a woman with a Poker Stars badge around her neck walking in the front door. I rush over to her. “Hi, I need to sign my TV waiver or whatever,” I tell her breathlessly.

“Are you playing today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“OK, well we’ve changed how we’re doing that. We’re just going to give you the TV waiver at your table.”

I stare at her in shock. “Th-that’s all?” I stammer. “Nothing more I need to do today?”

“Nope, you’re good,” she tells me casually. I just busted ass to get over here because your damn instructions told me I needed to sign this thing by 4PM today, and now you’ve ‘changed that’ without telling anyone? I’m still in shock, and she walks off before I have the chance to kick her in the stomach.

So what now? It’s turned into a beautiful day, so I don’t really want to just go back to my hotel and take a nap or something, but my feet are killing me. I’m right on the beach, but I don’t have a bathing suit or towel or anything, so that’s no use to me either. Might as well get lunch, if anything is still open. I find an Italian place with outdoor seating and an appealing looking menu del dia. I order extra water and down nearly the full liter in one chug.

The food is kind of mediocre, probably my fault for ordering something safe, but it feels great just to sit down. While I’m eating, I look over my map. The distance from here to the hotel looks very walkable, it’s a straight shot along the beach, and my feet are feeling a little better…. I decide to go for it.

New Vocabulary Acquired: “Platja”- beach
“Cindrer”- ashtray

These are from a sign that I am able to read as saying, “It’s a beach, not a giant ashtray, OK?” How am I able to deduce this? Because the sign includes the image of a superhero named Salvador de la Platja punching an anthropomorphic cigarette butt as tall as he is in the stomach.

The walk is nice at first, with a pleasant breeze and a pleasing view of the Mediterranean.

There aren’t many people out, surprisingly, but I’m on the lookout for topless Spanish hotties. Unfortunately the only naked person I spot is an overweight man who is thankfully sitting in such a way that I am not treated to the most unpleasant view available. Still unwelcome, but I guess that’s a silver lining or something.

When I get in, I take a little siesta, watch some TV, read for a bit, call my girlfriend, go to sleep. Plan is to wake up early tomorrow, hit up a park in the morning, take another siesta, and be well-rested come 5PM.

When I wake up, it is morning, and we are about to land in Barcelona. I meet up with 10K-in-Clay, whose real name is Dan, and his girlfriend, Danielle (Dan and Danielle… cute, but maybe a little too cute). Dan is a 19-year old Canadian about to play his first live event. This is only my second one, but I try to share a few things I learned from my first one. Danielle is his age, friendly but quiet. They knew each other from high school but now go to different colleges. I’m quite sure that no teenage daughter of mine would be jetting off to Spain with her poker-playing boyfriend, but I hear Canada is a pretty liberal country, so more power to them.

After collecting our bags, we pass through customs without so much as turning a head and go to find the cab stand. I had heard that precipitation on the Iberian peninsula is localized primarily in the flatlands, but no sooner have we gotten in the cab than the sky opens up and pours down rain drops the size of golf balls onto our little vehicle. The driver, who seems not to speak English, is on his cell phone and has his window cracked. Since his cab is moving forward, the rain is coming in at an angle, landing not on him, but on the seat behind him, where yours truly happens to be sitting. I have no idea how to communicate this to him, and don’t want to distract him further from the road, which already seems not to be his top priority, so I just sit there and get wet.

It’s not yet 9AM when we arrive at the hotel, and we’re a little worried, as check-in isn’t supposed to be until 2PM. But obviously we’re tired and have a lot of bags with us, so hopefully the Hilton Diagonal Mar will let us in early. I get to the registration desk first and check-in with no difficulty, stopping on my way up to my room just long enough to tell Dan the room number so that he’ll know how to reach me.

The room is pretty neat, decorated in a sort of modern style with interestingly designed furniture and a nice view of the Mediterranean. I’ve got two single beds, but they are on rollers, so it seems I can push them together and not have to worry about how to fit three Catalan hookers and my fat ass into just one of them. I lie down for a quick nap and roll a good three feet. I sit up, and roll two feet in the opposite direction. I roll over, and the bed rolls right along with me. Hmmm, it seems the beds could be pushed together, as long as one didn’t try to engage in any strenuous physical activity in them. But really what are the odds that someone would want to do anything like that in a bed in a hotel room with an ocean view?

I can’t get to sleep, so I shower, look over my guide books, and wait for the rain to let up.

New Vocabulary Acquired: “Infrequently” – Though it looks quite similar to an English word meaning rarely, it seems the Catalan word “infrequently “ can actually be translated as “every day of your vacation.” My guide book gives an example of how this word might be used in a sentence:

“Thankfully, it rains infrequently in Barcelona.”

Finally, I decide I can at least go across the street and see what a Spanish mall looks like, now that I’m finished seeing the sights of a Spanish hotel room. It is still drizzling, but no longer pouring. The elevator deposits me in the hotel lobby, and I can see through the revolving doors that in the time it took to traverse 21 floors, the heavy downpour has resumed.

Also, Dan and Danielle are sitting in the lobby, looking bored, tired, and a little pissed. “Room still isn’t ready,” Dan tell me. “They didn’t have any rooms with king beds ready. They said it would be about an hour.” I look at my watch and see that it’s been nearly two hours since we’ve arrived. Bad beat. I’d still rather be in his shoes, waiting to get a room with a king bed that I’ll be sharing with my girlfriend rather than already unpacked in a room with two single beds that I’d be sharing with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

I also see that a Poker Stars welcome desk has been set up, so I give them my name. Apparently I have to go to some party tonight at the casino in order to get my t-shirt. Also, I am supposed to register and sign a TV waiver there. I am able to get a schedule for the tournament at the Poker Stars desk, and OMFGWTF WE DON’T START PLAY UNTIL 5 PM?!?!?!?! At the WSOP, I felt like I played great during the first 10 hours of play, but really lost it during the last two. I am just not an evening person. And this event is basically going to run all night, and for three nights straight, if I final table it. Puke.

Pissed, I step outside to wait for a lull in the rain so I can dash out the door. I’m wearing a Poker Stars windbreaker (the only thing with a hood that I brought with me), so while I’m waiting the guy from the Poker Stars desk, who has ducked outside for a smoke, starts chatting with me. He’s a Brit named John, and seems like a cool guy. He’s an internet player who makes money on the side doing customer support for Stars. I compliment him on the great support they have, and we take turns cracking jokes about Party Poker support.

He has to get back inside, so I decide just to go for it and dash across the street to the mall. It’s pretty boring, seems a hell of a lot like an American mall, though probably with better food. There is a pretty crazy psychedelic playground thing inside, but otherwise not much of interest. The rain lets up, the sun comes out, and I step outside to wander.

Bari Gotique

I’m getting hungry, but I’m very nervous/self-conscious about not speaking any Spanish or Catalan. I walk around the same block several times, trying to decide which pastry shop is least intimidating. Finally, I select one with a friendly-looking young woman behind the counter who smiles politely as I mangle her native language and point awkwardly at the spot on the glass display that vaguely corresponds with the chocolate-filled delicacy I desire.

As I’m walking and eating, I spot a subway station and decide I will just take it somewhere, get off, and wander around. The subway in Barcelona was easily one of my favorite things about the city, and one of the best public transit systems I’ve experienced. I don’t think I ever waited more than five minutes for a train, the ticket machines were easy to operate (even without any knowledge of Catalan), and there was even a display telling me exactly, to the second, how long the wait would be for the next train. One complaint: although I didn’t encounter especially many stinky Spaniards, well over half of the cars I was in reeked of body odor.

I disembark at a station called Jaume I (pronounced jowm pree-may) and do my best to follow a self-guided walking tour of the Bari Gotique, or Gothic Quarter, the oldest part of the city. It’s got a great feel to it, full of ancient buildings with beautiful balconies and windows and stonework, and now housing a lot of restaurants and pastry shops and boutiques that can be accessed via dozens of narrow, winding streets. Unfortunately, following these streets, many of which have names that are not posted anywhere but assumed by my guide book, proves difficult. Fortunately, I am not in a hurry to get anywhere in particular and am enjoying just walking around.

It takes me a while, but eventually I find a restaurant called L’Academia that is supposed to be good.

Cultural Fact 3: Barcelona operates on a strange schedule. A normal work day is from 8AM-2PM, then 4PM-8PM. They like to take long lunches and/or short naps in the afternoon. Lunch is generally a multi-course affair, and dinner is not eaten until 9:30 PM or later.

This does provide a possible solution to my quandary regarding the tournament schedule: I can wake up early, eat breakfast at the hotel buffet, see a bit of the city, take a siesta, and be relatively well-rested for the tournament at 5 PM. I generally suck at napping, but if I get myself in the habit during the next two days, I might be able to pull it off. SIESTA!

New Vocabulary Acquired: “Menu del Dia” – A fixed price lunch menu offered by most restaurants in Barcelona. For 8-12 Euros, you get a choice of several appetizers, several entrees, several desserts, and a beverage.

At the table adjacent to mine are six British girls traveling around Europe on their gap year. Based on their conversation, they are the continental equivalent of US “valley girls” but their accents make them sound more sophisticated and intelligent. Eavesdropping provides entertainment during my meal, which consists of salmon stuffed with tomato and mozzarella and baked in olive oil. It’s extraordinary.

Cultural Fact 4: Service is pretty good in Barcelona restaurants, except when it comes time for them to bring you the bill.

I guess the Catalans like to linger or whatever at their meals, but I am by myself and trying to see as much of the city as I can in the next two days, as I will hopefully be playing poker every day thereafter. “El compte, si plau,” I enunciate to the waitress as she walks past. She stares at me like I have two heads. “L’addition?” I try in French, pointing to the table and hoping this will trigger some shared Romantic root for my Catalan server. No such luck. Finally, she says some gibberish to me, and it is my turn to stare blankly at her. She leaves and returns about ten minutes later with my check.

Cultural Fact 5: Barcelona doesn’t do tips. My guide book recommends leaving $.15 as a token, but in the US, that would be more insulting than leaving nothing. I leave 1 Euro, which is still less than 10%, and feel cheap doing it, but the waitress calls out “Gracies!” as I am leaving, so I guess she liked it. Or thought I had a nice ass.

Having slept only four hours on the plane, I’m nearly falling asleep in my train seat, but I force my eyes to stay open. After all, there are THIEVES EVERYWHERE! Jealously clutching my possessions close, I make it safely back to the Hilton and successfully siesta.

Tits, Spics, and Turks

A phone call from Dan wakes me a few minutes before my alarm would have gone off. We arrange to take the second of two Poker Stars shuttles to the casino. We arrive only to learn that non-Europeans must present their passports to be admitted. Driver’s licenses from non-EU countries will not be accepted, no exceptions. Dan has his passport, and gets in no problem, but I don’t have mine. The woman from Poker Stars who is with us is apologetic that we weren’t told this ahead of time but not very helpful. “Did the shuttle leave?” ask the several of us whose passports are still in our rooms.

“Quite possibly,” she says sheepishly. “If you all split two cabs, it wouldn’t be that much.”

“You mean Poker Stars would have no problem springing for a few cabs for us?” I stare her down with my best thug mug, but she gets the better of me. She reaches into her pocket as though she were going to hand me some bills, but instead tosses a handful of sand into my eyes. While I am distracted, she snatches a decorative epee off of the casino wall and rushes at me. Bitch!

I unsheathe my own sword, parry her first thrust, and deftly duck the second. Wasting no time, she bullrushes me, but I step to the side and let her momentum carry her past me. Before she can turn, I plunge my blade into the small of her back and keep pushing until I see the tip protrude from her stomach. I release the weapon, allowing her to collapse on the polished floor, then quickly frisk her limp body. She’s not carrying much cash, but it should be enough for a few cabs. I pocket the bills and toss the wallet dismissively onto her corpse.

Outside, an Asian guy from Canada whom I later learn is named Terrance has managed to stop the shuttle driver from leaving (he speaks Spanish quite well). We pile in and ride back to the Hilton. I dash upstairs to my room (this guy is only waiting 5 minutes), insert the key card, and curse as the door flashes red at me. [censored], this is not a good time. I try again, and it opens. Phew. Grab the passport, run back to the elevator, make it back to the shuttle just in time.

Except we are not going anywhere in a hurry. The driver explains to Terrance that some guy from Portugal just got in and is going to drop his stuff off in his room, so we are waiting for him. I get to know a middle-aged American woman sitting across from me whose Brazilian husband is playing the event. She seems like an interesting person, sells foreclosed homes for a living but is also an advocate for affordable housing.

Some guy rushes out of the hotel onto the shuttle, and we drive off. He sits near me, so we get to talking. I tell him I’m from Boston, and he says, “We’re neighbors.”

“Huh?”

“I am from Connecticut.”

“Wait you are not the guy from Portugal we have been waiting for?”

“No, no, I am Portuguese, but I live in Connecticut now. Just flew in from Portugal.”

“Phew. No need to turn the shuttle around.”

Once I’m registered with the casino, I go downstairs and meet Dan in the disco. Contrary to rumors I’ve heard, there is a bit of food available and free beer, so it’s not so bad. There’s a crowd around Hachem, so we ignore him and go sit with two kids from Sweden. The tall one is here to play, the short dark-skinned one is just his friend.

Dan and the tall one are talking poker when the short one interjects, “What do you guys think of the women out here?” I start to answer, but he takes care of that for me. “They are beautiful! Most amazing I have seen!”

“Aren’t you from Sweden?”

“Yeah, the girls have pretty faces, but Spanish women have nice titties! Swedish women all have [censored] beestings.”

I nod and try to get into Dan and the tall one’s conversation. They are talking about pros who may be playing in this event. “I saw Humberto Brenes in the hotel lobby,” I tell them.

“I hope that spic loses,” the short one interjects. Awkward silence. “Oh come on, it is a joke! You Americans take this stuff too seriously.”

“We take racism too seriously?”

“It’s just joking. Black people call each other [censored] all the time.”

“Yeah, this is an analogous situation.”

“See, I wouldn’t care if someone called me a terrorist.”

“Is that a common stereotype about Swedes?”

“I am Turkish, man. I just live in Sweden.” That explains the dark skin.

“I’m just saying, you need to know someone kind of well before you tell jokes like that.”

“Pfft. You want a beer?”

“Yeah.”

The Turk comes back empty-handed. “Bar’s closed. Let’s get out of here. You guys are cool, you wanna get [censored] wasted?”

“Not really. Good to meet you though.”

Dan and I pick up our bags and go outside to wait for the shuttle. We sit down on a bench to check out the stuff Stars has given us. There’s a backpack with wheels and an extendable handle, and inside are several EPT Barcelona shirts and a Poker Stars hat. Nice.

Two Americans stagger over to us. One of them is probably kind of drunk, but this is overshadowed by how massively drunk his friend is. The less drunk one is carrying a Poker Stars backpack.

“Hey where are you guys going?” the real drunk one asks.

“Same place as you.”

“The Hilton? Diagonal whatever?” he slurs.

“Yeah.”

“Alriiiight! Lesh follow these guysh! They know whashup. Washurname?”

“Andrew.”

“I’m Joel. Where you from?”

“Boston.”

“Cool, cool. Man, lesh go somewhere. Get [censored]’ drunk, find some [censored]’ women.”

“I have to play tomorrow, man,” the less drunk one tells him.

“What abou’ you guysh? You wanna get some [censored]’ beers?”

“No thank you.”

The shuttle shows up, they sit in the front, we sit in the back.

I go upstairs to my room, but it is only like 11, and I am trying to stay up late so I can get on a siesta schedule. After determining that CNBC and CNN are still the only English-language stations available to me, I decide to see if anything is going on at the hotel bar. Joel is sitting over there by himself, so I decide to keep him company.

“Heeeeey!” he cries as I sit down near him, leaving one stool between us. “Whashurname?”

“Andrew.”

“Where you from, man?”

“Boston.”

“Cool.”

The bartender, whose nametag says Pablo, comes over and I order a local beer. He shows me two different-sized glasses, and I tell him, “Grande.”

When Joel sees what beer I am drinking (it’s the same kind he’s got in a nearly full glass in front of him), he warns me, “Thish beersh terrible. I can’ drink it.”

“Tastes alright to me.”

“Here, ishall you.” He shoves his glass towards me and asks the bartender what kind of bottles he has. Pablo rattles off a long list, and Joel’s face lights up at the mention of Bud Light. After taking a swig, he announces, “I love to chug [censored]’ beersh. Where you from?”

“Boston.”

“Alriiiiiiight. Lesh chug some [censored]’ beersh. Lesh get drunk!”

“I don’t think I could catch up with you if I tried.”

He laughs sloppily. “How about shotsh?”

“OK.”

“What do you want?”

“Whatever.” He orders two Yagermeisters, and is saddened to learn they don’t have it.

He looks at me again. “What do you want?”

“Tequila?”

“Dos Cuervos!” he orders proudly. “No wait, wait, traish! Traish! You drink with us Pablo?”

“I cannot, while I am working.”

“Come onnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“I am sorry, I cannot.”

“Ah, c’monnn. No one will know.”

“Really, I cannot.”

He pours two shots, and we down them quickly. Joel moves onto the stool next to me and grabs me in a headlock. “You’re great, man. Where you from?”

“Boston.”

“Cool. I’m from Ohio.”

“Oh. Um, Cedar Point is cool.”

“Yeah, thash all we’ve got. You can talk [censored] to me all night, Boshton ish a cool place.”

“I like it.”

Joel stares at the counter for a moment. “How about more shotsh?” He can barely keep his ass on his stool at this point.

“Maybe you should slow down.”

“Nah, I go to OSU. We know how to drink.”

“OK, well I still have two beers in front of me, so I’m not going to have another shot.”

“Dos Cuervos!” he calls to Pablo.

I shake my head. “Just uno.”

“Uno?” Pablo asks.

“No, dos!” Joel insists.

“I am not drinking another one,” I tell them both.

“Dos!” Pablo pours two, and Joel sloshes one towards me. I push it back. “Ah, man,” he groans. “Pablo? You drink with me?”

“I cannot. I have to work.”

“C’monnnnn.”

“Believe me, I would like to. But I cannot.”

“C’monnnnn.”

“At 2AM, I will drink anything you want.”

“What time ish it now?”

“11:30.”

Joel tries to pass me the shot glass again, and I pass it back. Finally, he gets a European businessman sitting alone at the other end of the bar to drink with him.

He looks at me seriously. “Where are you from, man?”

“Boston.”

“Cool.” A moment later, he gets up and walks off without saying anything.

Pablo looks at me. “Is he leaving?” I shrug, and he looks a little annoyed. Hey, I didn’t tell you to let his drunk ass run up a tab. I wouldn’t have kept pouring shots for him, either.

A few minutes later, Joel comes into sight again. Pablo rushes out from behind the bar, and at first I am thinking he is going to apprehend Joel to be sure he pays his tab. But actually, he is just trying to stop the kid from walking out an emergency exit. Too late. An alarm blares, but stops quickly.

They return to the bar, and Joel tries to order another beer. “I’m sorry, my friend, I have to be serious for a moment. OK?” Pablo asks.

Joel stares blankly at him.

“I am not going to serve you anymore, you just walked out of an emergency exit. That is good, though, yes, my friend? You had a good time?” Pablo is a pro.

Joel keeps staring. “You serious?”

“I’m very serious. OK, my friend?”

“Oh, man,” Joel groans but accepts his fate. Pablo hands him a bill, and Joel produces a credit card. A minute later, Pablo returns. “I am sorry, your card was declined. Do you want to use a different one?”

“Cool,” Joel says, putting the card back into his pocket and turning to talk to me. “Where you from?”

“My friend,” Pablo gets his attention again. “Your card was not accepted. Do you have another one, or do you want to charge it to your room?” Joel finally gets it and produces another card, which works.

I ask for my bill as well, and am a little annoyed that a single pint cost me 10 Euros. Once you factor in the second beer and the shot that Joel paid for, though, it’s not such a bad price. I thank Pablo, bid Joel farewell (he insists on another headlock), and ride the elevator upstairs to go to sleep.

While waiting to take off, I flip through some Barcelona books I bought or took out of the library, and learn some interesting facts.

Cultural Lesson One: Barcelona is a city of thieves. All Barcelonans should be presumed to be pickpockets and petty criminals until proven otherwise. No belongings should be allowed out of my sight, and anything slightly important or valuable should be stapled to my person so that it cannot be swiped by teenage hoodlums on mopeds.

Cultural Lesson Two: Barcelona loves [censored]. Seriously. Taking a good [censored] is practically the official sport of the city. At Christmas time, a typical creche in Barcelona will include the standard figurines for donkeys, three wise men, Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, and also an unknown peasant taking a squat in the manger.

New Vocabulary Acquired: “Cafe solo” = strong black coffee, no milk or sugar

“Comte” = check, as in the bill from a restaurant.

This is one of the larger jets I’ve been on, with three columns of seats, and the best I could get on late notice was an aisle on the central column. Just across the aisle from me is a rather old couple, and the man seems to be in a sour mood, frustrated with something his wife has done. She seems like a sweet old woman who does not deserve such abuse. Just in front of me is a young Spanish couple with several small children. The man is sitting directly in front of me, on the aisle and next to their daughter, while the woman is just across the aisle from them, next to their son.

There is some pretty severe turbulence as soon as we get into the air. The plane is bouncing around quite a lot, and we can see the wings shaking through the window. A couple of drops leave a sick feeling in my stomach, but I’m actually not worried at all. Frankly, although I’ve never been through turbulence this bad, I feel like it’s not really that uncommon, and in any event there’s nothing I can do about it. I might as well just sit back and relax, and if the plane is going to fall out of the sky, the plane is going to fall out of the sky.

Not everyone feels this way. The Spanish woman in front of me lets out a little squeal every time the plane jumps, her legs are shaking uncontrollably, and she keeps reaching across the aisle to grab desperately at her husband’s hand, her Mediterranean eyes wide with terror.

I’m busy regarding her panic with haughty disdain when I see the grumpy old man to my right acting in a similarly frantic fashion. Upon closer inspection, however, I see that he is actually mocking the Spanish woman as his sweet old wife laughs at his antics. My respect for this couple quadruples.

Eventually the pilot gets above the turbulence, and I settle in to watch the in-flight movie (after forking over $5 for cheap headphones, WTF? AirTran always gives them to me for free, if I had known that US Airways was going to charge five goddamn dollars I would have brought my own). It was supposed to be the Inside Man, but instead I find out they are showing Analyze This. Random, isn’t that movie like eight years old? I remember liking it, but I guess I was a dumb kid, because it’s a dumb movie. Afterwards I order a glass of wine and fall blissfully asleep.

I didn’t make it too far in the London or Baden events (which would have been my top choices), but made it to the final two tables of the Barcelona one, with twelve spots to be paid out. Unfortunately, my stack was the shortest of the 18 remaining players, but I had the chipleader to my immediate left, and he was (correctly) playing very tight, so I was able to steal from him a few times, then won a coin flip, won another big pot with Aces, and suddenly I was in 3rd.

At this point there were 15 players left, and I felt I could probably fold my way to a seat, though I continued to pay close attention just in case. One player went out on the other table, but then the other two short stacks doubled up, and just like that I was down to 9th place. I was still comfortable, especially with the poor bubble play I was seeing, but far from a lock.

The most frustrating thing was that both and I and the big stack to my left were folding every hand, and the player to my right was raising every time that it folded to him, picking up the blinds and antes with no challenge at least once per orbit. It was a very sweet spot for him, and as much as I wanted to play back, I was nervous: I could probably fold my way to a seat, and for all I know this guy is some clown who would call an all in with A6 or 55 or something (this is the kind of play I was seeing from others), and even with a good hand that was more risk than I wanted. So I just kept folding, and eventually the short stacks at the other table did go out, and I won my seat.

I was so busy celebrating, at first, that I failed to notice that the tournament started in less than three weeks. At that point, I realized I had no passport and no knowledge of the Spanish language.

The passport thing proved easy enough: for a quite reasonable $60 fee, US citizens are able to get expedited passports within two weeks by bringing the necessary documents in person to one of twelve regional passport agencies, one of which, conveniently, was in Boston, about a 10 minute train ride from my apartment. I had my mother overnight my birth certificate to me, dropped off my documents on Tuesday, and picked up my passport on Friday. This is definitely the most efficient thing I have ever seen the US federal government do.

I never did get around to learning any Spanish, but I did learn that Spanish is actually not the preferred language in Barcelona, though most can speak it. They actually prefer a much more obscure language called Catalan, which of course was even more foreign to me. I begin this journey with the ability to say the following, and nothing more:

-hola
-si-
gracias
-por favor
-adios
-amigos
-comprende
-gato
-no
-siesta
-grande
-taco
-nacho
-burrito
-queso

Finally, I should add that although my reports from the WSOP seemed generally popular, I did receive some complaints that they were occasionally a bit dull, so I’ve made an effort this time to interweave some fiction into this otherwise factual narrative. Rest assured, however, that I have done so in so masterful a way that the reader will likely not be able to spot the difference, and were it not for this note, would never be the wiser.