mon jeu avec les oiseaux

Feeling satisfied about what I'd seen and done in Paris, I had no idea what to do last night... until I got on the Metro to come back from the Louvre. Two British guys behind me were arguing in English about the Metro map, and out of nowhere one of them said "man, I can't wait to play poker tonight!" (It was actually a very bizarre non-sequitur.) I'd completely forgotten there are poker clubs here, but it now seemed worth a look. Despite not having played since March and not having any cash, it was starting to sound like a good idea.

I went to the trusty Internet café and found some names and places. All of the "famous" clubs feature strict dress codes, which basically means you can't wear sneakers. Unfortunately for me, I only brought one pair of shoes - sneakers. (I've spent half of my trip walking, so I defend the decision!)

Undeterred, I hit up the ATM and headed for the first two clubs, conveniently located on the Champs-Elysses. As expected, I at each club I was turned away by the "bouncer".

Now if there's any place in the world to buy a pair of shoes, it's probably on the Champs-Elysses. I half-seriously window-shopped for a bit, but was discouraged at each store by the prices (I think the lowest pair of men's non-sneakers I found was on sale for 99 euro) or the "fermé" signs (it was 8pm).

I hopped back on the Metro and headed to the dress-code-free club, le Cercle Concorde. A bouncer guarded the door here too, but he barely gave me a second glance. (Still, the atmosphere was upscale and a bit intimidating to our sneaker-clad hero.)

Still, I almost left. At the entrance to the cardroom, the staff demanded to keep my passport in a box for "information". (They didn't speak any English, so there might have been a connotation I didn't understand.) Weighing my options, I couldn't decide whether it was worth it to separate myself from the one piece of paper that assures my return to the States. I did a MacGyver-esque scan of the room, though, and found a photocopier that looked a lot like a doorstop. I pointed. "What about that?" While the female staff member insisted to me that it didn't work and never had, the male staff member photocopied my passport and handed the original back to me. Jackpot.

As I entered the room, I understood why the room was described online as "very smoky". Ventilation was at a minimum, and the few light sources in the dim room illuminated dense columns of smoke up to the ceiling. In the States, smoking isn't allowed where poker is played, but that's not the case in France.

I was instantly seated at a table. Despite the language and culture difference, the players and the table dynamic seemed exactly the same as at a low stakes game at Turning Stone. There were a few young tight players, a couple of guys in their thirties with iPods, and some relaxed older gentlemen who didn't say too much. I was seated next to two players my own age, who I later discovered were both named Anthony.

The blinds were 2€/4€, with a 100€ "suggested" buy-in. (Yes, a ridiculous structure, especially when you consider what seemed to be an uncapped 5%/pot rake.) The average stack seemed to be about 150€ when I sat down. I'll save the poker hands for later (probably another post, I can only stay inside here in small doses), so stay tuned if you're interested.

As one would expect, the game was conducted entirely in French. Fortunately, there aren't too many things you need to say during a poker game except numbers, so I did fine with that. A few of the players taught me French poker slang: all-in is "tapis", or coloquially "boite" (which means "box"). Clubs are "trèfles"; when I learned this word one of the Anthonys told me that my French accent sounded German. And of course, bad players - "fish" in the states - are birds: les oiseaux.

Always the talkative one, I tried to liven up the previously-quiet table, with success. Unfortunately, though I can form sentences in French pretty well, I'm not nearly as good at understanding what people are saying in response; it's sometimes hard to pick out the words amid the accent. The Anthonys knew English and would speak to me a little more slowly, so we talked for quite some time switching every few minutes between French and English. They were the first Parisians I really conversed with on the trip (aside from short business transactions or questions on the street), and it was a nice break from the relative solitude of traveling alone. We went through a lot of the typical questions that foreigners have of each other; the funniest was when one Anthony asked about Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones and I countered with MC Solaar. What a poor state of affairs, they said, when all an American knows of French music is MC Solaar!

Most of the players at the table would joke with me in English slang if we were in a hand together; I taught an older man the phrase "you're goin' down", which he used every time we played a pot. It was nice to feel somewhat integrated in a card game with the locals, and it certainly helped me understand the Parisian accent and get better with the language.

This is the part where I get sick of writing, so I'll be brief: I left the club at 4:45am, an hour before the metro opens. I walked home through the red-light district, and saw a bunch of prostitutes. I bought a pastry. I woke up the owner of my hotel, he let me in, and I passed out on my bed.