The casino is located across from Planten um Blamen park. When you pop up from the metro its vertical stature contrasts the green of the park. The outside is rather plain, except for overbearing columns and a touch of red.
Inside feels like the entrance to a hotel, coats checked to the left. Up the elevator you enter a sterile room: rough red carpet, parent’s basement (cheap attempt at extravagance) bar, people dressed in varying formality, a surprising lack of floozies, and equally spaced tables. A central hallway leads to the back where you can pick up chips from a bank cashier-style counter with two blonds sitting behind thick glass.
Most people are serious. One man, flat out of chips, throws down 500 Euros on the table with a grin. Consistently betting 150 Euros on 0, 7, and 36, he reminds me of a giant slug belching green 50 Euro pellets. He tells me he likes the color of my skirt, petting my hip, as if his overindulgence has bought him the right. Some people put down money and then, not even watching their play, run to another table as if luck has a dog whistle. Watching provides no excitement for jaded eyes.
The woman next to me is edged on by the staff, wanting to win for him as he repeats, “I know you will win this time, OK next time, next time.” On the way out, someone sees their lucky number win, “Oh, I knew I should have played one more time.” They think they can control luck despite the knowledge that odds are stacked against them.