The German Smorgasbord was worth it

Bea and I pushed our noses against the faux waterfall.

Electronic drops illuminated our cheeks with blue light.

"I have a good feeling we are going to leave here ruined," I said.

It was the lights and sounds that reminded me of Disneyland. Boops, beeps, and chimes... a conference hall of games themed with The Little Mermaid, Inca Adventures, and the Wild West.

The child in me perked up.

The ceiling was not a ceiling at all, but a volcanic wasteland tipped upside-down. Craters and pustules shone above the dings and blinking of the machines.

I was here to surf Bea's free tickets to the Canadian Open golf tourney at a brand new course 30 minutes outside the city. It came with a $10 voucher to the casino - the only attractive part of this whole idea.

The golf had been unexciting. We were the only spectators, and had no idea who anyone was, so after whispering for a while about our options, we decided to trail a set of golfers across a lawn that had the texture of renegade underarm hair - potentially comfortable in a bed of nails kind of way.

After giving my cheeks and hands a nice exfoliation on the green, I scampered to catch up with our herd.

They were literally beating around a bush for a lost ball.

Having never golfed myself, nor having much knowledge of the game, I delighted in the opportunity to help.

I spotted the white ball that was the key to my belonging in the herd and presented it to one of the golfers.

"Is this it?" I said, anticipating the yell to the other hunters that the hunt was over.
"No. If you see a golf ball DO NOT pick it up."
"Oh. Sorry. I... I..."

I put it back. Only golfers would think it fitting to replace a golf ball into the middle of a bush.

I discovered that whispering outside is not my forte. I felt like I had to take on the psyche of a gopher: forced to freeze in my tracks if a golfer was preparing to swing, lest I distract him.

"Are you as crazy as you look?" one of the golfers asked me, a father caddying for his son.

At least 15 reasons why golf is a ridiculous game jumped around inside my head.

"I guess so!"

The golfers took their shots, and my slow-reaction time meant I never followed the ball's flight path. I was too fixated on the golfers themselves. Who were these strange creatures? What was their agenda? I hoped none of them was out to change the world. Never do I want a golfer prophet to bring grace to the land.

"Tremble not! Thou shalt take thy caddy to thy birthplace and there will come a star that will lead you to the promised land of Astroturf and khakis!"

In this case, it led us to the casino.

The illumination from casino games is not flattering on anyone's face. Because the players sit on tall stools, the light beams up like a flashlight under the face, sketching dark rings under each eye, outlining the gravity lines from the nose to the bottom of the chin.

I felt no more at home here than I did on the golf course, and there were probably as many people staring at us. Bea and I ambled through the rows of games, and I read the titles out loud:

Uncle Jess's Shootout Galley! PollyPocket's Dollhouse Teaparty . . . A Squaw's Revenge . . . Wolf Hunt . . .

Each machine operated the same way -- you filled it with your bills and a button blinked inviting you to push it, triggering the wheel.

It required about as much skill as plugging a parking meter, and its payoff was about the same.

Bea and I decided to play $10. We each put our first $5 in a $1 slot machine.

I turned the crank. My stomach leapt! Lines from Percy Shelley mingled with the beeps and bops of the surrounding slot machines.

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes!

I lost, but giggled and squealed for effect.

Bea was winning. $1, $1.50, 30 cents . . . the more she won the quicker her hand slammed down on the blinking button.

I reached for the crank to try another hand.

"Why isn't it working?" I asked.

We both stared at it. An older man sitting next to Bea glanced at us uncomfortably.

"I think that's actually a $5 machine . . ." he said.

Ouuuuuu.

Well then.

I think I'm moving on.

Bea used up her $10 while I hummed and hawed over my next conquest.

Would it be Wolf Hunt or Lucky Larry's Lobster Mania?

The Lobster one looked more friendly than the machine with a growling wolf on it. It's hard to make starfish and lighthouses look foreboding.

This time I got luckier. I won 2 free turns, then 5, then 250!

250 turns times 5 cents . . .

I cashed out and looked at my money voucher: $13.80

Karma had redeemed me.

I promised Karma that I would name my next hamster after it, alongside a hamster called Irony, and walked out $4 richer.

Coming out ahead meant I had to celebrate with a 3-course meal and beer.

The joy of gambling probably put me in the hole -- and not in the golfing kind of way.

But as Shelley would say, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?