Holland Schiphol Airport Casino Amsterdam - Full Details

That reminds me of a story.
I was out flying around the globe again, pursuing that fine filthy lucre. From the Middle East to Amsterdam then on to Moscow. Just another day in the life…
Arrived in Moscow and spent a few days being run from pillar to post looking over a certain large oil company’s assets trying to determine if it was a lost cause or if something could be salvaged from the wreckage they presented.
This was admittedly a while back, and the situation has improved greatly. I’d like to think I had a little something to do with the recovery and remediation there.
It yielded a healthy supply of contractual work as well as some fairly lucrative contracts.
Back and forth to Russia, on a fairly continual 28/28 basis. 28 days in-country, 28 days at home; rise, rinse, repeat. Often, on days off, I’d take short term contracts in the Far East on the way back, as long as I was out and about. Not only did I fly the same airlines every time, but the same flights over and again, at the same time, same airports, etc.
Suffice to say, I got to know certain flight crews, airport folks, hotel managers, and taxi drivers quite well. I was on contract door-to-door, so everything I did was compensated from the time I left my humble home until I returned. It turned me into a very good tipper; as you can get more with a kind word and $US50 than with just a kind word.
After two years of this global rebound, I am well known in every bar, pub, gin-mill and tavern from Malta to Macau to Moscow. I had also struck up friendships with many barkeeps in the airport bars along the various flight paths.
I left Moscow one bright, sunny spring day to only have the weather turn into an absolute shitstorm by the time we hit Amsterdam. It was a grim landing, but being the seasoned world traveler, I took it all in stride. If flying Aeroflot from 1987 to 1995 hadn’t killed me, I was feeling well-nigh bulletproof.
Amsterdam was in a state of ultimate chaos. I had connecting flights but knew there was no way I’d be making any of them due to the inclement weather. My bags were already checked through to my destination, so all I had was my small carry-on with the absolute essentials for survival: my two emergency flasks, box of cigars, spare lighters, beef jerky, and iPods. With that, I could hold out almost indefinitely, as long as the airport lounges remained open.
Knowing Schiphol Airport rather well, I decided to just wait out the storms, not even bothering to try and book a suite at the adjacent Hyatt Hotel. There were still flights arriving, but none going out.
It was becoming more and more a madhouse, populated with less-than-frequent flyers who we having a collective meltdown about missing their flights.
“Force Majeure, baby!” I said, tipping my tumbler towards the thundery tumult.
I decided to secure a comfortable post up on Mahogany Ridge and settle in for a long wait. I was in one of the ubiquitous geodesic drink emporia Schiphol had at the time. I was enjoying a good cigar, a cold draft Oranjeboom, and 100 ml of Russkaya on a fairly regular basis.
After a short while, a band of younger nondescript European travelers showed up and commandeered the table right behind me. It was impossible not to overhear the wailing, whining, and kvetching about the weather and how it had the temerity to disrupt their travel plans.
“Well,” I mused, “That happens. Best not to get your panties in a bunch and just try to make the best of a weird situation.”
But they were having none of that.
Sob, moan, bitch. One would think the weather was being cantankerous just to inconvenience them personally. Sorry, snowflakes, but we’re all in this together.
I ordered another round and sat back trying to decipher the Russian newspaper I liberated from Sheremetyevo International Airport earlier that morning.
For some odd reason, I became a person of interest to these whiny Europeans. Could have been the field boots, my Oilwell Firefighting jacket, Cyrillic newspaper, or the double corona cigars, I was under the cynosure of these characters from that point onward.
I ordered another round and one of the band of whiners came up and began grilling me about all manner of air travel minutiae. They mentioned I was one of the few people around not collectively losing his shit about missed connections.
“Yeah”, I replied after a healthy draught of Russkaya, “The more you travel and the older you get, the more you tolerate things that are completely out of your control.”
“OK, sure”, he replies, “But we’re going to miss our connecting flights…sob, boo hoo…”
“So?” I retort, “It’s not like your destination is going anywhere. It’ll still be there later when you do arrive all safe and sound.”
This wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
“Maybe”, he snorts back, “But we can’t just sit around the bar waiting…”
“Why not?” I ask, “Not a whole else left to do once you get enough of the airport casino. Besides, sitting and relaxing here has always worked for me. Less stress. Chill a bit, you’ll live longer.”
He harrumphs and returns to his like-minded troop of twarves.
Evidently, they saw some wisdom in my words. Every time I ordered a round of drinks, they did the same.
This was a patently bad idea.
Somehow, my advice to them was twisted and transmogrified into some sort of challenge.
One they were destined to lose.
It was like a tractor pull competition between a D10 Caterpillar dozer and a 1969 Volkswagen.
I know my limits. I’ve never met them, but I do know they exist. I also know to drink loads of water and eat something now and again during an extended delay. Besides that, being a geologist and therefore one of the planet’s few ethanol-fueled carbon-based lifeforms, hailing from Baja Canada, and one who’s spent years and years working in Russia, I was the original triple-threat. The cards were definitely not stacked in their favor.
I didn’t ask for any sort of competition, nor would I shy from one when the gauntlet is thrown down. I even went so far as to offer to buy a round or two for them when they fell behind.
I kept an eye on the departure board and noticed, some hours later, that flights were beginning to leave once again. More surprising, my flight was about to start boarding in an hour or so. Even more surprising, is that the Eurowhiners were taking the same flight.
Well, 45 minutes to go. Time for a final round.
I hear my flight being called, so I settle my tab, tip the nice bartender for all her attention, and wander off toward my flight. I stopped by the Euro table and mentioned our flight was being called, and they might want to rouse the two or three snorers as time was growing short.
I move with great deliberation. I never run, even at gunpoint. Some might even say I move somewhat slowly. Perhaps, but always with grim determination and fixity of purpose.
I was soon overtaken by the group of Europeans from the bar, and they’re tripping, sliding, and being generally annoying; perhaps due to their heroic intake of cocktails back at geodesic ground zero.
I arrive behind them and have my passport, boarding card, and ticket stub ready to present.
They did not and were making a rather noisy spectacle of having to find their pertinent papers.
I just wait and wait quietly. I fly business and know my seat will still be there no matter what. They were flying coach and being generally as raucous and disagreeable as a noisy group could muster.
They finally get aboard after a lot of bad noise, and I greet Rachel, the airline ticket-taker.
“Hello, Dr. Rock.” She greets me, “Usual seat?”
“Oh, yes. Finally. Some weather you all have here.” I comment.
“It’s been a fun 48 hours”, she relates.
I stow my gear above seat 4A in Business and settle back for the long haul flight.
I am offered, and accept, a pre-flight Vodka and Bitter Lemon; in fact, I didn’t even need to ask. Jennifer of the cabin crew recognized me. I had given her a Russian watch for her husband some rotations back and she was always appreciative.
So, we’re waiting on the last of the plane’s stragglers when a regular hullaballoo breaks out in the rear of the plane. Evidently some people were all drunk and disorderly and were now being shuttled off the aircraft.
It was my comrades from the geodesic bar. Evidently, they were a bit over the limit for the carrier and being noisy, disruptive, and generally assholes. They were asked, rather unceremoniously, to deplane.
As they were being ushered off the aircraft, they stumble through Business Class and glimpse me sitting in 4A with a healthy cocktail in my hand.
“Why are you throwing us off the plane? He’s” as they point unsteadily at me, “had more to drink than us.”
“Quite possible”, I said, “But I’m not the ones who insisted on keeping up with my progress.
Jennifer looks at the snozzled Eurotypes.
“You tried to go one and one up against Dr. Rock? My God! Let me call the ambulance for you immediately!” she said with mock alarm.
Once they were ejected from the plane and the door secured, Jennifer asked if I’d like a taxiing drink.
“Oh, yes.” I said, “This time, a double please.”