December 08, 2004
We remained at our table for another 15 minutes to contemplate the meeting with Jacco Swart. John was brimming with pride and ready to keep his promise of showing me the glories of Black Jack by taking me back down to the water where the Holland Casino was located. I ran up to my room, grabbed our passports and met him back down in the nearly empty lobby. The employees that remained in the cafe overheard our plans and kindly handed us a pair of passes which would waive the entry fee at the Casino and heartily wished us luck. At 10:30 p.m., we were off to the tables.
Unless you count a few Tic Tac Toe scratch off tickets and two or three Powerballs, I have never gambled. Despite my week's stay in Vegas last year, where I dropped not even quarter toward this obsession, I was a novice and extremely nervous. We floated up the red carpeted stairs onto the main floor where the gambling tables resided and strolled through the variety of games. The usual slot machines lined the outer edge of the entire place until you came to the far back wall where the bar broke up the rhythmic 'chink' of change. We looked on over the shoulders of the players at the five Euro Black Jack tables and waited for an opening, but the people only crowded in closer and promised to keep to their sedentary positions. John went to get some chips and I watched a young pregnant woman place her bets behind those that were already playing. I watched the quick movements of their hands, signaling 'stay' or 'hit me' to the dealer. We ordered a couple of drinks and John once again displayed the proper gestures I should make if I were to land a spot at one of these tables. I tapped my fingers twice on the bar to show him my 'hit me' move and waved my hand over my drink to display my decision to 'stay.'
"Very good, Laura!"
"Yeah, now if only I had the balls to actually use this knowledge in battle."
He tried to coax me onto several of the tables, but I declined with a firm desire to simply watch him play instead. He sat at the 20 Euro tables, building up and losing chips as I carefully watched on. It wasn't long before he made the utterly bold move of setting himself down in the corner of the 50 Euro Black Jack table in back and I leaned over his shoulder to take it all in. The game moved so quickly and my wide eyes darted from one player to the dealer and back to John with aching interest. After a couple of hands, John resigned his position and took out his credit card. He was going to get more money and I took a break to sit at the bar where I met a nice gentleman server who, not long ago, held his residence in Paris. I perked up instantly to glow over this topic I so candidly adored and we spoke of the beauty of my experiences and of his love for his homeland. I grinned from ear to ear at his ability to speak perfect Dutch, French, English and Spanish and thus we communicated in as many languages as possible.
"Como esta?"
"Muy bien, Y tu? Como te llamas?"
"Bien, merci! Je m'appelle Laura et voici misseur John."
"Enchante!"
"The only Dutch word I know is 'dag.'"
"Ahhh, oui, Mademoiselle! That means 'hello.'"
"And thus we would be starting all over again..."
"Well, yeah, but that was great fun!"
John suddenly handed me 500 Euro worth of chips and I practically had a heart attack before shakily placing them inside my zippered pocket. I tried to quit this responsibility of holding onto all of these chips, but he merely declined with the faith that I would keep them safe. He instructed me to sit down at the 20 Euro Black Jack table and, finally, I obeyed his command. I was playing Black Jack! At first, I was simply betting on another's hand and I gave John the bulk of his chips as he would gingerly hand me another whenever needed. I made little progress. I found myself cupping my chin with one hand and actually flipping the two chips I had won between my fingers in the other hand - just as I had seen on Poker Tournaments on TV. I hardly moved, but for my eyes darting back and forth and my hands lightly signaling my next card. My heart pounded and I was in absolute anxiety, spending John's chips as though they were part of some friendly game with Monopoly money. I worried over the table as John took a seat a few persons down and we played and played until the 500 Euros were spent and resumed our positions at the bar. I laughed and mused over this new experience and John stoked the fires of my gaiety by exclaiming that I had done really well for my first time.
I was stunned over the entirety of the evening that seemed to simply fly by and we decided to head back to our hotel to get some rest before our departure in the morning. As we made our way back, I stated that I was a bit upset at our inability to come out on top and that I had nothing to show for beginners luck, but John handed me a 10 Euro chip to keep as memorabilia. We arrived at the Hotel Atlanta in good spirits and John walked me to my room. We stood there for a moment, staring at the time, disbelieving that so many hours had flown by - it was nearly 4:00 a.m. and we had to make a train to Amsterdam in only three hours. I set the alarm clock next to my bed and we said good night before retiring.
11-29-04
I woke up with a jolt and quickly began to take a shower with the alarm clock sounding off in the back ground. I was still fairly buzzed and quite tired before I poked my head out of the shower curtain to inquire of the time. I nearly slipped on the wet bathroom tiles as I noted the red numbers on the clock blaring 9:00 a.m.! I jumped out of the shower and hastily threw on some clothes when John knocked on my door. He stood there, still in his bed clothes and smoking a cigarette.
"What time is it?"
"It's freaking 9:00 a.m."
"What?!"
"Hurry up, maybe we can still make it!"
John ran back up to his room to gather his things and I ran down to the lobby in order to check out. I paid for a small bill, which I assumed was my lunch from the day before, and mentioned to the man behind the desk that we were in a hurry and asked him to call us a cab. He was directly on the phone and I paced back and forth by the door waiting for John. He scrambled downstairs and we were barely outside when a short, plump woman came running after us, screaming something about a bill and we hurried back in. I thought I had already checked out but apparently all that she had charged me for was the lunch, not all the drinks that were consumed during our meeting with Jacco Swart. I apologized to John and John exclaimed to the plump woman that she did not have to raise her voice so and that we were running late. Everyone, by then, was in a terrible huff. Once again, we dashed outside and I stated that I had called a cab which was approaching as I spoke. We threw our bags into the trunk, begged the cab driver to make haste to the train station and split the fog that hung low over the morning streets.
We slowly rounded a corner filled with a maze of unoccupied kiosks and clothing stands just as a man on a large scooter rounded the corner in the opposite direction. The man on the scooter suddenly swerved to avoid our oncoming path and, in one quick motion, low sided onto the ground before we knew what had happened. The cab driver stopped, got out of the vehicle and helped the man and the machine to regain their upright positions. The man with the scooter cursed and pointed and I let my head fall with a 'thud' against the cold taxi window as we watched on, wondering what more could go wrong. John stated that we might just make it and I glanced at the clock in the front of the cab with sinking dismay.
15 minutes later, we tore out of the cab and ran into the train station to the appropriate platform and waited impatiently for our next mode of transportation. Our plane would be leaving at 10:55 a.m. and it was 10:45 a.m. by the time the train stopped at its second location - we would not make it and I knew it. We arrived in Amsterdam's Schiphol airport with mere minutes between us and the plane's departure and thus ran to the screens to find the corresponding gate of our flight. It was nowhere to be seen on the list. We scattered about the airport, looking for our flight, before we stopped to face each other with drooping shoulders.
"Well, Laura, I've never missed a flight before and I always wanted to see what it's like," John teased, trying to make light of the situation.
"S'pose it's just like this..." I retorted with a half grin.
We were instructed to take a number and wait in line at the International Ticket Booth. The line was long and we found a couple of empty seats in which we sighed at each passing number that was not our own. Finally, our turn came and we explained our situation to the not so friendly woman behind the desk. We told her that we missed the plane by perhaps five minutes and she leaned forward, without the slightest drop of sympathy, and succinctly stated that we were supposed to be here three hours before our flight was set to depart, not five minutes. John and I looked at her for a long while without a word and she looked back at us with same dreadful silence. John broke up the staring game by finally replying,
"We understand that, but we missed our flight anyway and would like to know what we can do now."
The woman tapped away at her computer for several minutes, while I draped my arms over the counter, and found a flight that was to depart later that day at 4:00 p.m. though it already had a long waiting list. She set us up for the possibility of finding a seat on that flight and, if that failed, booked us for a flight that would leave in exactly 24 hours. I paid the two hundred extra dollars per ticket with my credit card, thanked her for her time and we wandered back toward the main area of the airport. We were certainly not in the highest of spirits, but neither John nor myself allowed the situation to get the best of us. I apologized to John as we walked, regretting that I had not heard the alarm clock sooner, and he explained that it was also his fault for not making an attempt to be ready on time - we were equally to blame. It had happened, it was done and there was nothing we could do to turn back the hands of time.
John suggested that we adjourn to the outside air and smoke a cigarette to deliberate over our next move. I desperately wanted to call my parents but realized that it was only 4:00 a.m. back in the States (as they say in Europe) and John suggested that I wait until after we had grabbed a bite to eat anyway. I slumped my bags onto a stone bench and sat in torpid silence for the duration of our two cigarettes. John did a wonderful job at raising my spirits and soon my appetite was in full throttle as he instructed me to wait while he disappeared into the airport's grocery store to acquire our lunch. He returned with a long loaf of French bread, a container of cheese and six slices of ham. He held the bread open while I piled on the goodies and there we sat, munching our dry, yet tasty lunch, watching the variety of people make their way to or from the airport behind us.