tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56734310561724172152024-03-13T11:02:20.335-07:00This Bogus Poetryof no specific waterways relevance...Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-60897284915055811782022-07-14T06:04:00.000-07:002022-07-14T06:04:10.005-07:00Casa de Scaffolding
<p class="western">Portugal is one of my favourite travel and poker
destinations, but I have a terrible record of booking accommodation
there.</p>
<p class="western">During the first time I had played beach
volleyball, I received a recommendation of somewhere to stay in
Lisbon. Firstly let me say, don't play beach volleyball. It really
hurts your hands and you get sand in your face a lot.</p>
<p class="western">On my ill adjudged foray into this sandy and
painful game, I got talking to my team mate and mentioned I was about
to go to Lisbon. "I know a great place to stay" she assured
me. We chatted further between points and as I had no writing device
to hand, I made a mental note of the B&B she strongly urged me to
stay in Lisbon - <b>Casa de Hospedes</b>. It sounded great and just up my
street.</p>
<p class="western">A couple of days later, with the trip approaching,
I still hadn't booked anything. I remembered the beach volleyball
tip. A quick google and it popped up straight away. I had a personal
recommendation and it was very reasonably priced so I booked it. Job
done.</p>
<p class="western">A week or two later I arrived in Lisbon and headed
to the address. It was the days before I had a smartphone, so I
navigated through those winding, hilly streets eagerly searching for
the B&B.</p>
<p><b>Staying on a Building Site</b><br /></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHB8QQOwE9eKJZ39gGTiHYM5x5sBOT85I4RAe3mXBCr_pk37xJpV16ffu-7ywznLn1w83sQ_TVCvyan2i5EKGpB2wc3PBSOSXNfjxvt4u4erpKXDVvIMNlHjAg4om8wh_QyMWeqWRAgLlBnNfAV0Prm1b1-LN3Awz8CrxhvkrMHe7zox3a_EjAQfd/s602/main-qimg-e7ecdfd1f5b66684dab063549642c250-lq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="scaffolding" border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="602" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHB8QQOwE9eKJZ39gGTiHYM5x5sBOT85I4RAe3mXBCr_pk37xJpV16ffu-7ywznLn1w83sQ_TVCvyan2i5EKGpB2wc3PBSOSXNfjxvt4u4erpKXDVvIMNlHjAg4om8wh_QyMWeqWRAgLlBnNfAV0Prm1b1-LN3Awz8CrxhvkrMHe7zox3a_EjAQfd/w320-h213/main-qimg-e7ecdfd1f5b66684dab063549642c250-lq.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Casa de Scaffolding</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>A strange thing happened. I thought I had the right address, but it was basically a building site. The front was covered in scaffolding and builders were at work drilling and banging away. I walked though the open door into the dust covered lobby. Buckets and dirt were scattered around the room. I approached the desk and nervously asked the man behind the desk "Casa de Hospedes? and received a curt nod in response.<br /></p><p>Further stilted conversation confirmed that this man was the manager and owner. I was booked into this establishment for four nights. Yes indeed it was open and no, it wasn't possible for me to get a refund.<br /></p><p>I probably should have worn a hi-vis jacket and hard hat to walk up the stairs to my room, but I ignored health and safety requirements and navigated the building site to get there. Inside it was basically clean, but I opened the curtains to find my view of the historic Lisbon streets obscured by scaffolding. The sound of a loud drill and repeated banging filled the air. </p><p><b>Bigodudo</b><br /></p><p>I needed to take a piss and this wasn't an en suite establishment, so I set off in search of the bathroom. Throwing open the door I was greeted with quite a sight. A big fat man with a moustache and cigarette dangling from his mouth who strongly resembled Brazilian football manager Luiz 'Big Phil' Scolari was sat in a bath in the middle of the room. </p><p>I have noticed a phonemenon of older Portuguese men growing big moustaches. It is definitely a thing. The Portuguese word for moustachioed is 'bigodudo' and as there was no bubble bath, I could clearly see this man with a moustache was certainly a bigodudo.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8MzbRQD9027cycG2f0smt6YLXrJMpStKZRu_zcbh8v4wcRkq4GmfWlgtVLOiGruIC8Jhnhei2nk1yTn4DyA-2WpSpjRXvKEnM1ZFVCAS1PM0jcbV4Jx3El4ZrCXOHRe4cwpJz6uJ0sVlsyWb64OMJlJI4ttaRYesHJaR9GkMChZ8C6SGaGmdHFVS/s1200/large-16-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8MzbRQD9027cycG2f0smt6YLXrJMpStKZRu_zcbh8v4wcRkq4GmfWlgtVLOiGruIC8Jhnhei2nk1yTn4DyA-2WpSpjRXvKEnM1ZFVCAS1PM0jcbV4Jx3El4ZrCXOHRe4cwpJz6uJ0sVlsyWb64OMJlJI4ttaRYesHJaR9GkMChZ8C6SGaGmdHFVS/s320/large-16-9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Big Phil is not impressed</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I pointed at the lock and offered some sort of expletive. In response he took a drag of his cigarette, waved his arm at me dismissively and glared at me like he wanted to kill me. I left the room without urinating.<br /></p><p>Things were going badly and I decamped to an internet cafe to asses my options. I decided to double check the place I booked and typed 'Casa de Hospedes' into google. Scrolling down I noticed many places in Lisbon called Casa de Hospedes. This was odd and I soon realised my error. </p><p>It turned out that Casa de Hospedes is the word for guesthouse in Portuguese and I had just booked the first place that came up on google. The owner of Casa de Scaffolding was clearly some kind of SEO master to get his place to the top of the google rankings and I had fallen into his keyword spiderweb.</p><p>Lisbon was a vibrant location with great food and good poker games, but the stay was lousy, noisy and dusty. I was awoken by drilling early each day and I did not enjoy it one bit. On the brightside I didn't bump into naked Luiz Scolari for the rest of my stay. </p><p>I vowed to never play beach volleyball again.<br /></p>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-47908511803122018002022-06-10T09:08:00.017-07:002022-06-10T09:32:34.352-07:00Rented Rooms (A History of Budget Accomodation)<p><span style="font-family: arial;">As a poker player travelling the live tournament circuit, it is important to keep expenses low. If you aren't sponsored or don't satellite into the event and win a package with accommodation - then every cent you spend on lodgings comes directly out of your potential profits. When travelling alone, I generally try to find the cheapest and most convenient place to stay, which has unfortunately led to me staying in a few what might be described as '<i>absolute shitholes</i>'. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Am I cheapstake? Probably</b>. But I have found a few diamonds in the rough over the years and I take a perverse pride in finding the best value place to stay.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In the following posts I will write about some of the worst places I have frequented over the past 15 years travelling and playing poker. I should point out that I am highly privileged to have been able to travel around the world playing cards and I don't take that for granted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We will begin with an honorary mention of <b>staying with a nudist</b> in Austria. I <a href="https://thisboguspoetry.blogspot.com/2020/03/naked-flush-draw.html">already wrote about this experience</a> and it was great apart from my host sometimes being naked, so it doesn't make the list.<b><br /></b></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><u><b>5. The Cecil Hotel - Downtown Los Angeles</b></u></span></h3><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSdBhs3tkqRO5uz9zLzddfiy_4p2fO7dP1OV0xdurUZxzlhqmO6uVt3wgmX9DPkR56p0EwMs4cEIcodd-rm56Y1FIIpkOSUPo4-TFlmEEQICkC5kzrQyk7FwcWhFWV9eIxQqWPVTtukVi_-NTuB7owBPN5skhbQZQdtoUoUzs_9-nMbKlXKvjpDJh/s917/Hotel_Cecil_LA.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="917" data-original-width="523" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSdBhs3tkqRO5uz9zLzddfiy_4p2fO7dP1OV0xdurUZxzlhqmO6uVt3wgmX9DPkR56p0EwMs4cEIcodd-rm56Y1FIIpkOSUPo4-TFlmEEQICkC5kzrQyk7FwcWhFWV9eIxQqWPVTtukVi_-NTuB7owBPN5skhbQZQdtoUoUzs_9-nMbKlXKvjpDJh/w302-h528/Hotel_Cecil_LA.jpg" width="302" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><b></b>In 2008, I went on a three month trip around the US west coast. Before this trip I made the ludicrous decision that I was going to become a professional poker player and planned to test my mettle. I didn't have a lot of spare cash and mostly used a combination of hostels and Couchsurfing on my trip. My Couchsurfing experiences were fantastic and I met some amazing people. However, my time in LA was a little different.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In Los Angeles I wanted to go and play poker every day, all day. Therefore in a theme that recurs to this very day, I decided keep costs down and stay somewhere very cheap.</span></p><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b> A 'hotbed for death' </b><br /></span></h4><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The Cecil Hotel in Skid Row has a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecil_Hotel_(Los_Angeles)">notorious history</a> - none of which I knew about as it was calling itself something different at the time. In typically understated fashion, Buzzfeed called the Cecil Hotel a <a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/ehisosifo1/cecil-hotel-scary-criminal-facts">hotbed for death</a>. It has played host to several serial killers and Wikipedia lists <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_deaths_and_violence_at_the_Cecil_Hotel">16 sudden or unexplained deaths</a> at the establishment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">When I stayed there they had turned several floors in the middle of the hotel into a hostel with a different name - clearly to trick unsuspecting backpackers into staying. Downstairs was long term residents and at the top was the old hotel. Basically though this was all labelling and it was all the same place. I found the whole experience a little unsettling and dodgy. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyANFIv1yFwi19Y2mPpPoTN6zBZ8_8B3ef7mqwSYb0nH1SLtyvL5iXbxKqj5YrlKCqFWSpQ9DAE8TkHNrFjuGGMV7DiCFr-pF4FAkREBK5ax48LL8N4mtwNCa9edVsKZHkAicQz6EBmmKI86AW03Oe7XpbXYhIowd1HmV_KKgltmV3e-a1B2BoKXcV/s1600/h_2000-crm-la-commerce-casino-c20a1cce5056a36_c20a1dd6-5056-a36f-2337362193049d7f.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyANFIv1yFwi19Y2mPpPoTN6zBZ8_8B3ef7mqwSYb0nH1SLtyvL5iXbxKqj5YrlKCqFWSpQ9DAE8TkHNrFjuGGMV7DiCFr-pF4FAkREBK5ax48LL8N4mtwNCa9edVsKZHkAicQz6EBmmKI86AW03Oe7XpbXYhIowd1HmV_KKgltmV3e-a1B2BoKXcV/w416-h312/h_2000-crm-la-commerce-casino-c20a1cce5056a36_c20a1dd6-5056-a36f-2337362193049d7f.webp" width="416" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">My two weeks there as a fledgling poker pro mostly consisted of waking up at lunchtime, grabbing some food and getting the bus to Commerce to go and play at the biggest poker room in the world. There I <a href="https://pokerdb.thehendonmob.com/event.php?a=r&n=32467">cashed in my first ever live tournament</a> in the California State Poker Championships. Every day I played <b>the beautiful game of Limit Holdem</b> against some of the most angry men in the world until the early hours of the morning, before getting a taxi back to the Cecil. I wrote about some of the poker games <a href="https://thisboguspoetry.blogspot.com/2008/09/metamophosis.html">here</a> and <a href="https://thisboguspoetry.blogspot.com/2008/09/la-story.html">here</a> and boy were they amazing tables to play at.</span><p></p><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Staying in Skid Row </b><br /></span></h4><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Downtown LA was (then at least), an often sketchy place. My taxi drivers always insisted on dropping me off directly outside the door and several asked me if I was sure I wanted to stay there. Some would view this as a red flag, but I pressed on regardless or oblivious. It was cheap and nothing bad had happened to me so far.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The corridors and lobby sometimes featured <b>a variety of odd characters and strange noises</b>. The mission each night was to go directly to my room and lock the door behind me. I was reminded quite a bit of this scene in my all time favourite movie <i>Big</i> - I don't remember breaking down in tears like Tom Hanks, but I guess after a bad day at the tables it would have been possible.<br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="500" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EKxQMSqvQ3M" width="600" youtube-src-id="EKxQMSqvQ3M"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Recently the Cecil went viral after a documentary popped up on Netflix entitled <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkoboFsY9_g">Crime Scene: The Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel</a>. The series examines a particularly grizzly tale that happened a few years after I stayed there, along with the chequered history of the establishment. They really lay it on in the documentary with the murky history, and perhaps unsurprisingly, the hotel is no longer operating. It recently reopened as an affordable housing centre.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Even though nothing
bad actually happened to me while staying at the Cecil, it still makes the list of the worst places I ever stayed. I enjoyed the
grittiness of downtown LA in the daytime and at night I tried not to get
mugged. The poker went really well and I carried on south to San Diego
and later to Vegas to continue my crazy plan of playing poker for a living.<br /><b><br />Shithole rating 7/10<br /><br />Would I stay there again if it still existed? Probably.</b><br /></span></p>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-16366444962758440842021-10-11T10:18:00.013-07:002021-10-11T12:34:20.831-07:00Bad Beat Stories From the Back of a Moped<p>It is 1:30am and I am riding my bicycle through Berlin. A man pulls up beside me on a moped and slows down to my speed. He is waving his hands and shouting. He sounds angry. Or perhaps he is not actually angry and he is just shouting in German. When I hear people shout in German, I always think they are angry.<br /><br />I double check that I have my lights on and that I didn't just drive through a red traffic light. Momentarily I am confused.<br /></p><p>He is wearing a helmet and I recognise, him from somewhere, but can't quite place the face in the dark. I am also trying to concentrate on the road as I am a nervous cyclist at the best of times. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRTAOctWOW-fxPBiHt8lqC-ulvtRCcACzG0XxWXfBjN0wRRDbLQfIcNMLfDSSGROLNfawrfJSLdt4oUOCeN9t69EE5B_L-KFbTA1UBtuTtymO2fNYBzABI5KEHzS2VlzXgqdvN-HW-aA/s667/scooter-man-2.webp" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="man on moped" border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="667" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRTAOctWOW-fxPBiHt8lqC-ulvtRCcACzG0XxWXfBjN0wRRDbLQfIcNMLfDSSGROLNfawrfJSLdt4oUOCeN9t69EE5B_L-KFbTA1UBtuTtymO2fNYBzABI5KEHzS2VlzXgqdvN-HW-aA/w320-h174/scooter-man-2.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>"So I had kings..."</b></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>It isn't until I hear some poker related phrases that I realise that this is the man I have just beaten heads up in a poker tournament. He seems to be berating me once again for my play. This time from the back of a moped. <br /><p></p><p>I have a 10km to cycle home after my glorious victory in the nightly casino tournament in Berlin. I presume,he happens to live in the same suburb as me and is taking the same route. At least I hope so and that he didn't just follow me from the casino on a moped to tell me his bad beat story (which I already know, as I was actually there), and gripe further that I turned down a deal with him multiple times<br /><br /><b>Back to Live Poker</b><br /></p><p>Playing live poker is like hard drugs to me at this point. After not playing live for over 18 months, I cautiously dipped my toes back in the water when the casino in Berlin started spreading poker again. </p><p>The <a href="https://www.spielbank-berlin.de/?lang=en" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Berlin casino</a> insists on mask wearing, which makes some sense. And also installing monstrous plexiglass dividers between every seat and around the dealer, which does not. Nevertheless at least poker is back and after some trepidation I was keen to try.<br /></p><p>I had a couple of short cash game sessions, but really I just wanted to play tournaments. It is almost certainly more profitable to play cash games than the nightly tournaments at this casino, but I find cash games here a bit stressful and also boring. It is kind of like fishing. Put your line in the water and wait.<br /></p><p>Whereas tournaments to me are boring in a different way. More like an innings in a Test Match kind of boring. Where drama and excitement can break through the monotony of your straight bat defence and innings (stack) building at any moment. And you can be out in one hand.</p><p></p><p><b>No Deal Justice Returns</b><br /><br />I soon jumped back in like a starving man at a Las Vegas buffet. After a few unsuccessful tournament outings, I managed to achieve a cash. Then the next time I got a stack together and succeeded in luckboxing my way to a victory. And with no chop.<br /></p><p>There is no better feeling than turning down multiple requests for a deal and then shipping the tournament. It doesn't matter what the buy in is. And as I hadn't won a live tournament for almost two years, I might have even said "yeeesss!" at an above average volume when the final card was dealt.<br /></p><p>The Final hand? My AA vs. his KK. Never had that before when heads up in a tournament. Would have preferred to save that one for another day but I will take it. No wonder the guy on the moped was so annoyed.<br /></p><p><b>#Coatgate: An Update</b><br /></p><p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOL_NZG3cRneMJk1zGN-hNwJ6YEn8OT_s1jN646Yjkt2K5XeQkWZGFD6u9Vx7PuJlNvNOOgndonnj2hgnutc7wxxdEYrx-o7L7YQs-R9Eh4KtguYOFtIntO7D5Su88dw860vrX7pnc-9Q/s600/4762f73ed14ffe9b4b273cc003fc56c2.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="421" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOL_NZG3cRneMJk1zGN-hNwJ6YEn8OT_s1jN646Yjkt2K5XeQkWZGFD6u9Vx7PuJlNvNOOgndonnj2hgnutc7wxxdEYrx-o7L7YQs-R9Eh4KtguYOFtIntO7D5Su88dw860vrX7pnc-9Q/s320/4762f73ed14ffe9b4b273cc003fc56c2.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I was pleased to note with all the extra corona restrictions, the most heinous Berlin poker rule of all seems to have been relaxed. Coats are now allowed to be put in the back of your chair! Poker coat wearers of Berlin unite. Let's hope that we can put #coatonchairgate behind us and move on with our lives into this brave new world of taking your coat off and putting it back on whenever we want to.<br /><p></p><p><b>Poker is Back?</b> <br /></p><p></p><p>So now I'm obviously hooked and I want to fly to Ukraine or a ski resort in Armenia to play a poker festival because it looks good value. I'll make do with a trip to Bratislava this week to try and secure the elusive Slovakian flag and drink a few pints of the local beer.<br /></p>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-12617251594544902502021-08-15T03:43:00.010-07:002021-08-15T04:23:18.694-07:00Click Clack<p>To me the
sound is unmistakable. </p><p>The repeated click clack echoing around the room as hundreds of people sit around those green felted tables. Mostly in reverent silence but punctuated by the occasional groan or roar of celebration and shout from a dealer or floorperson. <b>Thousands of clay poker chips hitting each other repeatedly</b> as players riffle them with their hands as they play cards.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>The Art of
the Riffle</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">For the uninitiated
– a chip riffle is when you have two stacks of poker chips, perhaps four or
five in each stack if you are a skilled ‘riffler’. Then you line them up side by side beneath
your hand on the poker table. Using your fingers and thumb you create a little
bit of air in between each chip and in one seamless motion merge them into one
stack. Then separate and repeat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Is it for concentration? A habit? Something to do in the monotony of folding? Every riffler undoubtedly has their own reasons.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmV1b0lt_a9tWgLyUfbfXaG9oL07tVJTnwoo-B987UCU0CbuZH0ROX2vcjpIpBv5NwtHqkfMhqqCoNfknZd3dx8PIQoXZ8-vYMsTRJP51KPc_cLsxLDF957dqWoZPp-pM1cBNnb_3IVrc/s300/riffle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmV1b0lt_a9tWgLyUfbfXaG9oL07tVJTnwoo-B987UCU0CbuZH0ROX2vcjpIpBv5NwtHqkfMhqqCoNfknZd3dx8PIQoXZ8-vYMsTRJP51KPc_cLsxLDF957dqWoZPp-pM1cBNnb_3IVrc/s0/riffle.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span lang="EN-US">A good set
of clay poker chips has some weight to them, so gravity assists with the
riffle. It is harder to do with those cheap plastic chipsets that you buy for
home games. And why do those chipsets always come with dice?<br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>A Painful
Memory</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The last hand
of live poker I played was at the end of February 2020. A particularly bad memory as it signified me losing a heads up match at the end of a tournament and
<a href="https://pokerdb.thehendonmob.com/event.php?a=r&n=652479">finishing in second place</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was a Progressive Knockout side event at
the Unibet Dublin festival. A well-run and fun poker festival as always.
In truth, I didn’t especially long to be on the outskirts of Dublin in winter,
but I’d won a package to attend the year before and poker is always fun in
Ireland. Of course, nowadays the thought of playing a big live poker tournament
absolutely anywhere is a visceral and exciting prospect.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My memory of
this particular tournament is that I completely bulldozed the field and won a lot of bounties before
blowing a heads up match that I should have won. What probably actually happened
is that I had been incredibly lucky throughout the tournament and then a bit
unlucky at the end. C’est la vie. There would be another tournament somewhere
soon. There always was.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Luck: A Primer</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In my early
poker career, I did relatively well online and struggled with live poker. Then
there was a period where I struggled with both live and online poker. Let’s
call these 'the wilderness years'. Then in 2018 I finally felt I’d cracked live
poker - enjoying my most successful year as a poker player on the live
tournament circuit in 2019.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">What probably
actually happened is that I was very lucky at online poker early in my career
and unlucky at live poker. And that switched around in 2018/2019 where I went
on a crazy streak of luck at the live tables. In the middle period, I was both
unlucky and bad at poker. Pro tip - avoid this combination.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPSdibPDaDR8m0rWMZbad9Hg1LVi4N82GLEenkcRadomw6TVhLeWSANXIP8yoeglBPtiUIKs68aWYRgnBJC1gBmjwhH1YgJzNjLnEc88wA-InHZ11m7UPaFCa7HUp3xUM98eiMKP6XjE/s540/95808.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="540" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPSdibPDaDR8m0rWMZbad9Hg1LVi4N82GLEenkcRadomw6TVhLeWSANXIP8yoeglBPtiUIKs68aWYRgnBJC1gBmjwhH1YgJzNjLnEc88wA-InHZ11m7UPaFCa7HUp3xUM98eiMKP6XjE/w237-h237/95808.jpeg" width="237" /></a></div><span lang="EN-US">The key to poker
tournaments is getting all your luck and putting it together to use in a short
period of time. Ideally in one specific tournament (and preferably a big one).
But maybe over a period of several months. Then people will say you are ‘in form’
and playing well and you’ll believe it and get an inflated sense of confidence. You'll also be able to sell shares in yourself at inflated markup rates. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The luck may also help you play better but can also cause you to take more unnecessary
risks and become arrogant. It is worth remembering that the gods of luck don’t
like arrogance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This is in contrast to when you are unlucky and losing lots of coin flips and all ins. In that case, you are not playing badly but are simply ‘running bad’. Remember, only other
people play badly in poker. And their luck is irrelevant to you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Accidental Retirement</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I haven’t
played a hand of online poker for two and a half months. For live poker it is
approaching a year and a half. As someone who had played poker every week for
over 15 years, this is quite a surprising development. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the
click clack of those poker chips more than I ever thought I would. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss travelling
around Europe playing cards. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the oversized man in the next seat to me with
body odour. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the stone-cold run of cards that sees you sit there and fold
for two hours. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the big bluff which makes your heartbeat fast and your
stomach do somersaults as you try to remain statue still. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss those stoic and
monosyllabic Eastern European kids with oversized headphones who glower at you,
but you can sometimes entice a smirk from. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss feeling like a genius when
you get lucky and like an absolute idiot when you get unlucky. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the guy
who keeps accidentally showing me his cards during a hand. And him getting angry
when I tell him in an attempt to try and help. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the beat between squeezing out the
first hole card– seeing an ace – and looking at the second hole card. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss chatting
to the same guy at breaks for years and not even knowing his name. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss
playing ten-handed. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss trying not to get ripped off when exchanging
currency at some hole in the wall at 2am. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss dealers shouting “seat open”.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss the
7am Ryanair flights. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">OK perhaps not the 7am Ryanair flights…<o:p></o:p></span></p>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-66782198931267785662020-03-30T12:27:00.002-07:002020-03-31T06:14:54.150-07:00Chairs missingThe Thai Park takes place in southwest Berlin every weekend.<br />
<br />
From spring to autumn a bunch of Thai ladies gather with camping stoves, cool boxes and supplies and make <a href="https://berlinfoodstories.com/2016/06/23/thai-park/" target="_blank">various delicious dishes</a>. It got kind of famous now and there are always rumours that it will close down but each year so far it has started up again with the warmer weather. The 'soup lady' from the park even now has her own Imbiss (small restaurant) called <a href="https://www.exberliner.com/whats-on/food-drink/thai-art/" target="_blank">Thai Art </a>and all food there is always tasty.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrvb3g83ngM9E55TAqIyenFQt-aF4GPC8ojLu1QNbMA_BKEEsTYoVM0xjVd1_z6LLU-7RHOCSL2gFagk4wUvt1kJsDWPebUmK611g49P_VlgXFqRxD7gkmuBLMhs3IKavC0LRCzkDq1Q/s1600/Thai-Park-Berlin-Scenery-1000x350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrvb3g83ngM9E55TAqIyenFQt-aF4GPC8ojLu1QNbMA_BKEEsTYoVM0xjVd1_z6LLU-7RHOCSL2gFagk4wUvt1kJsDWPebUmK611g49P_VlgXFqRxD7gkmuBLMhs3IKavC0LRCzkDq1Q/s1600/Thai-Park-Berlin-Scenery-1000x350.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo from berlinfoodstories.com</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On this occasion several years ago the park was busy and buzzing as usual. The crowd sat around the park on the grass and blankets enjoying the food, sunbathing and having a generally lovely time in the sun.<br />
<br />
Set apart slightly there were a collection of older men seated around a table in a shady spot under a tree. I ambled over and saw that they were playing poker. Texas Holdem in fact. I watched a while longer and it appeared that they were playing for real money and there was a guy with a not suspicious at all briefcase standing nearby doing the cash in and cash out.<br />
<br />
Recently I listened to an episode of the <a href="https://www.twolivespodcast.com/episodes/episode-4-jc-alvarado" target="_blank">Two Lives Podcast</a> where poker professional JC Alvarado talked about various dodgy and dubious cash games he had played around the world. He talked about private games in Asia where he suspected he might be cheated, angleshot or robbed and one particular game with drug dealers in Mexico where he surmised that being murdered was also a possibility. Of course, he still played in the games. Why? Because he reckoned that these particular games were probably the best value in the world at the time and he hoped to make enough money to get out before they went bad.<br />
<br />
<b>Seat open</b><br />
<br />
Watching this game in the park for ten minutes I had similar feelings to Alvarado (although without the being murdered part). The bet sizes were all over the place, the action was loose and the players were emotional and passionate. There was a lot of gesticulation and shouting in a language I didn't understand. The play was erratic and bad. Very bad. All seven players were Asian (I guess Thai) and there were two seats open. Were the open seats a trap to lure unsuspecting suckers like myself or was this a great opportunity to make some cash?<br />
<br />
I was wary. We were in the middle of a public park. My German was bad and my Thai was non-existent. I wasn't sure this was a good idea at all. I didn't know these people. I didn't know if the game was rigged or simply trap to fleece the gullible.<br />
<br />
Obviously I took the empty seat.<br />
<br />
As I negotiated obtaining some chips, my fellow players were delighted to see me. As we said our hellos, I tried to make direct eye contact with each player to attempt work out who was most likely to angleshoot me. I planned to stick to the cash game strategy of my friend Sergei - buy in for the minimum and play tight until you see how the game is set up.<br />
<br />
I folded the first two hands. Easy decisions. Then something strange happened. A series of whistles and some shouting. A kid ran up to the table breathlessly with seemingly important information. The man with the suitcase gave a speech to the table - which in retrospect I would translate as 'act natural guys and don't mention the money!' and then scarpered to the bushes. Was I going to get robbed without even playing a pot?<br />
<br />
Twenty seconds later a transit van pulled up on the road nearby and the police got out. Uh oh. This particular kind of police were the <i>Ordnungsamt. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I disliked these people. In my eyes they specialised in day to day annoying bureaucratic law and order offences. They had already tried to fine me several times for cycling on the pavement in Berlin. Even the 'Hugh Grant Factor' of bumbling British charm had shown limited impact on their cold stony hearts.<br />
<br />
<b>It's a fair cop </b><br />
<br />
<i></i>
Yes it's true, the police had busted an illegal gambling game, but where was the evidence? We were simply a bunch of older Thai men and one scruffily dressed and confused white guy enjoying a friendly and fun game of cards in the park on a nice sunny day. What could be more wholesome and innocent than that? Out of the corner of my eye I saw the guy with the briefcase in the bushes in the distance away from the police. Standing there, in the shrubbery minding his own business on a sunny day in the park with a suitcase full of money and poker chips. All perfectly normal and above board.<br />
<br />
<i></i>
At this point the Thai people managed to forget all of their English and German language skills but one of them began to liaise with the police in a kind of spokesman role. The cops asked me a couple of questions but I am sure quickly realised I was just some clueless <i>gaijin </i>and was of no use to them. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfaerqgjWP6K0PmSAoCT_oZkCPK0Z_UQnQYF-rHyeM-SkzhseRaRfxa_aB21bYKAZVW56FOUlDrSWTD3GDVWj1BUoem_qzg3NhR80VSF2noFRI6-q5z8WxuLcEi48EARtn4ZSKO60Pik/s1600/71fTM%252BOuFJL._SL1000_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfaerqgjWP6K0PmSAoCT_oZkCPK0Z_UQnQYF-rHyeM-SkzhseRaRfxa_aB21bYKAZVW56FOUlDrSWTD3GDVWj1BUoem_qzg3NhR80VSF2noFRI6-q5z8WxuLcEi48EARtn4ZSKO60Pik/s320/71fTM%252BOuFJL._SL1000_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The police had a quick conflab to decide what to do and then the order was given. Confiscate the chairs! We were commanded to stand up and one by one the chairs were taken by the police. There were I think six or seven police people and each one (except the boss) took one or two chairs and carried them the fifty metres or so across the grass in a sad and weary single-file parade of furniture removal.<br />
<br />
The offending seats were loaded into the back of the van. <b>Job done</b>. Some stern warnings were no doubt issued and the police moved on to their next task of the day - safe in the knowledge that we could no longer sit down around the table.<br />
<br />
With the authorities gone I rubbed my metaphorical hands together and got ready to hop back into the juicy poker game. However it was at this point that the genius of the police plan began to shine through.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw13SBOqr2FOONK3RjXY25r5GQiwGszlZ-OUk8nCg1vH7mV8NT3E54mwVrE1aNvyr9raGFCHYn1wlafunpzO5Y2bSAIPkI5kl1PTGTlt2_pDErnomZVdK0QLtgg2bV6UpYzU9EmuUVwwY/s1600/UKIPT_Bristol_2015_PhillipHuxley_MickeyMay_70973-thumb-450x300-266756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw13SBOqr2FOONK3RjXY25r5GQiwGszlZ-OUk8nCg1vH7mV8NT3E54mwVrE1aNvyr9raGFCHYn1wlafunpzO5Y2bSAIPkI5kl1PTGTlt2_pDErnomZVdK0QLtgg2bV6UpYzU9EmuUVwwY/s320/UKIPT_Bristol_2015_PhillipHuxley_MickeyMay_70973-thumb-450x300-266756.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bored and disinterested poker face (photo: Mickey May)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Poker is not really meant to be played standing up. It is a game for sitting, for slouching, for riffling chips, for lounging, for tensing up and staring your opponent down, for relaxing and smoking a cigarette, for resting one elbow on the table and propping your head up looking bored and disinterested.<br />
<br />
The table was too high to sit or kneel on the floor and standing up and crouching was not going to be much fun after a while. Heated discussions took place and a few of the players began to grow impatient and grouchy. The word was put out, chairs were sought and people sent off to procure them but I could see the enthusiasm deflating from the game fast and the mood of wild gamble being replaced by one irritability and frustration.<br />
<br />
<b>Time for noodles</b><br />
<br />
It was here that I began to come to my senses and realised that yes I was indeed in the middle of a public park playing cards with old Thai men whom I did not know. I walked over to the moneyman with the case who had now rejoined us and whispered to him those universal words - '<i>cash out</i>'.<br />
<br />
I had broken even in my first illegal park poker game. Looking back was clearly a good result. I said my goodbyes and made my way over to the foodstalls to enjoy some pad thai.<br />
<br />
The next time I played poker outside was to be an <a href="https://www.pokernews.com/news/2019/06/phillip-huxley-wsop-international-circuit-marrakech-34588.htm?fbclid=IwAR1HRRMBlVPz1iAKC75RRt2IhK_DcfWQfBSvAtBB4Jhufi7ei7UcZTXBV_g" target="_blank">altogether more successful occasion.</a>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-83861011208539566572020-03-04T07:41:00.000-08:002020-03-15T16:05:38.433-07:00Naked flush drawI was in Austria. It was winter. The time was after midnight.<br />
<br />
I had busted the main event of a large poker festival. It had been close to the bubble in a hand where I had got it in good and been outdrawn on the river. I had invested the maximum time and emotional energy for no financial reward. I wasn't in a great frame of mind. The walk back to my accommodation took around 15 minutes. I remember it was snowing and that I had inappropriate footwear. My room was cheap and quiet, ideal for my needs. But there was a caveat to consider that I had half forgotten.<br />
<br />
When travelling for poker I often book someone's spare room instead of a whole apartment as it works out more affordable and I am hardly ever there. This time my host was a jovial guy in his 50s. He was awake when I got home and greeted me in the lounge with a friendly hello. I'd already been there three days but he took this moment to decide to ask me about life as a professional poker player. He asked all of the questions that every poker player has been asked many times.<br />
<br />
<b>"Do I count cards?"</b><br />
<b>"Isn't live poker totally different from online?"</b><br />
<b>"Do I have a poker face?"</b><br />
<b>"But how much did you lose?"</b><br />
<br />
I wasn't in the mood for this conversation right now having just busted a big tournament. But I am British and therefore out of politeness to avoid confrontation - I fully committed to the poker chat with my host.<br />
<br />
I should mention one more thing. The man I was talking to wasn't wearing any clothes. He was a nudist.<br />
<br />
Yes, I did know this information before I booked. That would explain the price being cheaper at his place than almost everywhere else in the area. I am a huge expenses nit so Austrians in the buff were a perfectly acceptable tradeoff for lower expenses on the trip. <br />
<br />
My host had reminded me again when I had arrived and I assured him that I was cool with it. He also told me that I could get naked whenever I wanted and join in with the nudist lifestyle, although so far I had not partaken.<br />
<br />
I hadn't seen him much since I had got there and he had been fully clothed each time, so this crucial detail had half slipped my mind. Now here I was, disappointed and half steaming from being knocked out of the tournament, talking about my bad beat with a naked man. Is this something Phil Ivey ever had to deal with?<br />
<br />
I wondered if I should also get nude? What was the etiquette here? We had already been talking for around 10-15 minutes and I felt like if I was going to do it I should have stripped off straight away when the conversation began. Now was clearly too late. It would be half-hearted.<br />
<br />
I ploughed on with the chat but I had to change the topic. I find talking about poker with strangers who don't know anything about it a bit awkward and stilted at the best of times. And that is with people fully clothed. I asked him about naturism and why he was into it. He was really passionate about the subject and filled me in on the lifestyle. He was an incredibly nice and charming guy. An incredibly nice and charming naked guy. Chatting with him cheered me right up. I even half regretted not getting naked with him.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Being a naturist sounded not bad at all. Clothes are pretty stupid and arbitrary anyway and there would certainly be a lot less laundry to do. The summer was no problem. I envisioned lots of frolicking in forests and swimming in lakes while communing with nature. Quite idyllic. Winter would be more tricky and a good heating system would be necessary. Or perhaps being a seasonal nudist was better?<br />
<br />
The experience of renting the spare room of an Austrian nudist was excellent and far more rewarding than staying in a generic and sterile chain hotel. And think about all that money I saved on my expenses. Allen 'Chainsaw' Kessler would surely approve.<br />
<br />
<b>The Chip Race</b><br />
<br />
I did talk about one or two of my worst and strangest accommodation experiences when playing poker in a recent episode of <a href="https://podtail.com/en/podcast/the-chip-race/the-chip-race-season-11-episode-2-jason-koon-phil-/" target="_blank">The Chip Race Podcast</a> in which I was a guest. You should check it out.<br />
<br />
I may write more about that subject in the future. Cockroaches, abandoned ballet studios, boats with no electricity and slightly unhinged Trump fans with pick up trucks and a penchant for firearms could feature.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-2616435729188664992019-07-29T18:26:00.002-07:002019-07-29T18:48:32.871-07:00Marrakech ExpressI went to Morocco on a whim really. I went because I expected that no poker player worth his or her salt would be there. They would all surely be in Las Vegas playing at the World Series of Poker - the biggest poker event of the year. Why would anyone good be at this weirdly scheduled North African event? I dreamed of tables full of suave but clueless French businessmen and friendly but naive locals.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMl_Tg3_UVLeD5xdnHWMhOKsNZ6tLL7sWIxuzxqaik5kyQR5461ohoRL_Tor8oUq0tScyh8vHE3X-jUGCLtdqox4EeV0LDMCmV02dotmJxlRuWfPjwsPhWKM6AAD4z6V6sD-SRftYwwE/s1600/french+businessman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="437" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMl_Tg3_UVLeD5xdnHWMhOKsNZ6tLL7sWIxuzxqaik5kyQR5461ohoRL_Tor8oUq0tScyh8vHE3X-jUGCLtdqox4EeV0LDMCmV02dotmJxlRuWfPjwsPhWKM6AAD4z6V6sD-SRftYwwE/s320/french+businessman.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Generic French Businessman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As is the way with travelling to poker tournaments, you are conditioned to expect the disappointment of failure and financial losses. This is simply the way tournament poker works. The creeping inevitability of losing trip that perhaps can be staved off by a 'min cash' in the main event or a nice run in a side event or finding some good cash games. To be break even is beautiful. Sure - someone is going to win the tournament, but it sure as hell won't be me, right?<br />
<br />
Expenses would have to be kept to a minimum and focus maintained. I would fly Ryanair. Arrive on the day of the event itself. Stay in a crappy hotel. Eat as cheaply as possible. No extravagances. No drinking. No tourist shit. Avoid all situations that involve haggling.<br />
<br />
<b>Delay and bad seat draw</b><br />
<br />
It began badly with a two and half hour delay and a middle seat on the aircraft. I'd had an upset stomach the night before and it decided to rear its head the moment the plane began to taxi. I held my breath and concentrated. Five minutes, ten minutes. Watching the seatbelt light and hoping it would be turned off soon. I scanned the toilet doors, working out how many seconds it would take me to get there.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes. I pressed the button to summon a steward for the first ever time in my life and asked if I could use the bathroom. Negative - we were still elevating, levitating or doing something. A few minutes later, envisioning ending up in some Moroccan jail due to disorder on the flight, I made a break for it - but at the exact same time a woman behind me did the same with her son. Both toilets now occupied. I waited in the aisle. I made desperate eye contact with the steward. He seemed to understand the severity of the situation. After the two longest minutes I can remember, disaster was avoided (just). The rest of the flight passed uneventfully but with a lot of opportunities to purchase scratchcards.<br />
<br />
<b>Arrival</b><br />
<br />
I arrived in Marrakech probably the least prepared I had ever been for a poker trip. Having never visited the city before, I had no local currency, no phone data and no map. I did at least know the name of my hotel which made me more organised than many of my fellow poker players are when they arrive (mentioning no names!).<br />
<br />
My hatred for airport taxi drivers is deeply ingrained, so after picking up a few notes of local currency I followed the signs for the bus. I knew the casino was near the Sofitel and the driver nodded when I mentioned it as I purchased my ticket with my schoolboy French. Smooth.<br />
<br />
We drove down some wide palm lined streets. I could not see the Sofitel and the driver did not motion for me to get off. Soon we were at the Jemaa el-Fnaa, the tourist centre of Marrakech. This was too far. The driver shrugged. It turned out that Sofitel was pronounced The Sofia 'Otel and he just assumed everyone wanted to go to the central square.<br />
<br />
We travelled back towards the airport and I saw the decrepit sign of my hotel nearby. I convinced the driver to drop me by the side of a dual carriageway and schlepped it through the miasma of the traffic to the hotel lobby.<br />
<br />
My room was massive and contained a single bed and no other furniture whatsoever. In certain places they would call this minimalist and charge you a fortune. I expected my room to be basic but this was just... odd.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRT40KFpXYIsVkkI7Lc5DiwPHd7zLUPLNHtDn7BvIYCI6xFB0tY8kxw2aFOZUcxb8pYBKpcXk_espYFswsztTIo0IAOyAwLoP8QMhZyeCuaCy5i-iJNc_TNIrHx_08b_HYrCQx4lyuKug/s1600/marra.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="550" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRT40KFpXYIsVkkI7Lc5DiwPHd7zLUPLNHtDn7BvIYCI6xFB0tY8kxw2aFOZUcxb8pYBKpcXk_espYFswsztTIo0IAOyAwLoP8QMhZyeCuaCy5i-iJNc_TNIrHx_08b_HYrCQx4lyuKug/s320/marra.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I was already late, so I headed off the the casino with a ten minute walk through the Hivernage district of Marrakech. A bevy of horse and carts ferried passengers around. At certain corners the horses gathered and pooed a lot, swishing their tails in the heat. Meanwhile the drivers smoked cigarettes and shot the shit, touting for business when anyone who looked non-local walked past.<br />
<br />
With the aroma of horse manure in the air, I arrived at the glamorous Casino Marrakech and it was time for some poker.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-46899389000322693942019-01-07T06:36:00.000-08:002019-01-07T08:43:21.742-08:00Man wins poker tournamentI have played poker for many years and in all that time I have only managed to win one live tournament. Shockingly in the second half of 2018, despite having recently 'retired' from poker - I managed to take down two events.<br />
<br />
<i>Warning - post contains a lot of poker.</i><br />
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<div>
<b>Summer Cup</b><br />
<br />
I went back to day two of the Berlin Summer Cup (€220 buy in, 250 runners) with just 22 big blinds, lying around 50/62, with 27 players paid. I commented to my friend that at least it would get me out of the flat for the afternoon, but I expected to be available to watch the Uruguay v Portugal match later that evening. About 15 people bought in for 8bbs at the beginning of day two to swell the prizepool and we were off. Early on average stacks were very shallow, due in part to the number of day two re-entries, so there were a lot of all ins. I didn't do very much and dwindled down to 10bbs where I had my first (and I think only) suckout, doubling with A8 vs AQ. Shortly afterwards I went on a tear, busting three players in an orbit and vaulting into one of the top positions.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDJNmFHcdlWBWzl3_ZW3kaLZ_L8a3n4Cq370Pd84Orw1HxpJNy8QazE6gZ1IkKVkxM_8k7L0WZEjYcHlbmXtvC3Sw1QOsiuqBgfmpE22uyoCLeC8qaRnpAqJ65LFUrlcsPsTmJ2VQ2nU/s1600/austria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="304" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDJNmFHcdlWBWzl3_ZW3kaLZ_L8a3n4Cq370Pd84Orw1HxpJNy8QazE6gZ1IkKVkxM_8k7L0WZEjYcHlbmXtvC3Sw1QOsiuqBgfmpE22uyoCLeC8qaRnpAqJ65LFUrlcsPsTmJ2VQ2nU/s200/austria.jpg" width="200" /></a>On the bubble I was able to steal a lot of pots but lost most of my chips in a flip for the chiplead just after the bubble broke. I managed to hang around, grind my shortstack and steal pots here and there to go into the final table ninth out of ten. Already there were murmurs of a deal but we started to play and two players busted relatively quickly. A young Austrian guy that I'll call Falco Jnr in a full Austrian National Team tracksuit with a bumfluff moustache and slicked back hair and big shades was a monster chipleader with almost half the chips in play. I'd played with him the previous day where he coolered five or six different people to finish as Day One chip leader. I had a feeling that he could punt his stack off at any moment and was very happy with my seat on his direct left. He was very friendly and fun and later introduced himself as Crazy Boris.<br />
<br />
<b>Deal or no deal?</b><br />
<br />
The deal was discussed and I acquiesced to looking at ICM numbers out of politeness. Fortunately Crazy Boris asked for a ridiculous amount of extra money so he was the one to nix the deal and we played on. A little while later, now 7-handed, the Austrian had spewed off a few chips and was now in the market to deal and I had to be the one to put the kibosh on it, drawing the ire of the rest of the table. I was the shortstack with 10bbs (therefore no ICM pressure) and to the direct left of the spewy chipleader. Plus of course I've played hundreds of final tables and felt totally comfortable and was having lots of fun.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HDQWPToslUvb8ETThBbF-UeI7jReoxdGqdiffYIKEJHSurXCT3wigVH3oyfLByT9zAdhBuEpeju0OkMs969e6fIDMtrozFyrvCcfIrOXEg4thjnZHMPkLm-AinyCNvwZ_-BuI3-o9FA/s1600/edmunds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="468" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HDQWPToslUvb8ETThBbF-UeI7jReoxdGqdiffYIKEJHSurXCT3wigVH3oyfLByT9zAdhBuEpeju0OkMs969e6fIDMtrozFyrvCcfIrOXEg4thjnZHMPkLm-AinyCNvwZ_-BuI3-o9FA/s200/edmunds.jpg" width="173" /></a></div>
The table seemed to believe that as the shortstack I should be most incentivised to deal and didn't understand my rejection. Of course, the most keen on a deal should have been the guy second in chips who was to the right of the chipleader and thus totally handcuffed and in a very tricky situation. At this point one of the casino regulars who I had played with before told me that he knew I played online for 'Millions' and it was not a big deal for me and how could they play in this turbo structure? I replied in my bad German that I was here to gamble, I was a kid with a dream and chopping wasn't for real men - slamming my fist down on the table for extra emphasis.<br />
<br />
<b>No deal!</b><br />
<br />
We talked for about fifteen minutes and then the first hand after the failed deal discussions I doubled up via a flip for ultimate DEAL REJECTION JUSTICE. I managed to bob and weave until we got five handed, rejecting several more deal offers along the way. I made a crucial double up with AQ vs the A8 and shortly afterwards I picked up kings in a fortuitous spot to cripple one of the two good players. Soon we were four handed with three evenish stacks and a shorty.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIoON7SLBMWQ7lNd7mrwtIcHX974FIS6jIdk3QL6zZV32fz70U31x042O2UGC8CqVHKa5r8wx0tNXtfEuVzmh-t42S6cluNfsg7uB3BrYkmN48KFkKz3hkG_sUJ0d61s8WJfwZgWBlGw/s1600/falco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIoON7SLBMWQ7lNd7mrwtIcHX974FIS6jIdk3QL6zZV32fz70U31x042O2UGC8CqVHKa5r8wx0tNXtfEuVzmh-t42S6cluNfsg7uB3BrYkmN48KFkKz3hkG_sUJ0d61s8WJfwZgWBlGw/s320/falco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Falco is not impressed with my 28 offsuit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The crucial hand was a ridiculous one. The good young quiet player limped off 25bb from the cut off (which is an interesting adjustment off that stack depth), the spewy Austrian completed in the sb and I checked in the BB with 28o. The flop was T82 with two spades and Falco Jnr open shipped for around 6x pot. He'd shown a propensity for random spews, so I looked down at my cards, shrugged and called. I managed to hold vs his KT and was monster chipleader. I was now in a great position and shoved almost any two cards several hands in a row with second in chips totally in an ICM coffin, enjoying his wry looks in my direction each time. <br />
In the break I indicated to the competent young player in second place that I'd be open to chopping with him heads up but he seemed noncommittal. I resisted making my usual comment in such circumstances - something along the lines of - 'Why? Do you think you are better at poker than me?' - it later emerged that he knew my screen name and we'd played a bunch of mixed games together previously on Stars - but he wouldn't tell me his screen name even after the tournament so I guess we aren't going to be friends.<br />
<br />
<b>Man gewinnt ein Pokertournier</b><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tpHEn3-jCLJYprHW98l22eA7K6nmXpxdXFi5DacyIkz2l8iJjd0bnYCcfmXtG9HsGkfH1LelBqaCLLVcRCF-WLM9FmK18VFcAtnuRiH94FZqxc6gAIQTfMXCb39EW6C5sk_2AdTVP2o/s1600/cabinet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1570" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tpHEn3-jCLJYprHW98l22eA7K6nmXpxdXFi5DacyIkz2l8iJjd0bnYCcfmXtG9HsGkfH1LelBqaCLLVcRCF-WLM9FmK18VFcAtnuRiH94FZqxc6gAIQTfMXCb39EW6C5sk_2AdTVP2o/s200/cabinet.jpg" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My trophy cabinet. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anyhow, I managed to finish things off quickly by busting the shorty in a flip and then grinding it out heads up in front of my one man rail of Sergei. With lots of flops favouring my ranges, I was able to barrel a lot of flops and turns. Finishing it off with 88 holding vs K7 for a my second ever live tournament win. I felt great and thought I'd played excellently, trying to avoid marginal +ev spots and high variance situations to preserve my stack and of course running very well.<br />
<br />
It was all very low key. I asked the staff where the glorious Summer Cup trophy was and the reply was a shrug. So there was no trophy and the results won't even be officially recorded due to new EU data regulations. Did it indeed actually happen?<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Playing 'Irish' in Ireland</span></b><br />
<br />
The Unibet Open in Dublin was my first ever time on this tour. For some reason I seem to be always busy when they have a stop or it is somewhere I don't want to go (London - used to live there, expensive. Copenhagen - good players, expensive. Malta - been there too much). I wasn't too excited about Dublin too, but after grinding the satellites I had a package that I needed to use, so a second trip to Ireland in two months it was.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfZecaEStSZF7Om21y11txZf4I92lm4jUjrB5mddr_VhTpIYnccQzy2bw1YL0AOh5eG6hj9HwVSEPh22z6hvtergPC4qsdoLqTidymdoEL3ebBnDoyMg-TRF2PEoFfyo5g3xtHoX5u-c/s1600/trophy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfZecaEStSZF7Om21y11txZf4I92lm4jUjrB5mddr_VhTpIYnccQzy2bw1YL0AOh5eG6hj9HwVSEPh22z6hvtergPC4qsdoLqTidymdoEL3ebBnDoyMg-TRF2PEoFfyo5g3xtHoX5u-c/s1600/trophy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An actual trophy!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I enjoyed the festival. They tried really hard to create a good vibe and I had a positive experience overall. Numbers were not massive, but plenty fine. I have to say that Ireland is probably the nut best place to play poker in Europe. Extreme friendliness, a willingness of players to chat about anything and a steady supply of alcohol make for a great combination. <br />
<br />
There were a nice selection of side events, but I didn't do any damage in these until we got to the 'Irish' tournament. Irish is a four card poker game where you discard two after the betting on the flop and then it plays like Holdem. I racked my brains and I do not think I ever played this game before although my friend Paul claims we played together around twelve years ago. Strangely no Irish players knew what the hell it was. <br />
<br />
On the day I tried to come up with some guerrilla strategy. Obviously, similar to Pot Limt Omaha the standard of a good hand goes up. Top pair is no longer that great, especially in a multiway pot. Unlike PLO though, rundown hands are not that desirable at all, because you don't get to keep all your cards until the end and you are also blocking your own outs and you will have to pick and discard a portion of your straight draw unless you flop it directly. Double paired hands seemed like they would be very good to me (I actually managed to flop two sets at the same time in one hand with a pocket double pair!). Of course big pairs and suited aces are excellent - the same as in PLO.<br />
<br />
Sixty-eight players entered and despite being short on the bubble I managed to squeak into the money and make the final. Then I went on a sick run of cards and totally crushed the table. I also played super aggressive because as I had suspected, the level of play was overall too passive as many people were unsure about preflop hand ranges, preferring to see a flop and make decisions about their hand then. There were a couple of spots where I had top pair on the flop and a biggish draw, therefore in a tough spot as what to throw away, but both times I got extreme tells from my opponents in the manner in which they discarded their own cards (my experience playing draw poker in America helped here) and I was able to make the right decision both times - once keeping the pair and fading the draw and once taking the draw as correctly deduced that I was against and overpair and managing to get there.<br />
<br />
I got heads up with a player who seemed to know what he was doing and after a long grindy battle railed by some random French people- I won all the chips for my second live tourney this year and my first actual trophy. Unfortunately the trophy is ugly as hell (airport security mistook it for an external hard drive) - but they do put your actual cards you won with inside the trophy which is a cool touch. Even though I had Ace King which is pretty boring.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_whM9iGzJ4WfUSAAc3bZF1wk7mTXibAQQUyY27J5Ale8QWqblgHqmZg0hBI2QgiLNk3trxRrRj_sL1YmiXranev0SaRjUm9qtZYbYh6k-VcPzcvnbXVEC7G28Z3xMEzimAXgc5oZs8VI/s1600/walsall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="1000" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_whM9iGzJ4WfUSAAc3bZF1wk7mTXibAQQUyY27J5Ale8QWqblgHqmZg0hBI2QgiLNk3trxRrRj_sL1YmiXranev0SaRjUm9qtZYbYh6k-VcPzcvnbXVEC7G28Z3xMEzimAXgc5oZs8VI/s200/walsall.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walsall - where dreams are made</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Re-retiring?</b><br />
<br />
2018 again ended with me considering retiring from poker. Although I didn't technically un-retire in the first place, so I guess the first retirement is still binding. Though in the first three months of 2019 I already have plans to play poker in Germany, Morocco, Estonia, Czech Republic, Ireland and <a href="http://www.extrageographic.org/walsall-hippo-history" target="_blank">Walsall</a>.<br />
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Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-988538344505108852017-06-06T03:38:00.000-07:002017-06-06T14:41:10.502-07:00The Great Escape<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I recently played the
<a href="https://www.partypoker.com/live/events/partypoker-million-germany.html" target="_blank">Party Million</a> poker tournament in Rozvadov. Both the tournament and
the casino were great, but travelling to and from the venue without a
car proved even more difficult than I expected.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Rozvadov is a small
village in the Czech Republic on the German border. Unremarkable
apart from the fact that it houses the largest poker room in Europe.
<a href="http://www.pokerroomkings.com/" target="_blank">King's Casino </a>seems to be turning itself into a major player in the
European Poker scene but this was my first time at the venue.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgyfTziHYUX7EKXHZCmqZD7IPENZAm7LYkKHMY1OQR6V80ZI9fxyLuslDaw7npScNaPb92s_dOiHdwI5Dj9kkU8tYSrCDOdAxI3Dv9gd8JUj10a9i4PBu2u3BttWnEienwQ51Tca_EKg/s1600/0beffe540e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgyfTziHYUX7EKXHZCmqZD7IPENZAm7LYkKHMY1OQR6V80ZI9fxyLuslDaw7npScNaPb92s_dOiHdwI5Dj9kkU8tYSrCDOdAxI3Dv9gd8JUj10a9i4PBu2u3BttWnEienwQ51Tca_EKg/s320/0beffe540e.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King's Casino - Photo by Tomas Stacha</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Generally when playing
live poker I like to turn my trip into a mini holiday and have an
interesting place to visit and it is a bonus if it is straightforward
to get to. Rozvadov had neither of these things in its favour.
However, when Party Poker started running satellites to the tourament
which had big overlays, I couldn't resist the value and soon managed
to win my seat.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I played day one online
and despite all my best efforts to build a stack or bust - I limped
into day two with a short stack. “It's a long way to go with 24 big
blinds” remarked my friend Paul and I had to agree.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Last minute travel plans</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nevertheless I was
committed and I still had a shot, so I confirmed my b&b reservation that I'd made
several weeks ago. I usually have good attention to detail with these
things so I neglected to double check the specifics. I found a cheap
flight to Nuremberg at short notice and amazingly there was a rideshare listed leaving Nuremberg two hours after my flight landed
which went directly past Rozvadov on the highway. It was all too easy!</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My driver was a
friendly Czech man who spoke no English. He was driving from
Strasbourg to Prague trying to pick people up on the way to help pay
for his petrol. He ended up being a bit late so I had a some time to
kill at Nuremberg Central Station. I found a cafe area with
plugs and wifi and settled in for a while.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Soon I realised that a
man was trying to attract my attention from about 10 feet away. At
first I ignored him but eventually became tired of his attempts to
beckon me over. Approaching him he informed me that he needed his
phone charged urgently, I told him to come and sit down and he could
borrow my USB cable. It soon became clear that he was legally not allowed to
set foot inside this establishment, though he never told me why. He stood resolutely 1cm in front of the entrance. He
also only had one eye.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Regrettably I have been somewhat conditioned to assume the worst and in these situations I
am always expecting to be ripped off or robbed or to be angled in
some way. Yet the curiosity always gets the better of me and I
usually go along with it, at least for a while, to see what happens. Almost always of course it is totally fine and on this occasion there was no scam and the guy just wanted his phone
charged. He was probably a shoplifter though...</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My driver had two other
passengers stand him up so was happy to see me. We made small talk in
German and French. Sadly he didn't even like football so that was a
whole section of my smalltalk with men repertoire out of the window
straight away and we soon ran out of things to talk about.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vJj75utIdPPVwG2T1ETnAe5bm-QdvqqxVSj7rth3amykHEARwcHOti1L856zltunV29hDuqrRkSF_khXpZFezvBivbgnjy3oBe2nGqf3bKl1HuGrDsY_SD-UN5-uwxtp8Vr7_0B00XM/s1600/IMG_20170603_184935622_HDR+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vJj75utIdPPVwG2T1ETnAe5bm-QdvqqxVSj7rth3amykHEARwcHOti1L856zltunV29hDuqrRkSF_khXpZFezvBivbgnjy3oBe2nGqf3bKl1HuGrDsY_SD-UN5-uwxtp8Vr7_0B00XM/s320/IMG_20170603_184935622_HDR+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Seems reputable</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Arriving at the truck stop</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I first realised that
something was afoot when I got directions to the hotel from Googlemaps and saw it was
5 kilometers from Rozvadov – not actually in the village itself.
The sat nav soon led us there and it became clear that I was staying
by the side of the highway in what could only be described as a truck
stop. The key was left for me in the flower bed next to the front door in a manila envelope with my name on it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Checking in
I surveyed the view (quite easily as my room had no curtains). Going clockwise there was a brothel, loads of fields, another brothel and a
large barn that had its roof caved in. I had a TV to watch the
Champions League final and some snacks, so I passed up the chance to
explore and settled in for the night.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The tournament itself
was excellent. The poker room is massive. You pay an entrance fee each
day and in return you get as much food and soft drinks as you would
like to eat. Thankfully I managed to double up within the first 20
minutes. A little later I ran my AK of spades into AA in a standard pot for a big chunk of my stack. The flop was king high with two spades. Somewhat favourable. I was able to complete the suckout on the turn and from then on I was able to pilot my stack into the money. Thereafter a period of supreme card deadness meant that I couldn't really get my
chips into gamble and I laddered up a few pay jumps before running my
short stack into AA. I finished in 61st out of 820 people - which meant the trip had been worthwhile.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After busting I went
back to my hotel in Brothelville. The wifi was down, so I vowed to
organise my departure in the morning. I would probably wake up early
anyway as there were no curtains.The next day the wifi was still
down, so using spotty 3g coverage I managed to find a few German bus
timetables on my phone. It is the countryside so the buses were
infrequent but it seemed easy enough.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0DpTOsD6W2Po4Ez6BQFiY3gN5vdi4McXdumwb0uA9xROxSEt_4IFPkKL3aXz_BZx5DvQNLYLxxRMFAsW6K2cF-8aQvGTTfbgQn3dKhCIyB2HjHRTi2nrCbquJeSTWafa_7gE8YNVpvc/s1600/moosbach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0DpTOsD6W2Po4Ez6BQFiY3gN5vdi4McXdumwb0uA9xROxSEt_4IFPkKL3aXz_BZx5DvQNLYLxxRMFAsW6K2cF-8aQvGTTfbgQn3dKhCIyB2HjHRTi2nrCbquJeSTWafa_7gE8YNVpvc/s320/moosbach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Moosbach from above</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>An unwise decision</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I settled on Moosbach as town over the German border with the next bus departure which I
would be sure not to miss. This way I thought I'd save some time
and wouldn't have to wait around for as long. I used the shuttle service
from the casino and got the driver to drop me off there. He had never
heard of the place and seemed unsure of why I was going there but I
assured him everything was good. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The bus stop in Moosbach was
in the central square and easy to find, but it was unclear which side
of the road I had to stand on. I positioned myself in a spot where I
could intercept the bus going in either direction and mentally patted
myself on the back for being such a boss at navigating European
public transport.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The bus didn't arrive
on time. Five and then ten minutes passed. I was mildly perturbed,
this was Germany after all. Had I made a mistake? I checked the
timetable again and everything seemed ok. But then I had a thought.
It was a Monday in Spring – the day of the week and the season most
likely to have a public holiday. I was in Bavaria, the area of
Germany that is the most religious and has the most public holidays of all. I checked the
calendar on my phone. Pfingsten/Wittsun. Shit!</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I needed help. Next to
the bus stop was an inviting guesthouse and bar. Using my very best
bad German, I went in and asked the guy working there if there were
any buses on holidays. “<i>Nein</i>” he replied and went back to his
work. I followed up by asking if he had the phone number for a taxi.
“<i>Moment</i>” he growled at me before retrieving his phone and
disappearing into the back room. He returned shortly afterwards to
bring me the news “<i>He has no time</i>”. Hmmmmmm. I enquired if there
was another rival taxi company and was met by a shrug and a look of
indifference.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I guess I wasn't
surprised that the taxi driver had no time. If he was the only taxi
driver in the area I'm sure he had loads of bookings and a packed
work schedule.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The man stared at me as
I pondered what to do. As I had no idea how to leave this town I
hesitated and refused to admit the conversation was over. Several seconds went by as we looked at each other. The room was silent apart from the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner elsewhere in the building. “<i>Goodbye</i>”
he eventually barked at me in English in a somewhat passive aggressive way and
stepped into the room behind the counter, closing the door.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiC2FtyaKwUSnacmz8cGLt7u4PzZmyMZ38pP79pDc9DIRL4CeA4nROkag60vGeneEnP0iHYdXGzhN21hx_a62gY9e64tFCWghUUk6Zyov8_cc0FDe2ezGaTrIzbnsI_duNgMeVRptcIyA/s1600/IMG_20170605_111437019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiC2FtyaKwUSnacmz8cGLt7u4PzZmyMZ38pP79pDc9DIRL4CeA4nROkag60vGeneEnP0iHYdXGzhN21hx_a62gY9e64tFCWghUUk6Zyov8_cc0FDe2ezGaTrIzbnsI_duNgMeVRptcIyA/s320/IMG_20170605_111437019.jpg" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Which way should I go?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Hugh Grant Mode activated</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Quickly I surveyed the
layout of the establishment. It seemed that the door led to a some
sort of cuprboard or store room and not into the rest of the building
itself. If there was no other exit he'd have to come out of there
eventually. I decided to test my theory. I took a few steps and
banged the entrance door a bit. I then stood as still and as quietly
as possible. In my brain I activated 'Hugh Grant Mode'. Shit was
getting serious.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It took him less than a
minute to come back through the door and the look conveying a mixture
of surprise and contempt was priceless. I decided to give it one last
shot and asked in my most polite voice with what I hoped was
just a hint of desperation "</span><i>Können Sie mir helfen?</i>" - even using the polite Sie form of address.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The man looked me up
and down dismissively before delivering his final verdict on the
matter “<i>NEIN</i>”. He then began to move towards me, waving his arm
in front of him in the manner of attempting to swat a particularly
irritable fly. I began to suspect that he hadn't tried to call a taxi for me after all and it seemed that</span> this interaction was becoming something of a dead end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've had a lot of conversations with strangers over the years, but this ranked as one of the worst of all time. Personally I feel like I made a good effort and bore little of the blame for the negative outcome. My conversation partner on the other hand left a lot to be desired. A</span>s
I walked off defeatedly, I mentally crafted a variety of terrible
Tripadvisor reviews about the establishment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Time to call my girlfriend</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was at a loss as to
what to do. I vaguely knew where I was but I had no way to leave. In
desperation I called my girlfriend. She is Bavarian but had not been back there for around 8 years and she totally hates the place. Her replies to my predicament were along the following
lines:</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eVFOVp6yA-TuU0iChElS8p_vELhd-cazN6xODcOQOioqbxUf-P2t9DPWaR2uXJl4e3qKG56ujl-khyphenhyphenowox6UNjQqBoihf8zLAwMHrvpC3AHcAv8_bFAuz_rTrH_f4rlWPBxjzJsEoJY/s1600/IMG_20170605_111445166_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eVFOVp6yA-TuU0iChElS8p_vELhd-cazN6xODcOQOioqbxUf-P2t9DPWaR2uXJl4e3qKG56ujl-khyphenhyphenowox6UNjQqBoihf8zLAwMHrvpC3AHcAv8_bFAuz_rTrH_f4rlWPBxjzJsEoJY/s320/IMG_20170605_111445166_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Moosbach Church (under construction)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“<i>You
woke me up!</i>”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“<i>Yes it is a holiday
so it looks like you are totally fucked</i>”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“<i>This sounds like the
kind of Bavarian town where I grew up, now I guess you understand why
I wanted to leave</i>”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"<i>Ha Ha. </i>Yo<i>u'll never live this down...!</i>"</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During the course of
the conversation Church Bells began ringing and suddenly the street
was full of Moosbach residents. A bunch of people in robes wandered by.
Pensioners ambled through the square. I sensed possibilities... surely
this bunch of God-fearing religious people would help a foreigner in need?</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was in the process of selecting which
person to go and talk to when a man in army fatigues carrying a giant
crucifix walked towards me. Yes, perhaps not him....</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I walked a little and
found another guesthouse. This time the lady really wanted to help me. We got the phone book and between us called 7 or 8 different taxi
companies from the surrounding area. The best result we got was
someone saying he might come and pick me up in two hours. He couldn't
be sure though.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Religious rejection</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My last throw of the
dice was to just go and randomly talk to people who had just come out
of the church service. I hoped that after relaying my story, one of
them might decide to offer me a lift to the next town or know someone
who I could pay to drive me.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I told the first guy in
a mixture of English, bad German and hand gestures. He was amused,and
he laughed a lot at my situation. I was pleased, I was finally
establishing a rapport with the locals. The man then turned around
and relayed the story to a group of people who were closeby. They all
laughed too. Heartily. Hugh Grant Mode was clearly kicking into
overdrive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“So what can I do?” I asked this group of
people standing next to their cars, all of whom likely had the entire
day off work. No idea, good luck was the cheery response and
they all went back to talking amongst themselves. RE-JECTED.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Exhausted of ideas I
looked at the map on my phone and found the next town
my girlfriend told me about when I called her. I tried to convince myself that it
looked slightly bigger than this one. Admittedly surface area wise it
did look a similar size. However it was written in a slightly bigger
font on Googlemaps, so that must count for something, right?
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6taRjGti2AzOyWDOJEytjTXIPlLSHWNvYIgcB4X2i-8wHXYdHN3ibaGJ4ruarj3JDhnBsRzTFjvjN8Tl_1Vc2g5SuzcfiGBvaqkuljPlGuMaM7LSYyOMy60DTXkBGM9XzOQ_xW3vf0w/s1600/81BXwlGFDcL._SY445_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="314" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6taRjGti2AzOyWDOJEytjTXIPlLSHWNvYIgcB4X2i-8wHXYdHN3ibaGJ4ruarj3JDhnBsRzTFjvjN8Tl_1Vc2g5SuzcfiGBvaqkuljPlGuMaM7LSYyOMy60DTXkBGM9XzOQ_xW3vf0w/s320/81BXwlGFDcL._SY445_.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">McQueen leaves Moosbach (maybe)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My mind drifted to one
of my favourite movies The Great Escape. These guys had all managed
to navigate themselves through German countryside without a car in a
variety of innovative and smart ways. They were prisoners of war on
the run in behind emeny lines and Donald Pleasence was even going
blind. How hard can it be for me?
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course *<b>spoiler
alert* </b>most of them get
recaptured or shot at the end of the movie, but I was trying to
remain upbeat so I pushed that part out of my mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Seeking inspiration I looked up the village on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moosbach,_Bavaria" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>. The entry told me "Moosbach is a municipality in the district of Neustadt (Waldnaab) in Bavaria in Germany" - I scrolled down thinking my phone was buffering, but the page was blank and Wikipedia provided no further information.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By this point I was feeling parched. I walked over to the drinking fountain in the square, leaned in and took a few well needed gulps. Two elderly ladies looked at me with a blend of confusion and disgust. I noticed a sign next to the fountain which said No Drinking Water.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Shanks's Pony was the only method of transport left available to me, so I
hauled my luggage on to my back and began walking. So long Moosbach,
I can't say I'll be coming back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Hitchhiking debut</b></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now
at this point I will admit that I've never really fancied myself as
much of a hitchhiker. I am easily discouraged and would expect to get
downhearted at the constant rejection. My girlfriend had already
informed me “<i>Nobody in rural Bavaria will ever pick someone up the
way you look.</i>” Despite that withering prediction, I started
sticking my thumb up at cars who drove past me as I was walking. One
drove past, then two, then three. I was already getting fed up of
hitchhiking.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskWanDfW-I-uBQmkuGcmp78q_kvqTtUVLpDWDPcIpf73crmfzO5YK6za0r8ESmhhLFTjMsePEd7KAUGnVMlono_61ECPAgIrv73Ixfea7qbIr_sXSlf3u21rxtgv8jGdJEKxekL1w3nQ/s1600/IMG_20170605_112403336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskWanDfW-I-uBQmkuGcmp78q_kvqTtUVLpDWDPcIpf73crmfzO5YK6za0r8ESmhhLFTjMsePEd7KAUGnVMlono_61ECPAgIrv73Ixfea7qbIr_sXSlf3u21rxtgv8jGdJEKxekL1w3nQ/s400/IMG_20170605_112403336.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It doesn't look that far!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There
was no path at the side of the road, so I was walking on the grass
verge, but at least it wasn't raining. When the fourth and fifth
drove past I concluding that hitchhiking was crap and stopped putting my thumb up.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After
walking for around 1km, something unexpected happened, a car pulled up
alongside me. Envisaging a volley of abuse from the driver for
breaking some obscure Bavarian law, I ducked down and peered through
the window. Behind the wheel was a man wearing a very large hat. He
offered me a lift.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The hat pays dividends</span></b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Florian
was a very nice man and he explained his kindness by saying “U<i>s hat
people need to stick together. This is a friendly gift from one man
wearing a hat to another</i>”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He
said he would happily drive me to the next town. I checked with him
that I wasn't making him take a detour or that he was on the way to
something important. He told me he was on his way to lunch with his
friend, but his friend was a terrible cook so it didn't matter if he
was late. “<i>So you are lucky and I am lucky!</i>”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My driver and saviour seemed optimistic that there would be a bus from the next town, even
on a holiday and despite having never caught it himself. Pulling up at
the bus stop I was deflated to see that this was the same bus route
that served Moosbach. I tried to make one last attempt at deciphering
the many subsections of the timetable referring to public holidays.
There was either a bus in 45 minutes, or in 6 hours or not at all.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Florian
came over to assist. When he started reading the timetable backwards
it quickly became apparent that he had no idea how to read a bus
timetable. Using this knowledge I tried to encourage the viewpoint
that there wasn't going to be a bus for six hours by putting my
finger next to the time and saying “I think that's it” repeatedly. He seemed unsure but commented he hadn't read a bus timetable since he was 12 years old. We both
glanced around the town and it seemed to be entirely closed. He then
said those beautiful words “<i>Just get in, I'll drive you, it is no
problem</i>”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thanks to Florian
(have I mentioned he was a very kind man) I was able to get to a
train station and plot how to get back to Berlin. When we pulled into
the station he said to me. “<i>If you have some time, perhaps you can
go and take a look at the preserved medieval architecture of the town
while you are waiting for your train.</i>” Yes I thought... that would
be nice... or I could just get the fuck out of Bavaria as soon as I
possibly can!</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My journey back to
Berlin on the train was uneventful. I reflected that I cashed in the
tournament and got a taste of rural Bavarian life that I won't forget
or hopefully repeat. I was also happy that I didn't have to walk 25km
with my luggage. I expect I will be going back to 'Rozvegas' at some point as it seems to be having more and more poker tournaments. Next time I think I need to plan a more wisely - or better still, find a friend with a car who also wants to go along.</span></div>
Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-63884486289081184062015-07-28T06:17:00.000-07:002015-07-28T06:19:47.932-07:00The road to StalintownWhen visiting Georgia my mum's advice was simple:<br />
<span style="background-color: #f4cccc;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">Don't cause any trouble</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">But wait...</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">What if I go to Gori, the town where Stalin was born and is still revered and worshipped like a God and somebody asks me my opinion about him?</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">Say Stalin? I've never heard of him. Say you don't know who he is.</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">Then how would I explain why I ended up in this smallish out of the way town in Georgia?</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><br style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;" /><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">Just say you are passing though. Say it is lovely place.</span><span style="line-height: 16.8999996185303px;">"</span></span></i><br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Joseph Stalin was born in Gori in the Russian Empire (now Georgia) in 1878. The present day town has a population of around 50,000 people and is somewhat of a shrine and memorial to the genocidal Soviet dictator. Stalin is of course Georgia's most famous son to everybody in the world <a href="https://youtu.be/Dq6y3Cf8sBA">apart from Manchester City supporters.</a><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i260.photobucket.com/albums/ii20/bergeroo/IMG_1097_zpsq1zbtqa3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i260.photobucket.com/albums/ii20/bergeroo/IMG_1097_zpsq1zbtqa3.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;"><b>A marshrutka in action</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Getting to Gori from Tbilisi was to prove something of a challenge. By far the most common way of getting around Georgia is in the hot and stuffy transit vans and people carriers that operate as shared taxis called marshrutkas (or marshitskas if you are in a bad mood). You see hundreds of these around Tbilisi, all heading off in various directions around the city. In theory they are all pretty organised, with numbers and routes, but to someone who can't speak Georgian or Russian it can be pretty difficult to work out and understand.<br />
<br />
It seemed that the best way to get to Gori was to go to the metro station Didube on the edge of town. At Didube we were greeted with a giant, chaotic and sprawling market. Picking though the stalls we eventually found the place we needed, a giant patch of wasteground filled with hundreds of yellow and white transit vans. Speaking none of the local language, the only thing to do was to walk around repeatedly saying the name of the place. Of course it took about five seconds for us to be identified as clueless tourists. From then on we received all kinds of offers for guided tours, personal chauffeurs and so on - all for astronomical prices. Finally someone took pity on us and told us that to get to Gori we had to go to the other giant patch of wasteground filled with transit vans (of course!), so we followed him through the rubble and the chaotic market and quickly found someone making the journey. A small amount of Lari were exchanged and we sat in the people carrier waiting for it to fill up. Quickly it seemed we were ready to go.<br />
<br />
When the driver got in the car he did something very unexpected. From his pocket he pulled out a huge butchers knife, showing it to his mate who was sitting in the passenger seat - they both laughed heartily. He then placed the knife in between the two front seats next to the handbrake, put the keys in the ignition and we were off. Nothing was mentioned about the huge knife for the rest of the journey but the glint from the afternoon sun on its considerable surface offered a constant reminder.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i260.photobucket.com/albums/ii20/bergeroo/IMG_1301_zpsuiwsvakp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i260.photobucket.com/albums/ii20/bergeroo/IMG_1301_zpsuiwsvakp.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;"><b>Note large knife and prayer beads</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was somewhat concerned but had done my research from several sources. Although Gori was invaded and taken over by Russia as recently as 2008 as part of a war between the two countries, I had read it was now completely safe and the only two remaining areas of dispute were Abkhazia and South Ossetia on the Russian border. Two places I definitely did not plan to go.<br />
<br />
Instead of sweating the chance of being attacked by Russian bandits I should probably have been more concerned about dying in a car accident. The man behind the wheel with the big knife was an absolutely terrible driver, even by Georgian standards. I should probably list the rules of Georgian driving that I picked up while I was in the country.<br />
<br />
1. Never ever indicate<br />
2. The lanes drawn on the road are for guidance only<br />
3. Traffic lights are a hindrance. Stop only when there is a significant number of people walking in front of you that you wouldn't be able to plough through them. Do this by slamming on your breaks at the last possible opportunity<br />
4. While driving enjoy the stripey patterns drawn across the road. These have no significance apart from aesthetic design.<br />
5. Shout a lot.<br />
6. Wave arms manically<br />
7. Use horn liberally<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i260.photobucket.com/albums/ii20/bergeroo/IMG_1303_zpskzxnbdbt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i260.photobucket.com/albums/ii20/bergeroo/IMG_1303_zpskzxnbdbt.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Stalin enjoys a casual moment</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We were driving on a three lane highway. The scenery was lovely but I couldn't help but notice that the driver had chosen a path directly in the middle of the outside and the middle lanes. We were going pretty damn fast, the car shook and the prayer beads hanging from the rear view mirror clicked and clacked together. He was also having a very animated conversation on his mobile.<br />
<br />
Even so there were still cars that wanted to overtake us. They did this by steaming down the small gap between us and the barrier in the outside lane with the horn blaring. Our driver was apoplectic at the cheek of people blaring their horn at him. Clearly he believed he was driving totally fine. My hands clenched holding on to the seat in front. Occasionally we 'changed lanes' by swerving violently. Every articulated lorry up ahead was a heart in the mouth moment.<br />
<br />
It proved to be a long 50 minute journey but we arrived without serious incident. Disembarking from the vehicle we gave our thanks to the driver for not killing us and wished him a good afternoon.<br />
<br />
And there it was in front of us in all its glory.... The Stalin Museum<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-70923893637677616812015-07-07T17:47:00.002-07:002015-07-08T04:12:46.468-07:00There's a guy down the kebab shop swears he's Hitler (AKA Döner Darts Hitler incident)There's a certain kind of a moustache which is a problem. You'd know it if you saw it. I'm talking about a shaved top lip on either side with a patch of quite thick hair beneath the nose remaining. Particularly if it's dark hair.<br />
<br />
There can only be two acceptable moments when a man sports this moustache. Firstly when shaving, when you do all the other bits and you leave that bit there to see what it looks like. Importantly you must make sure everyone is out and NOT take a photo. Secondly, when going to a genocidal dictator fancy dress party and you haven't got the depth or volume of top lip facial hair to pull off 'The Stalin', nor the scraggly beard to go for 'The Genghis Khan'.<br />
<br />
I was in the kebab shop this evening.<br />
<br />
This is not unusual.<br />
<br />
Tonight due to extreme hunger and a diverted train I was in a new establishment. The signs were mixed but taking the queue inside as a good omen, we dived in to shelter and hopefully to enjoy above average food (hey, I aim high).<br />
<br />
At the front of the queue and just about to order was a man who had the aforementioned moustache style. Of probable Turkish descent, he wore a darts shirt, with darts jauntily sticking out his his top pocket. Balding a little, his hair was swept over in a severe side parting.<br />
<br />
And then on his top lip, there it was.<br />
<br />
The odd thing is that I don't recall ever seeing this facial hair before in my life. However this is the second time I've seen this in two weeks in Berlin.<br />
<br />
It's difficult to know what to do in such circumstances. Being brought up in Birmingham I've come to learn that speculative opening conversational gambits in late night take away shops do not always have pleasant consequences, particularly if criticising the beliefs or appearance of the other party.<br />
<br />
I pondered the consequences of leaning over and with a casual shrug and "entschuldigung" enquiring "Das ist ein Hitler Moustache, ja?" I also thought about taking a cameraphone photo, but then I remembered he was carrying darts in his pocket after all.<br />
<br />
I didn't get chance to think about it too much, because soon Turkish Darts Hitler had ordered his food and was on his way. Perhaps that is the look he is going for in order to attract darts sponsorship? (after all there has already been a viking and a vampire). Maybe he likes the look and people are too polite to tell him. Maybe he is simply a Darts Nazi and that's all there is too it.<br />
<br />
Whichever it was, I made a mental note to start dressing like Winston Churchill when I embark on my stint on the Berlin amateur darts circuit. I can sense a rivalry brewing already.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-6348292021856565652015-01-06T00:59:00.001-08:002015-01-06T13:56:29.234-08:00The inebriated Russian has landed<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There he was in seat
three. Bull necked, broad shouldered, shaven headed and clad in an
expensive biker jacket. Several scars decorated his face and a glassy, lopsided but frankly quite threatening grin was spread across his face.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The empty glasses half
filled with melting ice by his side and
the fact that he was loudly singing songs in Russian were a sign. This man was drunk. Very drunk indeed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was after midnight.
Approaching the money bubble in a turbo side event at EPT Prague.
Surely the graveyard shift for any tournament director. The lady in
charge on this particular evening struggled to contain the people on
the rail who were of course also heavily drinking, shouting and
frequently getting in the way. One man in a tracksuit even tried to break and balance tables and do her job for her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Several drinks had
already been spilled, glasses smashed and a weary waiter with a
dustpan, brush and mop was on permanent standby.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The game was Texas
Holdem with deuces wild. The same as regular Holdem except all twos
either in your hand or on the board could be used as wild cards. In
theory – five or even six of a kind could be made. And of course
flushes, straights and full houses were far more easy to come by.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd never played this
game before but after about 10 minutes I'd settled on the strategy of
never playing a hand without a deuce in it unless on a bluff. Powerful
traditional Holdem hands went down markedly in value and at one point
in this tournament I even open folded pocket kings. Ridiculous of
course under normal circumstances in any tournament other than the
bubble of a satellite. Some people adapted quicker than others and
some people engaged in quite deep strategy talk at the table which
was surely a mistake.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our Russian friend was
getting into the spirit of the evening by singing bawdy songs in
English and Russian and occasionally just swearing loudly at nobody
in particular. He exuded no aggression, just a general air of
Tourettish bonhomie, so generally he was tolerated by the dealers and
the floor staff. He also insisting on calling me Donald and became
the third person at the poker table within a few weeks to say I was a
spitting image of a young Donald Sutherland. We shook hands several
times to confirm our friendship. He bought me a drink.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/RRuQShR7l9I/mqdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/RRuQShR7l9I/mqdefault.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donald Sutherland (mixed game specialist)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Surprisingly he was
playing well, very well indeed. In a short time at the table I'd seen
him run a couple of quite skillful bluffs and make one excellent fold.
His grasp of the wildcard aspect of the game seemed good and the fact
that he was hammered and could barely string a sentence together made
him tricky to read. In between hands he sometimes confusedly asked
where we were or what tournament this was.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The problem came when
we were down to 18 players and the tournament director asked us to
move to the other side of the room to and have a redraw to play the
final two tables. The Russian player faced some issues including
stacking his chips, understanding where to go and walking in a
straight line. We made it just about, but it was a struggle. I
learned that making a drunk Russian bear of a man move from his seat
when he didn't want to was a tricky process. I also intervened to
stop him putting his tournament chips in his pocket on several
occasions for fear he would be disqualified.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At around 3:30am I was
knocked out just short of the final table when my ten-two was unable
to beat the ace-two of my opponent. I managed to quickly sort out my
winnings and was chatting to a couple of people I knew in the
corridor when I heard the shout of “DONALD”. I turned to see the
Russian guy running out of the toilet towards me and then attempting
to rugby tackle me to the floor. Luckily I was able to largely avoid
the impact, although he did succeed in grabbing me in the testicles,
much to his amusement.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you still in the
tournament?” I asked him. He looked unsure, “I don't know. Am I?”
he replied. I told him he better get back and check because he would
be blinded out of the game.“You're right Donald” he exclaimed,
before bounding off to the tournament room.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The following day I got
up early on a lack of sleep to play the next side event at 12 noon.
There he was at the venue, bright as a button, more coherent today
and with no trace of a hangover. He had a vague idea who I was and
had little memory of the final table the night before. All I know is
that he outlasted me and therefore won more money than me. I asked
him how he was able to be still playing today after a night of heavy
drinking. The answer was simple. A shrug of the shoulders and an
concise explanation.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I am Russian. It is
easy.”</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-16662423679354415102012-07-20T23:35:00.001-07:002012-07-21T00:24:55.950-07:00Five minutesI try to urinate every hour. Usually this lasts from 56 past to 57 past the hour. My bladder knows when it is time to go, at 50 past it is getting prepared, by 54 past it is positively bursting. In the izakayas of Tokyo my name is called aloud for its <a href="http://thisboguspoetry.blogspot.com/2011/01/tokyo-nights-7-8-9-and-10.html">slow steady stream</a>.<br />
<br />
In these times my life is compartmentalised into five minute windows. Sometimes I cook eggs, mostly I make toast. If I'm feeling daring I might run to the spätkauf (the corner store), but a queue there causes the mission to buy snacks to be abandoned. If I'm feeling organised I will eat cold Vietnamese takeaway food that I bought earlier that day, giving a rueful look to my broken microwave.<br />
<br />
At midnight I start to wonder if I will finish work before the good kebab shop closes. By 1:30 I know that only the crap one will still be open. At weekends there is the late night bakery and one can always walk in search of falafel. On a good night in the summer the birds begin to sing. When the sunlight starts peeking through I know I am up late enough to probably be making some money.<br />
<br />
When playing online poker tournaments you receive a five minute break every hour. At the moment I am in the United States where playing online poker is illegal. Therefore I cannot work.<br />
<br />
My life is now composed of hours comprising 60 minutes rather than five, but somehow I achieve less.<br />
<br />
The sense of urgency is replaced by inertia. The sense focus replaced by a muddy confusion.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-27038365391286992732012-01-02T18:55:00.000-08:002012-01-02T20:02:11.469-08:00Albums of 2011These are my favourite albums of 2011. I'm not saying they are the best, merely the ones I've listened to and enjoyed the most.<br /><br />---<br /><strong>1. Glasvegas - Euphoric /// Heartbreak \\\</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/E6Yosqms1nM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br />---<br /><strong>2. PJ Harvey - Let England Shake</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Va0w5pxFkAM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>3. Mogwai - Hardcore Will Never Die But You Will</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8Jv64uhCIrU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>4. Cold Cave - Cherish The Light Years</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ENrR-0aTujA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>5. True Widow - As High As The Highest Heavens And From The Center To The Circumference Of The Earth</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WxuWBNVTxMQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>6. Austra - Feel It Break</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tjKtbCx3piM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>7. Anna Calvi - Anna Calvi</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lo267BTLnZk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>8. The Horrors - Skying</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/sJQk0jDZx8o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>9. Zola Jesus - Conatus</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/HY9WUZZrTpw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>10. EMA - Past Life Martyred Saints</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BacPDrDeY8U" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br />---<br /><strong>11. White Lies - Ritual</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-y65aFZQ2R0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>12. Chelsea Wolfe - Apokalypsis</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/sBgSe3D79As" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br />---<br /><strong>13. Eddie Vedder - Ukelele Songs</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4W0B-1iF6S4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>14. WU LYF - Go Tell Fire To The Mountain</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OVlsa8hd7Sw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><strong>15. Lykke Li - Wounded Rhymes</strong><br />---<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-TTPGAy5H_E" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br />And I don't really like the album that much, but this is my favourite single and video of the year<br /><br />She Wants Revenge - Take the World<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lQJVeOiC-wc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />---<br /><br /><br />But mostly I've been listening to Tindersticks. Their five disc collection of Claire Denis film scores was released this year. This is Another Night In, which is not part of this collection, but I like this mix with clips from the movie 'The Girl on the Bridge'<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/iKFWtrgwo1o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />-------------<br />Lest We Forget<br />-------------<br /><br />2010: Crystal Castles - II<br />2009: Manic Street Preachers - Journal For Plague Lovers<br />2008: Foals - Antidotes<br />2007: Calvin Harris - I Created Disco<br />2006: Yeah Yeah Yeah's - Show Your Bones<br />2005: LCD Soundsystem - LCD Soundsystem<br />2004: !!! – Louden Up Now<br />2003: Yeah Yeah Yeah's - Fever to TellPhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-51101266662162500502011-07-30T17:57:00.000-07:002012-01-28T19:58:17.910-08:00Austrian scumbags<em>I close my eyes. <br /><br />The aroma of cheap hair gel and cigar smoke fills my nostrils. <br /><br />I feel my face being scrutinised. <br /><br />I hear the familiar click clack of poker chips, the drag of a cigarette and then the exhale.<br /><br />Did he just breathe his cigarette smoke on me on purpose?<br /><br />I pull the brim of my hat to cover my eyes further, try to remain still and control my breathing. <br /><br />My opponent is clearly frustrated and I know he is probably going to fold.<br /><br />I want him to fold. I try not to do anything, even to move. <br /><br />I don’t want to give him any ideas about making a <a href="http://pokerterms.com/hero-call.html" target="_blank">hero call</a>. <br /><br />Eventually, after a painfully long time, he folds.</em><br /><br />***<br /><br />I had heard the poker games in Vienna were good, so had travelled to the Austrian capital to investigate. A nine hour train ride with Swedish backpackers later and I was in the suburbs of the Austrian capital. <br /><br />The Montesino Card Club is located in a very odd leisure complex, the centre piece of which is four large gas cylinders which have been decommissioned and converted for modern use. A couple are apartments and the other two are a shopping/retail complex. The idea is GREAT and the structures look absolutely awesome, but the execution is not the best and the shops inside are an uninspiring mix of drab chainstores and generic restaurants. There is a cool looking tattoo shop though. <br /><br />The card club is on the other side of the street where is also a table tennis centre where you can hire a table and play, though I see nobody in there the whole three days I am in town. Advertising the poker club are posters promoting the chance to play with several random and most likely awful ‘live pros’ from German speaking countries. Oh and one of Sandra Naujoks.<br /><br />Playing poker can really bring out the worst in people, myself included, and the players in Vienna were mostly a collection of highly unpleasant individuals. They also weren’t very good at poker.<br /><br />One evening I got deeply involved in a €2/5 nl Texas Hold’em game into the early hours of the morning. The game had broken down to be played five handed. There was me, three middle aged Austrian guys and a quite tight guy who wasn’t really a factor as I mostly folded every time he entered a pot unless I had a big hand. <br /><br />Playing <a href="http://pokerterms.com/shorthanded.html" target="_blank">shorthanded </a>means you are paying the blinds more often so you have to play more hands. As people’s <a href="http://pokerterms.com/range.html" target="_blank">hand ranges</a> open up, you get into more interesting situations where the skillful player should prevail. My online experience is mostly in 6-max games, so of course I love playing shorthanded at the casino.<br /><br />I was maintaining my ideal casino persona, aggressive and mute - and had worked my stack up a little when the following hand occurred:<br /><br />I have €600 in front of me and my nemesis has me covered. An Austrian businessman fish <a href="http://pokerterms.com/open-limp.html" target="_blank">open limps </a>and my bête noire makes it 35 from the small blind, I look down at T9 diamonds and call to take a flop in position. My nemesis is very loose and can have a wide range of hands. I prefer to see a flop rather than bloat the pot and open up the action again for him to put in a further raise. My hand flops very well. By that I mean I will likely hit the flop hard or not at all. I know if I do hit one pair that I am prepared to release the hand and move on. The limper folds. <br /><br />A note about my nemesis: He clearly fancied himself in the role of <a href="http://pokerterms.com/table-captain.html" target="_blank">table captain</a>. Other players seemed to respect and even be in awe of him a little and he used this to his advantage. He looked remarkably like the character of Reg Hollis from long running ITV police drama The Bill, only with a lot more hair gel and gold jewellery. I could already tell he didn’t like me. We had chatted a little in English and it was apparent that the <em>the Hugh Grant factor</em>* wasn’t going to work on this occasion. He was highly suspicious of my story of being a tourist and stumbling into the card club.<br /><br />As something of a <a href="http://pokerterms.com/rules-nit.html" target="_blank">rules nit</a>, I'd already called <a href="http://pokerterms.com/floor.html" target="_blank">the floor</a> on two occasions to get a ruling. This had caused some annoyance amongst my opponents as they were in the main, a bunch of <a href="http://pokerterms.com/angle.html" target="_blank">angleshooting</a> scumbags.<br /><br />Angleshooting is something that I detest at the poker table. I'm a big believer in ettiquette, fairness and playing within the spirit of the game. Secretly I wish I was a 19th century cricketer. <br /><br />An angleshooter is someone who uses tries to use the grey areas of the rules of the game to their advantage, creating deliberately ambiguous situations that they can exploit. If they have more experience than their opponent, if they know the floorstaff, if they can intimidate their opponent, it is often possible to get away with many things. <br /><br />This takes advantage of the fact there is not one universal set of rules in poker throughout the world. If they get caught there is always the smile and, 'oh sorry, I made a mistake'. The thing is, most of the time it is really small stuff, and I wonder why people even bother. It's almost as if trying to get away with small-scale cheating is part of the game itself. In my eyes, people who play poker like this are lowlife scum<br /><br /><strong><em>-- Back to the hand --</em></strong><br /><br />The flop is 478 with two diamonds, giving me both a flush draw and an open ended straight draw. A huge flop for my hand. <br /><br />There is 75 in the pot and ‘Austrian Reg’ leads out for 100. It is an oversized bet, far too big in fact, but I didn’t think it was any indication of the strength of his hand as he had bet on the large side several times since I had sat at the table. The problem with his betsize was that it left me with only one way to play my hand. Folding was clearly not an option and calling was not desirable as he was giving me a bad price and could well bet again on the turn and I would have to fold if I didn’t hit one of <a href="http://pokerterms.com/out.html" target="_blank">my outs</a>. The only choice was to go all in, therefore I would get to see the turn and river for sure. It was a big all in and if ‘Austrian Reg’ has one pair (let's say his hand was Ace Seven), then he might choose to fold and I would get to pick up the pot without needing to hit my draw.<br /><br />So jam it in his face and go all in for €565 and this is where the evening took an interesting turn. From this moment on Reg refused to talk to me in English and began cursing me under his breath in German. It was clear I had put him in a tough spot and I began to think perhaps he did have a big hand. <br /><br />At this point I was very relaxed because I really didn't mind either way if he called or folded. I would prefer the fold, because then I pick up the pot uncontested, but I knew that if he did call I would have a tonne of outs and would probably even be a favourite to win the hand.<br /><br />Eventually Reg called and flipped over two black queens and even though I had ten high, I was a slight favourite as I could hit any diamond, any jack or any six. In a cash game you don't have to turn over your hand when you are all in and on this occasion I chose to keep my hand concealed. Firstly I could <a href="http://pokerterms.com/muck.html" target="_blank">muck </a>my hand if I missed my draw to avoid giving away information and secondly if I got there, I would be able to flip up my hand and triumphantly show the winner. (Like I say, being in a casino brings out the worst in you.)<br /><br />The turn was a nine, giving me even more outs and I got there on the river, flipped over my hand and scooped a sizable pot.<br /><br />As someone who has played hundreds of thousands of hands online, the way this hand played out is extremely <a href="http://pokerterms.com/standard.html" target="_blank">standard</a>. However, Austrian Reg was furious.<br /><br />I am familiar with the term <a href="http://pokerterms.com/steam.html" target="_blank">steaming</a>, but had not even seen someone steam as much as Reg did over the next few hours. He was angry, played with reckless aggression and verbally abused the dealers and other players. He still had the most chips at the table and I saw this as my chance to make my wages for the week and much more besides.<br /><br />Greed is an ugly feeling to have, but it is one that can't be avoided if one plays poker. It is something I struggle with. Chips are used instead of actual money, but it impossible to divorce the two and if someone has a lot of chips in front of them and is playing badly, well it is a chance for you to take their money (something you should of course want to do). I now wanted to take the rest of the chips that 'Austrian Reg' had on the table and perhaps he had even more cash in his wallet. He was a man, a human being, albeit a seemingly not very nice one with too much hair gel and a penchant for gaudy gold jewellery - but at this moment I tried to think of simply the money in front of him that I could win.<br /><br />I would like to believe that basically, at heart, I am a nice person - but over the next few hours I was locked into this game and there was no way I was going to leave, I tried to turn off my emotions and simply to take his money. He and the other players at the table were also trying to take my money weren't they? Right?<br /><br />At this point the layout of the table was such that I was seated at one end in the 'two seat' and the four other players were seated at the other end in seats 6-9. One player decided they would like to have direct <a href="http://pokerterms.com/position.html" target="_blank">position</a> on me and switched to the seat directly to my left. Fair enough. Another player decided they would also like to sit next to me and moved to the seat directly to my right. This made less sense, but it did have the effect of crowding me a little bit. Perhaps they were trying to intimidate me?<br /><br />'Austrian Reg' took the opportunity to sit directly opposite to me, the perfect position for glaring. For the next few hours he delivered a masterclass in <a href="http://pokerterms.com/tilt.html" target="_blank">tilt</a>. He entered every single pot I played, threw his cards at the dealer every time he folded and muttered under his breath about my bad play. His mannerisms became more ragged, his actions with chips more pronounced and violent. I concentrated on playing in a measured and sensible way. I managed to hit a few hands and take down some pots by making him fold on the turn or river, thus further adding to his frustration. His stack fluctuated as mine grew, and eventually the delicious sight as he reached into his wallet to reload. <br /><br /><strong>The slowroll cometh</strong><br /><br />It was almost inevitable that he would get me back and so it proved to be the case. His style of playing was highly aggressive, even though he was steaming. This meant that he was going to at some point put me to some tricky decisions. I don't remember the exact details, but I do know that I overplayed my hand somewhat, he suckered me in and I went all in and he called. After the river, as I had made the last aggressive action in the hand, I turned over my cards. He was clearly waiting for this moment. <br /><br />A pained expression, a furrowed brow and a shake of the head as he stares at the board. Another check of his cards and another furrow of the brow. Then the show to the guy next to him, the classic move, as if to say 'can you believe how bad I run?' But wait! The guy next to him points out that yes indeed, he does have the winning hand! How could he be so stupid, his hand is better than mine. HE HAS WON THE HAND! About thirty seconds after I show my hand, he now shows his better hand and breaks into an enormous lizard grin. <br /><br />I had been <a href="http://pokerterms.com/slowroll.html" target="_blank">slowrolled</a> in the most epic fashion.<br /><br />As Reg stacked up the chips from the pot, he took the opportunity to again speak English to me. Ah yes, the classic rubdown to finish it off. "Now we are even" he told me emphatically, "this is what you deserve." It was now my turn to glare.<br /><br />It seemed with every chip he stacked, his body loosened, his tightness uncoiled and a sense of calm and control returned to his body. It was time for him to light up a cigar.<br /><br />As for me? Well I was still a winner for the evening but the game was looking less enticing. It was getting late, I was getting tired and Reg was almost <a href="http://pokerterms.com/stuck.html" target="_blank">unstuck</a>. Added to this, a new player took a seat in the game, he was young and seemed fresh and savvy and knew how to handle his chips. <br /><br />It was time to bank my profit for the evening and bid goodnight to the Austrian scumbags.<br /><br />-----------------------<br />-----------------------<br /><br />I find myself increasingly wondering if I want to spend any more of my life sitting around a smoky table with a collection of unpleasant individuals. As online poker continues to seemingly unravel and collapse, it appears that if I'm going to continue playing, then it will be necessary for me to play more in casinos rather than have the shield of my computer screen. I'm not sure that is something I want to do, but that is a post for another day.<br /><br /><em><strong>*The Hugh Grant Factor has served me well dealing with official people and cocktail waitresses in the USA. In a smoky Austrian cardroom it was less effective</strong></em>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-23562863167815624232011-06-27T13:05:00.001-07:002011-06-27T14:48:30.613-07:00Let Lisbon shake<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5877868301" title="DSCF0734 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5141/5877868301_d32d6395eb.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="DSCF0734" /></a><br /><br />Recently I saw PJ Harvey play in Lisbon, Portugal. It was a most excellent show.<br /><br />Having been unable to secure tickets for London (sold out) and Berlin (German bureaucracy), I had resigned myself to not seeing PJ Harvey on this tour. When a show in Portugal was announced, I logged on and checked the seating plan. It was mostly sold, but there was one seat free on its own, centre 4th row. Well it would have been churlish not to buy it.<br /><br />The venue was great. On the university complex, the theatre was a beautiful Art Deco building constructed during the era of right wing control of the country, as it seemed did most of the buildings in the university. <br /><br />Firstly I must comment on the high quality selection of pastries behind the bar inside (you wouldn't get that at the Academy), next on the reasonably priced beer, drank in very small glasses as elsewhere in Lisbon. My seat was more of an armchair, with a great view of the stage. The venue even had wifi, so I sent some email whilst waiting for the show to start.<br /><br />For this tour, Polly Harvey was joined by long-term collaborators Mick Harvey and John Parish, as well as Jean Marc Butty on drums. It was an impressive line up of accomplished musicians and they produced a wonderful show. Of course drawing heavily on material from latest album 'Let England Shake', there were some good choices of old favourites.<br /><br />The reaction of the crowd was interesting. A lot more muted than at a UK show but extremely warm and passionate. Respectful. Reverant.<br /><br />Polly used an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autoharp">autoharp</a> on several songs, which is an instrument that I can't quite work out but intrigues me all the same.<br /><br />I really enjoyed the show and Lisbon as a whole. A most captivating city!Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-67607775821068060322011-04-05T16:51:00.001-07:002020-03-15T16:31:25.711-07:00Full houseSwedish poker players are the amongst the most fearsome opponents in the world. It seems that in the realm of apartment hunting, they are also not to be messed with.<br />
<br />
My search for an apartment has taken me all over the city of Berlin. From the working class district of Wedding, where I wanted to rent a studio where the shower was in the kitchen, but was passed over in favour of a Brazilian lesbian couple. To the quiet streets of Kreuzkoelln, where I was very much into an apartment next door to a sex shop, belonging to an Irish roller derby girl - but sadly she chose to rent it to her friend.<br />
<br />
One recent sojourn took me to the south side of Neukoelln - Berlin's Turkish district. The renter this time was an abrasive Irishman called Niall, who was going travelling and then moving to a different area of Berlin. The bonus for me with this one, was that he said he would make an introduction to his landlord, so that when his lease ends in June it can be taken over.<br />
<br />
I was into that idea, so I took the train down to meet him at 7:15pm. Arriving a little early, I wandered around the neighbourhood in the early evening drizzle. It was quiet and residential with little of interest there. As I skulked about the area, I spotted an official looking man with a Manila folder doing the same. I wondered what his deal was? <br />
<br />
When 7:15 came, I rang the bell with no answer. After trying again, I was about to give up when then man with the folder approached me "Are you Niall?". Then another guy approached and we both asked "Are you Niall?"<br />
<br />
When it became clear that none of us were Irish or called Niall, we realised that we had all come to look at the apartment. Niall had triple booked us all and then seemingly not turned up. As the rain increased in ferocity, I was about to cut my losses and move on, when Niall appeared on his bicycle. Slightly dishevelled and apologetic about being late, he ushered us inside. <br />
<br />
"Well I'm late but one of you is definitely early" he quipped as we crammed into the hallway and he put his bike away in the basement. Up in his apartment things were no less awkward.<br />
<br />
Niall gave us the tour around the compact, unremarkable, but perfectly acceptable apartment. "I've heard rumours that this area of town is rife with drugs, prostitution and gangs" he told us, "and if that's the case, I'm disappointed, because I've not seen any of it and it would make this area a darn site more interesting!"<br />
<br />
Nicely done sir, nicely done.<br />
<br />
After he gave us the lowdown and a quite funny account of his neighbours, it was time to get down to business. The brusque Irishman wanted to get it all sorted it seemed and was about to leave the country in the next few days. He was all business and very precise about the details, which is exactly what I look for in a sublet.<br />
<br />
The four of us stood in a quite cramped circle in his hallway and the awkwardness factor was turned up to 11.<br />
<br />
I had been quite frustrated in looking for an apartment in Berlin. Whilst not amazing, this place would probably do me fine, plus I was tired of looking. But what was my move here? I would have to fall back on my poker skills to try and seal the deal on this one.<br />
<br />
The American was in early position (by the front door) and was the first to speak. He enquired about the lack of washing machine in the apartment. Niall somewhat unconvincingly told him that the water bills from the washing machine were too big. "I do my laundry every two weeks" he proudly announced. "I just go to the place down the street. It is cheap and takes an hour or two."<br />
<br />
My opponent seemed unimpressed by this situation and muttered something about being in touch before stepping outside into the hallway. In other words - he folded preflop. It was now left to me and the Swede to battle it out for the pot.<br />
<br />
Next to act, I opened with a raise by telling Niall that I liked the apartment and I would be interested in taking it. The Swede, inscrutable and calculating, called my bet by also informing Niall that he liked the place and would certainly be interested in subletting it from him. <br />
<br />
It was time for Niall to deal the flop.<br />
<br />
Niall reiterated that he was about to go away and he wanted to get it sorted out. He was looking for someone solid that wouldn't be any trouble to his landlord and that could get the rent and deposit sorted out with in the next couple of days. He again mentioned that he could perhaps arrange possibly taking over the lease when his contract finished at the end of June.<br />
<br />
It's fair to say that Niall had dealt quite an action flop there. <br />
<br />
First to act, I decided to make a play for the pot. I told Niall that I was living nearby, so it was no problem for me to sort it out in the next few days. I informed him that I would like to sublet for the full two months and that a deposit was also no problem.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it seemed the Swede was in no mood to be forced out of this pot. Using his positional advantage (by the lounge door and therefore closer to the table where business transactions might take place and further away from the front door), he explained that he had been receiving disability payments after an accident. He then rolled up his shirtsleeve to show a perfectly fine looking wrist. <br />
<br />
I eyed him suspiciously.<br />
<br />
He continued by adding that he was moving to Berlin because he really liked the city, he was happy that spring was here already (using the weather as a conversational piece - a classic move that I had overlooked on this occasion) and that he would also rent for the full period and had the financial means for this to be no problem. <br />
<br />
It was a healthy raise from the Scandinavian and he gave me a sideways look as if to say 'well what are you going to do now then, huh?'<br />
<br />
It was time for me to get serious and bring out the big guns. I told Niall that I could sort all of this out with him tomorrow, whenever was convenient. I could pay in cold hard cash and it would be no problem paying the deposit and rent upfront, before he went to Rome. I would be able to move in next week. I could provide references from previous people I had rented from to confirm my reliability. Niall nodded and turned to the Swede. Surely he wouldn't be able to compete with my healthy re-raise?<br />
<br />
Cool as a cucumber, the Swede countered my play with ease. <br />
<br />
He told Niall that he was currently staying in a hotel and therefore could move in as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
Mightily impressive by my Scandinavian opponent, but surely Niall wouldn't give him the apartment just because he would move in first by a few days?<br />
<br />
But there was something that I had forgotten in the tension of the negotiation...<br />
<br />
~The Manila folder~<br />
<br />
The Swede claimed that in the folder were all his documents, bank statements and references that Niall could examine. He also flashed a glance of some money in his trouser pocket, saying he could pay Niall the full amount right now, so he could have it all sorted this evening.<br />
<br />
The Swede had made the ultimate move. He'd gone all in.<br />
<br />
There was nowhere left for me to go. I'd been defeated by the ultimate Scandinavian weapon. Efficiency. <br />
<br />
I made a vague and perfunctory promise to Niall that I would email him in the morning to discuss things. But we both knew the deal was already done and this was to save face on my part.<br />
<br />
I hadn't seen the contents of the folder or the full extent of the euro shaped bulge in pocket of my Swedish foe, so he could have been bluffing with a folder full of newspaper clipping and a pocket full of monopoly money. And was the claiming benefits line all some kind of elaborate ruse? <br />
<br />
Whether he had a real hand or not, in this uncomfortably cramped hallway he had played his hand strongly and aggressively, leaving me with no way to win the pot. I was faced with only one possible decision.<br />
<br />
Stepping out into the staircase, I bid them both good evening and go on my way.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
Phill: foldsPhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-26645382642579208162011-02-17T08:45:00.000-08:002011-02-17T10:26:45.196-08:00Rock, paper, scissors pwnage in YokohamaI spent three days couchsurfing in Yokohama with Hanna and Atsushi. They proved to be most excellent hosts.<br /><br />The first night we sat on the floor around a table Japanese style and ate a homecooked meal prepared on a portable stove. But not just any table! Japan seems to be a nation that doesn't understand the term 'central heating' but they compensate for this in several ways. One of the most interesting being a heated table. A small circular table covered by a blanket. Underneath an oasis of warmness! So wrap the blanket around your legs and let the warmth wash over you (Well your legs at least)<br /><br />The meal was delicious. Sukiyaki - Beef, vegetables and noodles cooked on the stove and then dipped into raw egg. Yum.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5454079536/" title="DSCF0740 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5255/5454079536_947291b247.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0740" /></a><br /><br />I stayed in Hanna and Atsushi's guest room complete with tatami mat, futon and Japanese style slide doors. The apartment was pretty huge by Japanese standards and I felt very comfortable and at home. They were great hosts! We watched some Japanese TV and I was exposed to enka, a traditional style of Japanese singing. This style seemed to involve two key ingredients - blazers and crying. The songs were so emotional that several of the singers were simply overcome and burst into tears, either whilst chatting with the host before they sang, or preferably during the songs themselves. The singers and audience were largely of the 50+ category, with many of the males clad in Alan Partridge style blazers. Back of the net.<br /><br />The next day it was off to something I was looking forward to a lot. The Ramen Museum! Inside we were straight into an educational talk from a man in a white scientist coat about the history of ramen and how it was made. He frequently quizzed the audience in the manner of a university lecturer testing slightly disinterested pupils. We got to try several of the ingredients that make up ramen and got to see several quite excellent graphs and visual aids. In fact I'd have to say visual aids seem quite an important part of presentation in Japan. Watching the news the evening before with English translations, we got to see a variety of props to help illustrate the erruption of a volcano earlier that day. Several of them were somewhat amateurish in their appearance, but to me that added to the charm.<br /><br />Downstairs was a couple of fake streets from 1950s Tokyo, complete with sound effects and people in period dress. It was quite a fun diversion, but there was something I was here for. <br /><br />Must. Eat. Ramen.<br /><br />Eight different shops from around Japan were represented and you could even buy a small bowl, giving you the stomach space to sample more than one.<br /><br />First, on Hanna's suggestion, we tried a Miso Ramen. It was my first miso ramen of the trip and I liked the little added kick to the taste. This one also came with some nice spice and was an enjoyable bowl.<br /><br />Next was onto a bowl from the town of Kawagoe in Saitama. It was somewhat of a coincidence that this shop was represented as I'd visited their main venue the week before. The shop was called Gangya and was run by Japanese rasta guys. I'd visited the shop with Brian, a man who loves ramen and who's knowledge of the food and Japanese food in general is extensive. I'd become a big fan of Brian's <a href="http://www.ramenadventures.com">Ramen Adventures blog </a>and had mailed him to ask if I could join him for lunch sometime.<br /><br />The shop in Kawagoe was interesting. It was tiny, seating only 11 people and servied meals in sittings. 11 people gave their order at the door and were then seated. Whilst they were eating, the next 11 gave their order and all went in together when everyone had finished. The popularity of the shop and its small size meant that we waited perhaps 45 minutes to be seated, but it was worth it. I asked Brian to choose and he selected the tsukemen, a bowl of thick noodles that you dip into the broth yourself. This particular broth was extremely fishy and absolutely delicious. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5453518081/" title="DSCF0681 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5060/5453518081_c91470397b.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0681" /></a><br /><br />I ate as fast as I could, but I was still the last person to finish in our sitting. As <a href="http://www.ramenadventures.com/2011/01/ganja-in-kawagoe.html">Brian describes on his blog</a>, he had to rush to another part of town to give an English lesson so wolfed his bowl down in record time before running to the train station.<br /><br />Afterwards I had a chance to wander around Kawagoe and check out some of the old buildings. It had a nice old town with some peaceful temples, graveyards and a wooden tower that reminded me of playing the computer game Age of Empires.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5453519869/" title="DSCF0702 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5177/5453519869_332963810a.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0702" /></a><br /><br />I was delighted to get another chance to try the tsukemen. And whilst not quite as good as I remember the bowl tasting out in Kawagoe, it was still delicious.<br /><br />Belly full, it was time to think about moving on. In the fake town square, a group of people gathered and standing on the periphery, I was drawn in.<br /><br />It seems there was some kind of rock, paper scissors championship about to take place. A trophy appeared to be on offer for the winner and I wanted to win it and take it back to Europetown. We were split into three teams. The leader of my team was a homely looking lady in a kind of chef outfit. The two other leaders were a schoolgirl and a scary old clown man. An MC stood on a box directing proceedings and we were away. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5454072862/" title="DSCF0747 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5173/5454072862_e42254f27d.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0747" /></a><br /><br />I was expecting this thing to be over in a few minutes but it turned into an endurance fest. We went through several rounds of matches trying to gather as many small flags as we could. Occasionally there were double or even triple flag rounds, but I was getting my arse kicked. Hanna later told me that people play rock, paper scissors in Japan from a very young age, so I was clearly at a disadvantage much as a Japanese person would be if they played me at conkers.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5454070336/" title="DSCF0748 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5060/5454070336_eb15f37f25.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0748" /></a><br /><br />I did not win the trophy, but at the end of the game (which probably lasted half hour), I felt like I'd had a physical and mental work out!<br /><br />One of the things I'd wanted to do on this trip was to visit Cosmoworld - A small theme park in the centre of Yokohama that featured in one of my favourite music videos of all time. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohCk4HrLlLs">Motorcycle Emptiness by the Manic Street Preachers</a>.<br /><br />Sadly, for a reason that I do not know, the park was closed so I didn't get to have the chance to be a geeky fanboy and try to recreate scenes from the video.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5453466271/" title="DSCF0763 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5174/5453466271_19d16b070c.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0763" /></a><br /><br />I consoled myself by walking through Chinatown. Yokahama has a pretty large Chinatown and it was cool to take an early evening stroll and enjoy the atmosphere. A TV news crew were filming something there so I snapped a picture.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5454074530/" title="DSCF0754 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5054/5454074530_daeeb9c14a.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0754" /></a><br /><br />Later on that evening, Hanna and Atsushi took me to somewhere that I'd have never found myself. The entrance was non-descript. It looked like a garage. Well it was basically a garage. <br /><br />Inside was a bar, but a bar with a difference. This particular joint was run by two 80 year old ladies and it was a bar serving only one drink - SAKE! And to add to the lack of choice, only one kind of sake was on offer. This was my kind of place!<br /><br />The premise was simple, you were allowed up to three glasses maximum - which were poured out of a large teapot by the waiter. As you were drinking, you could enjoy snacks - I don't think you got to choose which ones. After three drinks, that was it, you weren't allowed to drink any more. The place also closed at around 10pm. This was responsible drinking and we sat on the tatami, enjoyed our snacks and sake with the business guys and other regular customers. It was pretty awesome and something I will remember fondly from my trip.<br /><br />Thanks Hanna and Atsushi!Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-88541549961543532542011-02-09T07:16:00.000-08:002011-02-25T10:27:13.605-08:00Sweaty Dutch men in latexIt started normally enough. I met a guy called Ben through Couchsurfing and we got talking about a venue I'd been to called <a href="http://www.super-deluxe.com/">Superdeluxe</a>.<br /><br />"I'm DJing there in a few weeks. There's some kind of Dutch electronica, it should be interesting..." <br /><br />The seed was planted and then this morning I remembered it was on. I emailed him and he put me on the door for half price entry. What a nice guy.<br /><br />I'd been Superdeluxe before, to see a man play a 30 minute improvised organ solo, so I knew this wasn't generally a mainstream venue. Little did I know the delights that were to come though.<br /><br />Upon arrival it became clear that this was some sort of Dutch cultural showcase, there were people there from the embassy and it appeared that a lot of the acts had been funded in some way by the Dutch government.<br /><br />First was a rather dry presentation about some kind of interactive 3D virtual art. So far so good and no hint of the oddity that was to follow.<br /><br />Ben was DJing in between the acts and he was really good, mixing up styles and dropping in samples. I enjoyed his work.<br /><br />Next was the token Japanese guy for the evening. His act was simple. A backing tape of speed metal, which he shouted and screamed along to for about 25 minutes. It was quite exceptional!<br /><br />After another DJing slot it was on to the next act. A musical duo with a different. The first guy was on decks and samples, so far so normal. But the second guy had a fluorescent tube light that he had some how rigged up to a set of effects pedals and could produce different sounds by touching different parts of it and touching it to different surfaces. Kind of like an extreme version of a theremin, with added lighting.<br /><br />It was a pretty cool set and the visuals from the light flicking on and off were also great.<br /><br />The guy next to me was really into it. A middle aged guy, he looked very Dutch, kind of a Dutch hipster, or a hiijpster if you will. He grooved along to the music, his dancing augmented by excellent choice in knitwear.<br /><br />Next were a series of very odd videos, but before that a simple summary of Dutch history that is probably not endorsed by the tourist board.<br /><br />"In the 17th and 18th centuries we were famous for exporting slaves. Now we are famous for drugs"<br /><br />One video in particular triumphed in the oddness stakes. Several sequences featuring characters from Renaissance artwork hanging out with business guys in suits and skinheads, all drinking and taking lots of drugs. Oh and the soundtrack was a cover version of 'No Limits' by 2Unlimited. As a way of promoting the Netherlands to the population of Tokyo, it was somewhat of an alternative vision.<br /><br />But the crowning moment of the evening was to come. Somehow I was distracted and didn't see people setting up on stage. Then when Ben the DJ stopped, I saw the middle aged dancing hiijpster guy up there, only now how was wearing what can only be described as a latex jogging suit. The white tennis shoes were a nice touch.<br /><br />He was joined by another guy in latex and a person of indiscriminate gender in a pink wig, pvc, fishnets and one boot.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5431247382/" title="DSCF0836 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5012/5431247382_7b3153e43c.jpg" width="360" height="270" alt="DSCF0836" /></a><br /><br />The music was an relentless techno/metal mix and latex jogging guy danced like a maniac. To me he resembled Bez from the Happy Mondays, only how he is now, and on a bad acid trip. Oh and in latex obviously.<br /><br />His male bandmate handled most of the vocals and the pink wigged androgynoid handled samples. Latex jogging guy concentrated on what he did best, very enthusiastic dancing.<br /><br />The performance was backed by video screens flashing up various images and selection of words that a 13 year old boy might consider dangerous. SEX, GREED, MONEY, FUCK, MURDER<br /><br />During the course of the set there was lots of writhing around, screaming and the pink wigged lady spanked latex jogging guy with a plastic AK47 assault rifle. Awesome!<br /><br />The music, if we can describe it as such, was pretty tuneless and bad. But the visual act was something that cannot be adequately described by this humble writer.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5430641627/" title="DSCF0842 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5133/5430641627_063f157b32.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0842" /></a><br /><br />To all Dutch taxpayers reading this, I'd like to say thank you for funding my excellent evening of entertainment.<br /><br />And next time you pay your taxes, think about how 0.0001% will be going towards the cleaning costs for a very sweaty latex jogging suit.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-21782668124420488402011-02-04T05:59:00.000-08:002011-02-04T06:18:05.241-08:00Lost in the supermarket, nasal (rites of) passages and the pensioner policeI've been <a href="http://philhux.blogspot.com/2005/02/search-for-holy-towel-this-morning-i.html">a long term critic of supermarkets in Berlin</a>, so it is time to redress the balance. Supermarkets in Japan are awesome! <br /><br />Mainly I've shopped in 'combini' stores. These are small corner convenience stores that are open either really late or 24 hours a day. In the UK or the US this would probably mean they were stocked with booze, pringles and cigarettes, but here there is a wide variety of food on offer, some of it even fresh and healthy.<br /><br />My favourite is Lawson, but there are 4 or 5 different chains literally all over Tokyo. For the traveller it is pretty great.<br /><br />Tokyo blogger Kevin Cooney gives his opinion on 'combinis' below. TokyoCooney is my favourite source of information about Tokyo. He has made tonnes of videos about all aspects of life in the city. Recommended!<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="512" height="312" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/bl1yIvVwNtw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />In Yokohama I grabbed lunch from as small supermarket and I was pleased with my haul.<br /><br />Hot weak lemon drink £1<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5415385947/" title="DSCF0766 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5052/5415385947_22a1dd615d.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0766" /></a><br /><br />Baked sweet potato cooked on hot coals inside the supermarket £1.20<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5415999018/" title="DSCF0767 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5137/5415999018_ae6db9a84e.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0767" /></a><br /><br />Tasty sushi with a sachet of soy sauce, pickled cabbage and a dash of wasabi £2.50<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5415386837/" title="DSCF0768 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5137/5415386837_b9f65e7649.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0768" /></a><br /><br />Not bad I'd say, but there is a problem. I've read and been told, that it is actually quite rude to eat in the street in Japan. When you are buying most of your food from supermarkets and don't have anywhere to live then this proves to be a problem. I have generally been trying to find a discreet bench on which to munch my bounties, but benches and places to sit down also seem to be sparse.<br /><br />On this occasion I was able to find a suitable spot and cracked open the hot weak lemon drink (a habit that is eating into my poker profits as I am drinking one bottle of this per hour when I play).<br /><br />As I eat I observe another Japanese city phenomenon. The pensioner police! This particular guy is wearing a green armband, a peaked cap and some kind of ID badge. I'm not sure what his official role or title is, but it seems he is there to preserve order in this sleepy Yokohama suburb. In this case, order means that making sure the bikes in the bike rack are exactly symmetrical. I have to say that I thought the standard of the bike parking in this rack was quite high in the first place, but it is not good enough for him, and he adjusts several bikes so they are aligned. People generally don't lock up their bikes in many parts of town (with the pensioner police, your cycle is safe!), so he has a free reign to rearrange the cycles at his will, making the streets of Yokohama a better place. I know he instantly clocked me the moment I sat down, and I'm sure he is watching me like a hawk to make sure I don't leave rubbish. <br /><br />And that isn't as straightforward as it seems, as there are absolutely no trash bins in Tokyo and nobody seems to know why. Some say it is because of terrorism, others because they want people to take their trash home. Some people just shrug at me when I ask. I've walked around for hours, pockets full of rubbish and nowhere to put it.<br /><br />I have been suffering from a cold the past few days and again have faced another etiquette situation. It seems it is highly rude to blow your nose in public in Japan. I guess this makes sense but it begs the question, what are you supposed to do if you have a cold? I see a lot of people around with the face masks, especially on the subway train and considered getting one. Sadly people only seem to have them in white and I'd prefer black myself.<br /><br />Instead what I have been doing is going down dark back alleys to blow my nose. The shame of it!<br /><br />This time I thought I'd found a good secluded spot. I pulled my tissue out of my pocket, took one last glance around to make sure the coast was clear, before letting rip with my nasal excretions. Unfortunately, just at that moment, an old lady walks straight around the corner into my path. The look on her face was priceless. You've heard the phrase 'she looked daggers at me', well in this case it was samurai swords. Horrified! Her expression was akin to her walking around the corner and seeing me defecating onto a picture of the Japanese Royal Family. She hurries off muttering under her breath.<br /><br />I have no desire to offend anyone, but what's a guy with a cold meant to do in this town?<br /><br />Of course it is pretty much impossible for me to avoid standing out here. My friend John said he felt like a monster when he was here. I tend to agree. And of course it is impossible to follow every part of Japanese etiquette, no matter how hard I try, but I am thankful to receive a 'gaijin pass' from time to time.<br /><br />Certainly there is no way I would ever be able to get away with a crime in Japan:<br /><br /><strong>Police chief:</strong> "So, we are looking for a tall white guy with long blonde curly hair"<br /><strong>Officer:</strong> "Well there are only two people that fit that description in the whole of Japan"<br />*Shows him the files*<br /><strong>Police chief:</strong> "uh huh"<br /><strong>Officer:</strong> "I checked the alibi of Thor the Norwegian blues guitarist. He had a show that night"<br /><strong>Chief: </strong>"RIGHT! Case solved! Bring Huxley in. We'll show him the error of his noseblowing ways..."<br /><strong>Officer:</strong> "No problem Sir. Right after I've given directions to this queue of tourists. Where's my big, red pointy glow in the dark stick?"Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-8673975587125804352011-01-31T21:49:00.001-08:002011-01-31T22:25:43.567-08:00A random evening and a very brave dogI have been meeting people from <a href="http://www.couchsurfing.org">Couchsurfing</a> most days here in Tokyo and it has been a real lifesaver. From my experiences so far, Japan is a very difficult society for a foreigner to penetrate. I am constantly aware of my outsider or 'gaijin' status as I tower over everybody on the street and am faced with the language and cultural barriers.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5407048676/" title="DSCF0734 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5293/5407048676_7efa097282.jpg" width="360" height="270" alt="DSCF0734" /></a><br /><br />Saturday sounded promising. Someone posted on the messageboard that she was going for a night out and did anyone want to come? Of course I did and she told me to meet her at 8 at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hachik%C5%8D">Hachiko </a>statue. It is worth mentioning Hachiko for a moment, as it is not every day that a dog gets a statue in a prime location in the middle of a major city. Hachiko used to meet his owner every day after work at the station. When his owner died at work suddenly one day, Hachiko continued to wait at the station each day for him to return. This lasted for nine years! Very impressive and ranks him up there with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bobbie,_the_Wonder_Dog">Bobbie The Wonderdog</a> of Silverton, OR as one of the bravest dogs of all time, earning him a place as one of the eight <a href="http://www.rusticgirls.com/animals/most-faithful-dogs-in-history.html">most faithful dogs in history</a>. Incidentally I've now seen statues commemorating three of these dogs!<br /><br />Well our guide for the night couldn't make it, so meeting at Hachiko I found a mute Frenchman (MF) and a seemingly slightly agressive, though friendly Russian girl (SATBFRG) - Not really a recipe for a great night out in Tokyo, but I was determined to press on.<br /><br />Of course, none of us knew anywhere to go and faced with a wall of indecisiveness, or in the case of the mute Frenchman, a wall of silence - I took the lead and led us to <a href="http://www.freshnessburger.co.jp/">Freshness Burger</a>, where I could enjoy a ginger milk tea and a 'Beans Burger'<br /><br />Well I only knew one bar, so it was back to the Beat Cafe I had visited the previous weekend. The Beat Cafe is the size of a large cupboard, but we managed to grab a seat at the bar before it completely filled up. In the corner a group of boorish Brits played drinking games and I tried to ignore them. The DJ was an be-hatted older guy who played some great music from his laptop, strongly stipulating - no requests! <br /><br />As the night progressed I talked to the French guy a little in a mix of English and French. In turns out he's recently been ranover and used his compensation to come to Japan and learn Japansese and he was a very nice guy. That's the second coolest story of what to do with compensation I've heard - The first being my friend Dean who used a chunk of his to buy a load of kickass CDs to donate to his local library.<br /><br />I was really enjoying myself at the bar, it was packed and fun, and struck up a conversation with two Japanese girls, one of whom who had just flown in from Stockholm that afternoon. A group of Canadian English teachers from Seoul also befriended me and began to buy me a few drinks!<br /><br />The one unfortunate thing about Tokyo is that it doesn't have 24 hour public transit. It seems quite an omission in a city of this size and dynamism. So approaching 12, people are faced with the decision, go and grab the last train or stay out until the early morning.<br /><br />Well I was having a great time, so I decided to go for it and stay out for the first time on this trip. MF decided to join me, but SATBFRG, frustrated that I didn't know anywhere else for us to go (I hate being in charge of a night out), and was ignoring her a bit, bailed and went to get her train leaving me with my new 'friends'.<br /><br />I guess there is a danger when you do this of your night going south and soon the Japanese girls left and the Canadians got progressively drunker. They decided to go to another bar and we followed them. It turns out that Japan were at this moment playing Australia in the Asian Cup final (the equivalent of the European Championships) and we got to the bar just as extra time was starting.<br /><br />Well Japan grabbed a late winner and the bar went crazy (in a polite Japanese way) - Now somewhat regretting my decision to stay out all night, MF and I hit the streets and found ourselves in the midst of quite hearty celebrations. Awesome!<br /><br />I was looking for somewhere to hang for the next few hours so set off to find a 'Manga Kissa' - a 24 hour internet cafe where you hire a booth with dvd player, computer and all the comics you could ever want. Oh and the key is it is a darkened room with a very comfy chair, ideal for snoozing. MF and I hit our respective pods and I told him to give me a knock at 6am, before dozing for a few hours.<br /><br />On the way home there was limited carnage on the streets and the early morning trains were a mix of people going to work and people on their way back from a night out. I slept most of the next day, blowing my plans to go to the Parasite Museum.<br /><br />À bientôt!Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-66272487027241268662011-01-30T23:25:00.000-08:002011-01-31T21:48:55.844-08:00YanakaMost tourists go to Asakusa, but it is actually the area of Yanaka that has the highest concentration of temples in Tokyo. Perhaps it is the fact that they aren't quite as beautiful as the ones in Asakusa, perhaps it is because the area is largely unremarkable and is wedged in between the railway tracks. But during my visit I saw very few other tourists.<br /><br />Previously I'd picked up a walking tour guide from the central tourist office and planned to follow it. But first, it was time to go to the graveyard. The cemetery in Yanaka is pretty damn huge. Next to it is a temple which I had a look around before going to hang out with some dead people. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5403377487/" title="DSCF0710 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5257/5403377487_ebbdf3be70.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0710" /></a><br /><br />Some of the gravestones were pretty massive, standing at around twenty feet high. A tad excessive I'd say!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5403377727/" title="DSCF0711 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5216/5403377727_8673537b53.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0711" /></a><br /><br />In the spring this is a prime cherry blossom viewing spot, but now it was a bit barren and chilly. That didn't stop three old guys just hanging out, one of them playing some kind of flute.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5406989088/" title="DSCF0719 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5220/5406989088_05fa3322c2.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0719" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5406381129/" title="DSCF0712 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5016/5406381129_33494a7377.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0712" /></a><br /><br />On to the temples and shrines and it was cool to just walk around what is mainly a residential area and check them out. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5406381291/" title="DSCF0720 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5015/5406381291_a31f90af44.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0720" /></a><br /><br />One in particular though, I won't forget. I heard some chanting as I went towards the building and it soon transpired there was some kind of ceremony happening. About 15 guys in suits sat one one side and on the other were the two people conducting things. Of course I don't know the exact words for what was going on, so I will just try and describe.<br /><br />Well I was mesmerised by what was going on and stayed there, at a respectful distance, for about half hour. It seemed the two guys in robes were blessing each person in turn, there was a very lengthy and precise way of doing this involving chanting, flowers and some kind of font at the back. It was awesome to see.<br /><br />The whole time I was the only person watching. The area was silent, save for the hum and noise from Nippori railway station below.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5406381387/" title="DSCF0726 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5013/5406381387_53ceb0a709.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0726" /></a><br /><br />Further along, the map took me through the centre of a school where it just happened to be time for sports. Gangs of kids ran around, some sprinting, some doing a long run, some doing press ups and sit ups. There was baseball practice going on, so I watched for a while, being English and all. One kid sat on his own, somewhat disconsolately. I wasn't really sure why or if he was waiting for someone but I did manage to get him to crack a smile.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5403378157/" title="DSCF0725 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5018/5403378157_ba2a9f01c7.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0725" /></a><br /><br />Then I went on to the shopping area of the district. It seemed quite a working class and old fashioned area, far removed from the neon of Shinjuku and Shibuya. There were lots of stalls selling different types of food and people doing their shopping.<br /><br />Turning the corner I saw a sign saying 'Tourist Information - English". Wow! I'd hit gold here and I went to enter the building. Sadly it appeared to be closed. As I was about to walk away a guy ran up to me and explained that this shiny new tourist office wasn't open yet - it was actually opening tomorrow! Talk about a bad beat.<br /><br />All those leaflets and brochures taunted me from behind the glass.<br /><br />He was very nice though and we chatted for a few minutes about this area and the UK. He gave me a tip as to where to get some sushi, which I ate on a bench enjoying the mix of tast fish and the chilly winter air.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-45772010479318328202011-01-23T02:38:00.000-08:002011-01-23T02:53:06.967-08:00Sunday in TokyoIn Tokyo it is statistically more likely you are going to run into a giant pink cat pulling a suitcase, than in any other city in the world. FACT!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5380622442/" title="DSCF0638 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5124/5380622442_811544c8d3.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0638" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5380622558/" title="DSCF0645 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5250/5380622558_c1fc3a953f.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0645" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5380622638/" title="DSCF0666 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5125/5380622638_de39097207.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0666" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5380646710/" title="DSCF0654 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5168/5380646710_e5d4bfe6b9.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0654" /></a>Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-69779716688541252092011-01-22T17:34:00.000-08:002011-01-24T05:06:13.384-08:00Tokyo nights - 7, 8, 9 and 10As my sleep schedule has adjusted I've been going out more in the evening. Four nights in a row I went out to different parts of Tokyo to meet people from Couchsurfing.<br /><br />On <strong>Wednesday</strong> I meet Yuki in Korea Town and she gives me a tour of the neighbourhood. There is tonnes of merchandise for the latest Korean pop artists that seem to be pretty big over here, as well as the smells from Korean food. <br /><br />I soon discover Yuki has similar taste in music as me, as well as being a big football fan. She is going over the the UK in March to catch a Premiership match and of all places, she has chosen to spend a few nights staying in West Bromwich. Now I think it is safe to say that West Brom puts Tokyo to shame when it comes to a plate of faggots and peas, but I'm struggling of thinking what else? I'm certainly experiencing cultural differences here in Japan, but I'd love to hear how Yuki gets on with the Black Country accent.<br /><br />We take a lift to the top of the Tokyo Government Building where you can see great views over the city. On a clear day you can see Mount Fuji and by night the city is illumiated below us.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5371694665/" title="DSCF0618 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5128/5371694665_9f4aa0159e.jpg" width="368" height="278" alt="DSCF0618" /></a><br /><br />We eat Japanese pancakes and then go to a meetup with about thirty couchsurfers from all around the world The bar is a kind of lame cowboy theme bar, but the company is good and I hang out for a while and swap travel stories.<br /><br /><strong>Thursday</strong> sees me take the train over to Roppongi. This is known as the district where westerners congregate in Tokyo and contains a lot of bars and developments. I meet J Lee and Sumit from couchsurfing and we go for ramen (of course). Next it is on to Superdeluxe to see a man and his organs.<br /><br />Morgan is an eccentric old British guy who has been playing at the venue every month for the past seven years. His show consists of freestyle improvisation on keys, organ, percussion and vocals - sampled and looped, distorted and made into what is actually a great show! I managed to get about 15 people from Couchsurfing to come to the show and I think they all enjoyed it!<br /><br />There is no time to stick around and we hotfoot it across town for an English language comedy night. Sadly the venue is a pretty crappy ex-pat bar with overpriced 'English food'. Even more worryingly, as we get there late, there are only tables free at the front, always a danger for a stand up show.<br /><br />It is a mix of open mic and more established performers and the quality varies wildly. There are a few Japanese guys performing and their mastery of the English language is also variable, however they more than make up for it by the visual style of their humour and sheer unbridled enthusiasm!<br /><br /><strong>Friday </strong>night I organise dinner at one of the most famous ramen shops in Tokyo. It is a small joint in the district of Ikebukuro - which translates as 'pond bag'. It's a mixed area, with lots of discount shops, department stores, cafes and slightly ugly urban sprawl. It is not really on the main tourist trail, but it does have one amazing attraction - the fire station.<br /><br />Ikebukuro Fire Station is home to an interactive museum about dangerous things. You can practice putting out a fire, learn to escape from a smoke filled room, and the reason I was there, experience a force 7 earthquake!<br /><br />The instructions were all in Japanese of course, but we got to watch a video of what to do before we moved on to a fake dining room. The drill was simple, as soon as you feel a tremor, rush to turn off the cooker, prop open the door and hide under the table with a cushion above your head. The room shook, A LOT! It was even a little scary, but not quite as scary as the formidable Japanese lady shouting instructions at us and telling us what to do!<br /><br />After that drama it was onwards for some filling ramen. I've learned that the way to tell a good ramen shop is by the size of the queue outside and <a href="http://www.mutekiya.com/">Mutekiya</a> had a big queue! We waited for about 45 minutes to be seated but it was totally worth it. The big bowl of ramen was delicious and the bonus was sitting at the counter and watching the staff rush around the cramped restaurant.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5380622416/" title="DSCF0632 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5250/5380622416_6d7bd8f167.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0632" /></a><br /><br />Next it was off to a traditional Japanese bar or izakaya. The bar itself was really great, with dirt cheap drinks and many tables of drunk Japanese business guys, but this was a bar with a difference. <br /><br />I've often wondered what the gaming company Sega would do in response to the latest next gen consoles. Well it seems they have decided to respond to Nintendo literally and come up with... well... the wee!<br /><br />Four bars in Tokyo are being trialled with the latest in gaming, a computer game in the toilet, the twist being that you control the game with your stream of urine!<br /><br />The game I played was this one here:<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="576" height="351" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GAUmwUkPLBM" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen></iframe><br /><br />There are three others which measure power and accuracy. In one game you compete against the guy who pissed before you and two characters on screen squirt milk out of their nose at each other (!!!!!). Another and slightly more disturbing game is where the more you hit the target, the more the skirt of a schoolgirl like character on screen is raised. So wrong and so very Japansese.<br /><br />I'm proud to say that I trounced my male drinking companions and posted the highest score. Sadly ladies cannot take part as they are only in the mens toilet.<br /><br /><strong>Saturday</strong> night I had instructions to meet at the police box outside Shibuya Station at 6:45pm. We were going to something involving robots, but that is all I knew.<br /><br />A note about the police in Tokyo. The reality is that there is very little crime here and it is quite possibly the safest capital city in the world. Therefore the complex address system here means that police spend most of their time giving people directions. In every neighbourhood there is a police box with one or two cops and invariably they will spend most of the day handing out maps and showing people the way to various locations.<br /><br />When we get to the robot place, it becomes apparent that disappointingly there are no robots there, just a photography exhibition with a fun name. Still it was a good exhibition with five photographers having five photos each, taken on the streets of Tokyo. I liked the enthusiasm of the photographers, some who were exhibiting for the first time and the cafe was a cool veggie spot in an interesting neighbourhood.<br /><br />Next a few of us go to Shibuya and the Beat Cafe - this is basically a Britpop bar in the middle of Tokyo and I really liked it. It is tiny, seating maybe 25 people and you have to go up a non-descript stairwell to get there. But inside it could be 1996 all over again. Repeats of Later with Jools Holland play on the TV, Britpop music is on the stereo and there is all manner or items around the bar. It was a really interesting crowd mix and I will go back for sure.<br /><br />On an evening out in Tokyo you tend to go home about midnight and get the last train or have to stay out until the first morning train about 5:30am. There are no night buses and taxis are extortionate. What people do when they miss their last train is to go to a manga cafe. Here you get your own little booth with a comfy chair, internet access, snacks and pick of the comics library. You can relax and sleep whilst you wait for sunrise. Some of them even have showers. I've not had to do this yet, but maybe before I leave I will get to experience it.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5673431056172417215.post-19813748256700255162011-01-20T18:35:00.001-08:002011-01-22T17:21:45.636-08:00Tokyo Day Six - Sumo!One of the things I really wanted to do when in Japan was to watch some sumo wrestling.<br /><br />There are six big basho (tournaments) each year, three of them in Tokyo. Fortunately one of them is on right now and I got the chance to go and see it.<br /><br />Seats at the front are in high demand, but they keep a small amount of back row tickets to sell on each day of the two week event.<br /><br />Early in the morning I took the trip out to the sumo suburb of Ryogoku and got in line. There actually a lot of foreigners in the queue, probably the most I've seen in one place so far and I chatted to some other Brits whilst we waited for the line to move. Ryogoku is known as sumo town and lots of 'sumo stables' are in the area where the wrestlers live and train. On the way from the subway I walk past a couple of wrestlers on the way to the arena, wearing traditional dress and wooden sandals.<br /><br />On a large tower outside the arena, a guy sits at the top banging a traditional drum signalling the beginning of the sumo for the day. He plays it again at the end of the day.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5367804719/" title="DSCF0586 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5168/5367804719_ddd3289a9c.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0586" /></a><br /><br />From talking to people, it seems that sumo is not as popular right now as it was a few years ago. There have been <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/jul/04/sumo-threatened-by-scandal-and-crime">a few big scandals</a> involving gambling, violence, drugs and organised crime, that led to several top wrestlers being forced out of the sport. Therefore I had no problem getting myself a ticket to see the event.<br /><br />Starting just before 9, the matches continue all day, beginning with the trainee wrestlers and progressing up the ranks. As the day continues, you can see the improvement in both physique and skill until the top division matches later in the afternoon. Some of the early matches are size mismatches, with one wrestler having bulked up a lot more than the other. However, just occasionally the small guy manages to win which always got a big cheer from the crowd.<br /><br />For lunch the cafe on the ground floor was serving chanko, a traditional stew eaten by wrestlers in large quantities late at night to help to put on weight. Well as I was in the home of sumo, I considered it rude not to try some and got a small bowl for less than £2.<br /><br />This particular 'chanko' I found not very tasty at all. The broth watery, the vegetables overcooked and with a lack of any real discernible taste whatsoever. I thought to myself, how do sumo wrestlers manage to eat enough of this to put on enough weight?<br /><br />After my disappointing lunch I took a stroll around the merch area and checked out the vast range of sumo products available. There is also a sumo museum which educates about the history of the sport.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5368417234/" title="DSCF0591 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5122/5368417234_f36f4eebb8.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="DSCF0591" /></a><br /><br />As for the bouts themselves, before and after each one there are a series of rituals that the referee and both fighters go through before they begin. Plus a guy comes on and sings before each fight. After watching for a while I got into the flow of the way it all worked and sat back with a book, a bit like as if I was at a cricket match.<br /><br />Most matches were over in less the twenty seconds. Occasionally though, a match lasted longer with both fighters evenly matched and in these matches the crowd really got into it, cheering and shouting and getting quite excited (for Japanese standards at least!) <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5372299616/" title="DSCF0603 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5085/5372299616_831f317d51.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="DSCF0603" /></a><br /><br />My favourite part was when the wrestlers were grappling at the edge of the ring and got a bit unsteady. The judges and crowd sit really closely, so there is always a moment when the wrestlers are unbalanced and seem about to fall, when the crowd and judges quickly scatter out of the way! Even better though is when one guy seems certain to lose, but somehow manages to turn the tables and hang in there. These are the most exciting matches of all.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5372299570/" title="DSCF0597 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5008/5372299570_8af668229e.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="DSCF0597" /></a><br /><br />Later in the day, the professional guys in the top two divisions fought and there was a service to hire a radio to listen to English language commentary. Well I have to say that I've never been so entertained as when listening to an Australian man called Gary rambling into the microphone. Gary reeled off endless statistics, talked about the different fighters, their strengths and weaknesses and explained some of the technical terms of the sport. It certainly helped me to understand what was going on. Thanks Gary!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34501582@N05/5371694537/" title="DSCF0611 by cabbagetrousers, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5286/5371694537_1d96a68470.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="DSCF0611" /></a><br /><br />The most famous wrestler at the moment is the Mongonlian, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hakuh%C5%8D_Sh%C5%8D">Hakuho</a>. He had a 9-0 record in this tournament and quickly dispatched his opponent.<br /><br />It was really great to get the chance to watch sumo and I'd certainly recommend it for anyone who visits Japan.Phillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138633738728309340noreply@blogger.com0