I remember Amsterdam as one the first really “different” cities that I toured on my European motorcycle adventure. It was 1972, I was 20, and I was riding a gorgeous Blue and White Triumph 650 that I had purchased just a week before in London.
England had been my first stop on the journey. There I at least knew a few souls. In London, Mary Parfitt (a longtime family friend) and her husband, David, hosted me to several dinners and pub crawls. A few days later, after having purchased the bike, I headed south and spent a few days visiting a number of High School chums that were now studying abroad at Arundel College. Again, more pub crawls. I enjoyed a drive up north in the countryside and then decided it was time to head out on my own.
The trip to Amsterdam took only two days, as I stopped for a night in Belgium. I was determined to get to Amsterdam as I had heard so many magical stories of the place. They were mostly true, actually.
No matter where one travels, however, it is the people who leave the greatest impressions on us. I found a cheap hotel in Amsterdam, locked up the bike, and headed out into the city. I was rather astounded at how many hippies were hanging around.
In a tiny bar not far from my hotel I was approached by another ex patriot for the States. He was a bit older, having served in the military before heading out “on the road.” I think his name was Mick.
Mick offered to buy me a beer and commenced telling me a tale of adventure in the art of “the con.” He was the first con man I ever met. He told me he needed a new partner and that if I played along with him that evening, we would be drinking and eating for free all night. All I had to do was let him walk into the next tavern down the street, and then wait 10 minutes before going there myself. He told me to then sit nearby, and when he called out into the crowd for someone who thought they could beat him at a card game, to quickly volunteer and step right up to him. He would do the rest, as long as I laid down a big bill on the table as my wager. “Don’t worry, dude,” he said, “I’ll give you that and far more back within 15 minutes.”
His affect was charming and I fell for the whole thing. He told me not to worry about how he would do it, just to act surprised. He then pulled a bar of soap out of his pocket, and drew something quite invisible on the back of my hand. No sooner had he done this than he walked out the door, turning only once to hold up 10 fingers and smile at me.
I finished my beer slowly. “What is this all about?” I asked myself. I decided to go find out.
Walking into the next door tavern, I noted Mick sitting at the bar yapping away with a number of other fellows. They seemed rather agitated. Mick was telling them that he could read their minds, and could prove it to them if they had any guts. I sat down at a table not far away.
Mick noted my presence, jumped up off the stool and screamed out: “Isn’t there anyone in this bar with enough testosterone to bet against me in a card game?”
I figured that this must be my cue. So I jumped up and strode right on over to him, slapped a fiver down on the bar and said, “I’ll take that bet buddy.”
Well, don’t you know, Mick knew how this would draw in the crowd. We were suddenly surrounded by onlookers, as Mick told me to pick any card out of the deck, study it, memorize it, and then put it back in the deck while he was turned away. I did as instructed, slowly for better effect (even showing the card to some of the onlookers). Mick shuffled the cards, flipped them around, squinted to great effect, held the deck to his head, pretended to be confused, and then pulled out the very card I had selected.
A great gasp engulfed us. Several men accused Mick of playing a cheap card trick. [Which of course he had.] But Mick, now ready to make the night’s real killing, stood again. I suddenly realized that Mick, if that was his real name, had probably played this same charade at a thousand different bars around the world.
He puffed out his chest, and proclaimed with the self-assured air of a neo-Napoleon: “Not only am I not a cheap card trick artist, I bet every one of you a fiver, double or nothing, that I can not only figure out this fellow’s next card pull, but also make the card appear by magic on the back of his hand. Oh, the bills started flying onto the bar.
Mick shuffled the deck (which apparently he had already switched to a special one while everyone else was paying more attention to grousing), and had me do another pick. I pulled out the Jack of Diamonds, studied it, and then slowly put it back in the deck. Frankly, I was still unclear on how Mick intended to pull off this new stunt.
Mick then played around with the deck, held it to his head, grimaced as if trying to remember something really important, and put the deck into his shirt pocket, just above his heart. “I need a little help here,” he whispered. The crowd grew anxious. Several men threw down more money, demanding to increase the bet against Mick. He “reluctantly” accepted.
He then asked one of the men to stub out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “I need the ashes,” he pleaded. More money flew into the pot. My eyes were growing larger, as I saw a lot of money next to me, and yet still had no idea what the hell was about to happen. I peaked to be sure I knew where the door was – just in case something went wrong.
Mick started fondling the ashes. Then, without saying a thing, he grabbed my hand, the one he had drawn on earlier in the evening. He rubbed the ashes onto me, and there, incredibly, appeared a big Letter J and a nearly perfectly shaped Diamond.
Mick stood, slowly showed everyone my hand, and said, “Good night gentlemen, your money is mine.” He took the cash and walked out the door. I sat there thinking that I better not follow him right away.
“How the hell did he do that?” I was asked. All I could say is “I wish I knew.” A minute later I slipped out into the street and started walking back toward my hotel. I hadn’t made it a block when I heard Mick’s voice. “Hey hippie,” he called out, “let’s have a beer down the street. I owe you some money.”
Sadly, like most con men, Mick never knew when to quit. A couple of nights later he tried the same stunt at another tavern. Someone recognized him, and we ran out leaving all the money on the bar. I never did see Mick again. I left the next morning for Germany. It was getting cold, and I wanted to make the end of Oktoberfest in Munchen.
England had been my first stop on the journey. There I at least knew a few souls. In London, Mary Parfitt (a longtime family friend) and her husband, David, hosted me to several dinners and pub crawls. A few days later, after having purchased the bike, I headed south and spent a few days visiting a number of High School chums that were now studying abroad at Arundel College. Again, more pub crawls. I enjoyed a drive up north in the countryside and then decided it was time to head out on my own.
The trip to Amsterdam took only two days, as I stopped for a night in Belgium. I was determined to get to Amsterdam as I had heard so many magical stories of the place. They were mostly true, actually.
No matter where one travels, however, it is the people who leave the greatest impressions on us. I found a cheap hotel in Amsterdam, locked up the bike, and headed out into the city. I was rather astounded at how many hippies were hanging around.
In a tiny bar not far from my hotel I was approached by another ex patriot for the States. He was a bit older, having served in the military before heading out “on the road.” I think his name was Mick.
Mick offered to buy me a beer and commenced telling me a tale of adventure in the art of “the con.” He was the first con man I ever met. He told me he needed a new partner and that if I played along with him that evening, we would be drinking and eating for free all night. All I had to do was let him walk into the next tavern down the street, and then wait 10 minutes before going there myself. He told me to then sit nearby, and when he called out into the crowd for someone who thought they could beat him at a card game, to quickly volunteer and step right up to him. He would do the rest, as long as I laid down a big bill on the table as my wager. “Don’t worry, dude,” he said, “I’ll give you that and far more back within 15 minutes.”
His affect was charming and I fell for the whole thing. He told me not to worry about how he would do it, just to act surprised. He then pulled a bar of soap out of his pocket, and drew something quite invisible on the back of my hand. No sooner had he done this than he walked out the door, turning only once to hold up 10 fingers and smile at me.
I finished my beer slowly. “What is this all about?” I asked myself. I decided to go find out.
Walking into the next door tavern, I noted Mick sitting at the bar yapping away with a number of other fellows. They seemed rather agitated. Mick was telling them that he could read their minds, and could prove it to them if they had any guts. I sat down at a table not far away.
Mick noted my presence, jumped up off the stool and screamed out: “Isn’t there anyone in this bar with enough testosterone to bet against me in a card game?”
I figured that this must be my cue. So I jumped up and strode right on over to him, slapped a fiver down on the bar and said, “I’ll take that bet buddy.”
Well, don’t you know, Mick knew how this would draw in the crowd. We were suddenly surrounded by onlookers, as Mick told me to pick any card out of the deck, study it, memorize it, and then put it back in the deck while he was turned away. I did as instructed, slowly for better effect (even showing the card to some of the onlookers). Mick shuffled the cards, flipped them around, squinted to great effect, held the deck to his head, pretended to be confused, and then pulled out the very card I had selected.
A great gasp engulfed us. Several men accused Mick of playing a cheap card trick. [Which of course he had.] But Mick, now ready to make the night’s real killing, stood again. I suddenly realized that Mick, if that was his real name, had probably played this same charade at a thousand different bars around the world.
He puffed out his chest, and proclaimed with the self-assured air of a neo-Napoleon: “Not only am I not a cheap card trick artist, I bet every one of you a fiver, double or nothing, that I can not only figure out this fellow’s next card pull, but also make the card appear by magic on the back of his hand. Oh, the bills started flying onto the bar.
Mick shuffled the deck (which apparently he had already switched to a special one while everyone else was paying more attention to grousing), and had me do another pick. I pulled out the Jack of Diamonds, studied it, and then slowly put it back in the deck. Frankly, I was still unclear on how Mick intended to pull off this new stunt.
Mick then played around with the deck, held it to his head, grimaced as if trying to remember something really important, and put the deck into his shirt pocket, just above his heart. “I need a little help here,” he whispered. The crowd grew anxious. Several men threw down more money, demanding to increase the bet against Mick. He “reluctantly” accepted.
He then asked one of the men to stub out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “I need the ashes,” he pleaded. More money flew into the pot. My eyes were growing larger, as I saw a lot of money next to me, and yet still had no idea what the hell was about to happen. I peaked to be sure I knew where the door was – just in case something went wrong.
Mick started fondling the ashes. Then, without saying a thing, he grabbed my hand, the one he had drawn on earlier in the evening. He rubbed the ashes onto me, and there, incredibly, appeared a big Letter J and a nearly perfectly shaped Diamond.
Mick stood, slowly showed everyone my hand, and said, “Good night gentlemen, your money is mine.” He took the cash and walked out the door. I sat there thinking that I better not follow him right away.
“How the hell did he do that?” I was asked. All I could say is “I wish I knew.” A minute later I slipped out into the street and started walking back toward my hotel. I hadn’t made it a block when I heard Mick’s voice. “Hey hippie,” he called out, “let’s have a beer down the street. I owe you some money.”
Sadly, like most con men, Mick never knew when to quit. A couple of nights later he tried the same stunt at another tavern. Someone recognized him, and we ran out leaving all the money on the bar. I never did see Mick again. I left the next morning for Germany. It was getting cold, and I wanted to make the end of Oktoberfest in Munchen.
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