The shoreline of Barcelona, Spain could not possibly have been any more different from the sandy barrier islands of Faro. Long strips of tourist-friendly beaches ran along the entire coast of the city breaking only for the mouth of the El Llobregat River and the Port de Barcelona where our ship was headed to dock. It was immediately clear what a massive consumerist hub this place was. Our ship was not even the only cruise ship currently docked, and it was not nearly the largest. Jet trails criss-crossed in the clear blue sky, scratching their white claw marks across the firmament. A large green hillside rose up before us, obstructing the bulk of the city from view, but I knew that on the other side of that hill was a vast metropolis teeming with life. It was all a little overwhelming for a small-town boy like me. The boat slid smoothly up to the dock and was quickly and expertly moored by the practiced dock hands. In no time at all we were ready to disembark, and I made my way towards the ramp and my first steps onto Spanish soil.

I had nearly made it to the ramp when I suddenly found a short little man with a hunched posture and a receding hairline standing in my path. He flashed a toothy smile at me, not nearly so flawless as Vincente’s but every bit as emphatic, and held out his hand to greet me.

“Hello, you must be Bryson Daley, correct? My name is Elias Bradshaw and I’m in charge of the film team,” the little man spoke like a salesman, I recognized the tone immediately from years of personal experience. This was a man who wanted something, and I doubted I would like whatever it might be.

“Pleasure to meet you, Elias,” I said, activating my own salesman voice. Two could play at this game. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Indeed there is, as a matter of fact,” Elias confirmed, “You see, part of what we’re doing to drum up interest for the viewing public is following key players around and filming them as they explore the various exotic locations along the way. The majority of our viewership is American, and it gives them an opportunity to vicariously explore Europe with their favorite poker stars.”

“Interesting,” I said, “and how does this relate back to poker?”

“Admittedly it doesn’t,” Elias told me, “but in recent years the viewership for poker events has been falling off, and this is something we’re trying to rectify by taking imaginative new steps to regain the public interest. People love celebrities, you see, and if we start to treat poker champions as celebrities in their own right It should hopefully bring in a whole new demographic to the viewing audience.”

So that was it. When Nikita had said that this was reality television rather than a poker tournament he had been more right than I had realized. The cruise, the locations, the ridiculous buy-in, all of these things it would seem were part of some corporate ploy to renew interest in poker for the ad revenue. I had to admit, it was actually pretty smart. It was a marriage of sports coverage and travel shows in a way that I hadn’t even considered. It seemed like the kind of thing that just might work.

“So where do I come into this? I’m hardly a key player,” I pointed out, although I had a sinking feeling that I already knew the reason.

“But that’s why you’re so perfect!” Elias exclaimed, “Everybody loves an underdog, and you’re the precise kind of person who can appeal to the common man. People love to follow celebrities, but they also love to root for the little guy. It gives them somebody they can identify with and relate to.”

“So then I assume you’re proposing to follow me around Barcelona with a bunch of cameras and film everything I do?” I asked him.

“Think of it as ‘documentation’,” Elias tried to soften the idea for me, “we want to document your journey, just like you might do on home video with family members, but in this case you’ll have an adoring public watching and enjoying the journey with you.”

“I’d say ‘adoring public’ is a bit of a stretch,” I broke with my salesman voice, bristling at Elias’s obvious manipulation. “Wasn’t it you folks who gave me that derogatory little nickname the ‘king of hearts’? It seems more likely to me that you want to squeeze a bit more mileage out of a joke at my expense.”

“I’m not in charge of what narratives the production team comes up with,” Elias dismissed the charge with a wave of his hand, “but the feedback we’ve been getting has been that there are a large contingent of the viewing public that’s rooting for you. After all, there are a lot of people out there who wish they had the courage to do what you’re doing. You’re a hero to some of these people for your bravery and willingness to risk whatever it takes to find love!”

I looked at Elias suspiciously. Was what he was saying true? Or was he just trying to butter me up? All I had seen so far were people mocking me for my screw-ups, but then again I was on a boat with nobody but opponents and successful people. Who knew what the average joes thought of the idea of one of their own breaking into this exciting, alien world? Maybe what this man was saying was true. Still, I knew full well that even if I did have a base of support there would also be another contingent of people who would want nothing more than to laugh at me for my bumbling mistakes. I wasn’t really interested in being a dancing monkey for the sake of ratings.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to decline,” I told him, “I don’t much like being on camera.”

“Ah, well you see… that’s the thing.” Elias said, “You already signed a waiver allowing us to film you whenever we want for the duration of your time in this tournament. I’m not here to ask you, I’m simply here to inform you.”

I gulped. I remembered having to sign a few television-related documents when I had signed up for the tournament. I had assumed they were simply so that I could be filmed during play, but I hadn’t read them especially closely. I had been in a hurry to buy my entry and get out of the way since Nikita had been standing right behind me at the time, and the last thing I had wanted was to make the big Russian impatient. It would seem that I had inadvertently signed my right to privacy away in the process. Elias handed me a copy of the document to show me what was in it, and sure enough I had agreed to be filmed just about anywhere at any time for as long as I was still participating in the tournament, with only a few exceptions like when I was in my own room. I felt like a complete moron.

“Fine,” I sighed, “I guess you’ve got me dead to rights.”

“Naturally,” Elias replied, clapping his hands. At the sound of this, three men walked out of an adjoining hallway and up to us. One of them was holding a camera, another carrying cases of what I guessed must be sound equipment, and the third appeared to be in charge of the other two.

“These fine gentlemen will be coming with you on your exploration of Barcelona.” Elias explained, “This man up front is Rick, the guy with the camera is Stefan, and the man with the black carrying cases is Gerald. I hope all of you get along! I’ll be looking forward to watching your Mediterranean adventures!”

With that, Elias turned and walked away, leaving me feeling completely flustered and confused. Was I just supposed to let these men trail me? Was there some other requirement? I wasn’t sure. I tried turning to greet the men, giving them a wave, but all three of them returned only simple, shallow nods. I got the sense that they were strong, silent types. All three of them. What were the odds? I sighed again, and made my way towards the ramp. They fell in wordlessly behind me, tailing me like shadows. I was more than a little disconcerting. I made my way down to ramp and onto the dock, a crowd of players around me. I noticed that some of the big names had camera crews following them around just like I did. I saw Danni standing on the dock with a crew of her own, and I noticed Alva and Vincente walking away in the direction of the city, hand in hand, with a crew following them. The eyes of the other players, however, were not on these big names that were being filmed. I felt dozens of pairs of eyes on me, heard the now-familiar snickers and jeers. The others were merely famous people who these poker veterans were very familiar with. I was a sideshow freak. It was a miserable feeling.

Most of the crowd seemed to be standing around, waiting for people to group up with them or trying to figure out what their first location to explore should be. I myself simply made my way down the dock. I was feeling a bit hungry, and I decided that once I got to the shore proper I should simply pick a direction and keep going until I found a restaurant that looked like it was worth eating at. I felt the uncomfortable presence of the three men behind me, still not speaking a word. I didn’t even know if they were filming or not, and I wasn’t interested in turning around to check. I found a shuttle to take me across the bridge that conjoined the dock and the mainland, and the three men climbed on board with me. I had to turn around when taking my seat and was able to confirm that they had already started filming me. I said nothing, not wanting to give them any material interesting enough to put on the air. They said nothing right back. The short duration of the shuttle ride was one of the most awkward experiences of my life, simply sitting in silence with a camera pointed at my face while trying not to look or show any kind of emotion. How had I ended up being the guy to have three moving statues following him around? I was sure there was no way the other crews could be this weird.

The streets of Barcelona were strange to my American eyes. The main roads looked normal enough, but in the spaces between buildings there were alleyways paved with brick that led to business fronts and other things that I wouldn’t expect to find down these sorts of pedestrian-only locations in America. I mainly associated alleys with weird smells and muggers, but here they were lively and seemed to be a bustling part of life in the city. I meandered around these for a while, dragging my silent pursuers along with me until I found a place that looked like it served seafood. I walked inside and got myself a seat. No sooner had I entered than Rick, who evidently spoke Spanish, found the owner and began to converse with him. My own Spanish was far too rudimentary to understand what was being said, but it got briefly heated, and then I was fairly sure I saw some bills exchange hands, and finally the crew gathered around me at the table and began to film me. I ordered some paella, a dish made with fish, shellfish, and rice, and when it arrived I hungrily took my first bite.

“So, how does the food of barcelona taste?”

I nearly jumped out of my chair. Rick, whose voice I had not yet heard speak in the English language, was suddenly attempting to interview me out of nowhere. Stefan and Gerald kept sitting still and saying nothing, one pointing the camera at me and one holding a boom mike that he had assembled from the case he had been carrying over my head. It was almost more disconcerting than when none of them had been saying anything at all.

“It’s really good,” I answered him, trying to force a smile onto my face. That’s a uh… that’s a good mussel right there!”

“What are your first impressions of Spain?”

“Well, it’s a lot different from America I guess. It seems pretty cool so far. I haven’t really seen that much yet.” I floundered.

“So, as we all know, you came to the Mediterranean Ultimate High Roller in order to pursue a relationship with a woman who most people believe to be Alva Lorensen,” Rick suddenly shifted gears, perhaps erroneously believing he had lured me into a false sense of security, “would you care to confirm these rumors?”

I slowly inserted another bite of food into my mouth and chewed it before answering, looking at the trio through narrowed eyes. “Not really, and I don’t see why that’s important to you.”

“If you were to make a case to Vincente Alcon about why you’d be a better fit for Alva than he would, what would that case be?” Rick continued on as though I had given him confirmation.

“I’m not answering that.” I stated plainly. This whole situation was becoming more and more uncomfortable. I found myself wanting to bolt for the door, but I didn’t want to give the showrunners that kind of drama.

“What do you-”

“I’m trying to eat here. Let me finish my meal, then we can worry about answering questions,” I interrupted.

Rick looked at me for a moment like he wanted to insist, but decided to back down for now. I continued eating in silence, feeling the pressure of the camera rolling on me the whole time. Whatever was happening here, I had no doubt that the intentions were sinister. Having these guys around was already wearing on my psyche, and they seemed to be trying to get into my head and extract some kind of “gotcha” from me. Nothing good could come of them being here. As I ate, my mind whirled, trying to think of ways that I could escape at the soonest opportunity.