The flight is long — six hours, and we can expect turbulence once we approach the Rockies. There are many people on the plane who are traveling in larger groups, all on their way to a convention. I spoke to one woman and she said it is not a big one, so the footprint of such a gathering will not be as large as the toy or electronice conventions to which upwards of 130,000 people flock. Try, just try, to get a cab then.
The flight ended just in the nick of time; another 20 or 30 minutes and I would have started feeling extremely irritable. Towards the end of the flight, when we began our initial descent, I had the feeling of looking forward to having a cigarette. Yes, again; the old habits and their cues die hard. This albatross hangs about my neck like an albatr -- well, like something that hangs about your neck a lot. Should have thought that sentence out before writing it I guess.
At what point is it acceptable for a flight attendant to discuss crashes with a passenger? While hanging out near the galley, I mentioned the upcoming turbulence as we approached the Rockies (rising dramatically on their eastern side, the range presents challenges to westbound flights). Turbulence, said Ruth, is not really a problem for trained crew, but passengers often insist on moving about. She then told me about videos they watch as part of their training showing how dangerous it can be when you're not strapped in. Somehow we began talking about how if the plane goes down having your seat belt on will mean the difference between life and death. Was this inappropriate?
Landing safely (gulp), we grabbed our luggage, which can be a painfully time-consuming effort at the Las Vegas airport. We have stood there at times for 45 minutes, but this was a short 20 minute wait. Though it took another 30 minutes to get a cab, we were constantly on the move in those long snaking lines that you see at theme parks. We checked in, unpacked, and hit the street. Quite quickly I realized that it was going to be one of those trips to Las Vegas, the ones where I have a perpetual black cloud over my head. I do not feel that I am lucky in either sense. I do not have bad luck, really, no piling up of one catastrophe after another. Nor do I have good luck in arenas like gambling or the like; the cards never come my way, the dice always just a bit off. Yes, I have won some money on lottery tickets, and my life is hardly a travail, but when it comes to Las Vegas, forget it. Not being a highroller in any sense helps alleviate the gloom that settles in once you realize you are like William H. Macy in "The Cooler;" wherever I tread, good luck flies out the window.
With that said, it can be problematic trying to enjoy myself. What can be most irritating is that I never get the bonus spin, the fourth wheel multiplier, the pot o' gold. There are many inducements to the slot player, such as the possibilities listed above. Say you're at a Wheel of Fortune machine; playing the maximum amount of credits (three) will, should the "Spin" symbol come up on the third reel, allow you a spin of the big wheel above with anywhere from 20 to 1,000 credits as a bonus (on a quarter machine, this means from $5 to $250). How bad? I've probably spent about $80 on this game and have not once gotten the lusted-after "Spin" symbol. This can be irksome, and it is made even more so when those on either side of you are hitting it on seemingly every other spin. Yet another lesson learned: it's meant to be something you enjoy. I have to make every conceivable effort to remember this; it is not always easy, or possible for that matter.
Saturday the 21st was a day full of revisiting favorite haunts like the Barbary Coast (once the home of an incredibly loose Yahtzee game that we loved like a child), Casino Royale, the Venetian, the Aladdin, MGM Grand, Mandalay Bay, Luxor, and Excalibur. The Barbary Coast is a fun place, but often incredibly smokey. The ceilings are low and the whole place can be a little claustrophobic as machines and tables bump up against one another. The crowd is usually pretty young, made up of those who are not quite ready to start gaming at the big tables at Bellagio, the Venetian, and Caesar's. I like it a lot, especially the mountainous woman behind the Change booth who always wishes me good luck in the most incongruous baby doll voice imaginable. They could be a little more aggressive about picking up the place, but it is always a lot of fun.
The Mandalay Bay and Luxor Hotels, from off the Strip.
Casino Royale is another place that attracts a lower profile crowd. It is often packed and often rowdy, the result, no doubt, of offering $1 Michelob Genuine Draft in bottles. Let me get this straight: you pay me $1 to drink that stuff? No? Forget it then. Casino Royale is quite generous to its players, offering 100x Craps and single-deck Blackjack, though I am at a loss as to why these are beneficial to the gambler. The Venetian is really luxe, with high ceilings and effective smoke-clearing machinery. It always smells just a bit sweet in there, like someone is burning incense. Rich likes it there a lot; he has won occasionally as have I. It has about as much to do with Venice as the desk I'm sitting at, but it is truly a beautiful casino. It makes you feel adult and compels you to dress up a bit if you're heading there. The crowd is very California, with stunningly worked-on bodies on the women, and expensively worked-on hair for the guys. Unlike most casinos, this is a rather homogenous crowd. It is the home to many business travelers as well; between the two crowds it appears that everyone is on their mobile phones all the time.
Looking south on the Strip, from Tropicana Blvd.
After a break, we headed out for the evening, hitting the Aladdin first. The casino is a favorite of mine, chiefly because, to accentuate its Arabian nights theme, the pillars of this soaring-ceilinged casino are studded with plastic gem-like rocks the size of my fist. I find the effect really beautiful; kitschy, but beautiful. If groups of guys with narrowly tailored shirts, bed-head hairdos (ka-ching!), brilliant teeth, and carefully tended stubble on their uniformly attractive faces, then this is the place for you. Scenesters all. Perhaps it was because it was the home of this year's Miss America pageant (many were glued to the televisions around the casino, but I don't think they were gay) or because of the new nightclub. (Mist? Tryst? List? Something like that.)
Looking north on the Strip, from Tropicana Blvd.
The MGM Grand is a great casino that specializes in taking my money in small increments. It is a confusing place, with just about every sort of diversion on hand, including a lion habitat on the south side of the casino. When we first started coming to Las Vegas, the MGM played off its movie-making past, with blow-ups of Gable, Powell & Loy, Garland, Bogie, etc., adorning the walls. It has rid itself of these distractions, and has become a lot more sophisticated. To solidify this rebranding, they have gotten rid of Carrot Top and opened Studio 54, a reincarnation of the fabled club. While this might strike some (me) as being a last-gasp attempt at reinvigorating themselves, I guess it has worked as the club is hot, hot, hot. The caveat is that I have no earthly idea what constitutes hot. Or cool.
Rich at THE Hotel, obviously with a terrible headache.
The Mandalay Bay is a fun casino, and I usually have a little luck here, but not on Saturday night. By luck, I mean that I had no return on my $20. As you can see, I am hardly a whale. A bit of a piker, actually. I am not in Las Vegas to get rich or to accrue an estate, but I don't throw good money after bad either. I know when Lady Luck has blown on another guy's dice. Both the Luxor and the Excalibur are part of the theme-based casino construction that went on in the early 1990s. Luxor is all ancient Egypt, with obelisks, two-dimensional heiroglyphs, and sphinxes decorating every corner of the spacious and comfortable casino. (Rich noticed that all the sphinxes do not wear their customary blank expressions, but are usually smiling. This is most disconcerting.) No luck there, nor at Excalibur, the Camelot-cum-wizardry fantasia that attracts a family crowd, of, shall we say?, unusually large proportions. The women wear fanny packs, the guys wear baseball caps, and at least one of the kids is sporting a braided rat-tail. While not normally the group I hang out with, the crowd at Excalibur is fun and out for a good time. It is an extremely mixed bunch; were I to wax fraternal, I might say it is America in microcosm. Every layer of society seems to be represented here, all out to enjoy themselves in a raucous, somewhat crowded casino. Excalibur is a good litmus test of one's ability to enjoy Las Vegas.
Me in front of the Monte Carlo Hotel. Not a dime from that joint — ever.
We grabbed something to eat at Smith & Wollensky's and headed back to the hotel. We decided on one last bit of gaming, but at this point (only about 11:30, but this is before adjusting for our Eastern time zone bodies) I could barely stand. I was asleep in however many minutes it took me to get back to the room, plus one.I stand next to no one in my firm belief that public transportation is the way to get around when you're traveling. Back home, wherever home may be for you, I know it can be time-consuming, undependable, expensive, irritating, and uncomfortable. Usually when you are visiting elsewhere these concerns are not part of the equation as your appointments are elastic, you don't mind dropping a few bucks for something that the locals find exorbitant, or the crowds to be found thereon. It's part of the experience, and one that I normally look forward to doing while touring this great land. I may have to rethink my predisposition towards public transportation, however.
Ooh, la la, look it's Gay Paree.
But first, I'll back up a few hours to when I started the day. As I had been thoroughly wiped out the night before, I was up and wide awake at the ungodly hour of 5:00 a.m. There was no rolling over and grabbing another 45 or so until a more sensible hour came. I dressed and headed downstairs looking for a cup of coffee. This was the morning of Sunday morning. As Sunday morning follows Saturday night, it should come as no shock to hear that 5:00 a.m. is not only very early Sunday morning, but it is very late Saturday night. Worlds collide at such an hour, and collide they did.The only place to get a coffee was at the Baccarat Bar and I found myself next to a guy, 30 or so, who was in the middle of concocting a terrific hangover for himself. He was pretty well put together still, but he was finding it hard to focus or to keep track of the conversation that soon began between us. He asked me how I was doing, and did I want a drink? No drink, thanks — not a prudish refusal, but a cup of coffee was my goal above anything else. He proceeded to relay a tale of woe that might be universal, but really could only happen in Las Vegas. (I will ignore the dictum that "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.") This guy, I never got his name, looked like a lot of guys you see who come to Las Vegas to party and enjoy themselves — attractive, fit, well-dressed. He told me that he had not only lost $5,000 at the Hard Rock Cafe but two hours as well. When I told him it was about 5:15 he said that the last he could remember was being told it was 3:00. No doubt he was told a maddening number of times what time it was but he just kept forgetting. Been there. I said that his offer to buy me my coffee was kind, and good karma (not that I believe in karma, but it seemed like something to say). Needing as much goodwill as possible he then bought the entire bar a drink, shots of Glenlivet for all who were in. Many were, with only a young lady and myself abstaining. On top of everything else, he could not return to his room because his buddy, who left him drunk at the Hard Rock, was spending time with a prostitute in his room, because the buddy's wife was in their room. Eavesdropping allowed me to learn that it is very easy to spend $400 for a prostitute in Las Vegas.
It looks like I finally found a piece of clothing that is too big for me.
I wished the guy luck and headed back to the room. About two hours later I saw him sitting at a Blackjack table looking better than I had seen him, and better than anyone had a right to look. Ah! youth. Well, Rich and I were heading to the Wynn resort so we decided to take the Las Vegas Monorail, a system that is chiefly notable for being the only for-profit municipal transit system in the country. The fare has jumped from $3 to $5, now runs slowly, and has bad information abounding. For the Wynn, we were told that our stop was for Harrah's / Imperial Palace. We got off at the advertised stop and had to walk another mile or so, if my math is right. This is like taking the New York subway to the Empire State Building at 34th Street and being told to get off at 59th Street. When we stayed at the Wynn, there was a shuttle to the monorail, but then it took us to another stop. Usually I'm not flummoxed by the vicissitudes of such things, taking pride in my ability to roll with it. Not this time, though; this really frustrated me. I'm sure it was the $5; had it only been $1.25 like I'm used to I probably wouldn't give it a second thought.I have become aware that, in Las Vegas, if you're not gaming you're not doing much of anything. I enjoy watching the world go by, often stunned by what some people wear in public. On the one hand, I think that the world is a slovenly place, that no one seems to know how to dress appropriately anymore. On the other hand, I think talking about clothes is a bit ridiculous. Really, who cares? And I'm not just talking about unfortunate taste in matters sartorial. Ugly clothes and fashion don't's are beyond me. Here is a perfect example of what I mean: Rich and I were at the Wynn and I saw these three women, anywhere between 20 and 50, walking through the casino. It was about 11:00 a.m., so it was hard to tell if they were dressed for an evening that had not yet ended (it is Vegas), or if they were just a bit tarty in their tastes. Constantly applying make-up, checking themselves in the mirrors, talking about where to go to drink, etc. Endlessly alluring. One of the girls bent down to do something, whereupon Rich and I were treated to the most spectacular view of her derrière, complete with red thong crawling up her back. Now, it will come as no surprise that in these matters Rich and I know very little, but doesn't common sense dictate that if that is your lingerie of choice then do not go with the hip-hugging jeans? And for God's sake, if something falls to the ground, let it go.
Decorations in the Bellagio for Chinese New Years.
Really awe-inspiring.
We did reach a milestone of sorts at Wynn when we met a "compable" level. Comps are the grease of the machinery in Las Vegas. The avaricious chasing after things that you don't have to pay for, the clamoring for VIP status is unlike anything I've seen in all our travels. I've worked in restaurants long enough to know that, of course, some gratitude should be shown to those who are loyal to your establishment. But VIPs? I thought that concept died out in the 70s, but it is alive and well, thriving in fact, in Las Vegas. People do not hesitate to blurt out their status — at either end of the spectrum: everyone is acutely aware that they are VIPs or nobodies. Rich and I are nobodies to some extent, small-time gamblers who bounce from casino to casino. Each casino has a player's club, and they use your card to track your activity. Attaining certain levels earns you certain goodies. Every guide book will tell you to enroll. Some have great signing treats; Casino Royale, for instance, gives you all these discounts, a bunch of free spins on a slot machine, and a Margarita that is as delicious as it is devoid of tequila.
Well, if Siegfried and Roy are on board. . .
Our benefit was two free dinners at the buffet called, astoundingly enough, The Buffet. Incidentally, everything in Las Vegas seems to be moving to the definite article. Wherever one looks one sees The Spa, The Nightclub, The Shop(pe)s, etc., culminating in The Hotel, the new venture near Mandalay Bay. Dinner was fine, if you like buffets; I don't mind them but I do prefer my food hotter than it usually is by the time you return to your seat in these cavernous dining halls. Surprisingly, the staff at such places are usually quite gracious and good-natured. Me? I'd be the expected surly guy, who could only make it through a shift with the help of frequent breaks and nips of bourbon. Buffets bring out a not very nice side of me. Some people are, hmmm -- how to say it, not at their best at buffets. For one, someone has to explain the allure of unlimited crab legs. These spidery appendages dangle off peoples' plates, piled high like cordwood. I had never had one (is it a West Coast thing?), but I was not bowled over by them. With a cottony texture and a cloyingly sweet taste that is hard to get rid of, they escape me completely. If nothing else, it just looks disgusting having them pile up on your table.
The iconic Hard Rock Café sign.
Tramping from casino to casino is exactly why Las Vegas can exhaust a man, and why the best trip here is one of no more than five days long. It seems, after a while, pointless. I have had absolutely no luck on this trip. I know, that's why it's called gambling, and I guess it is a good thing that I do not have the addict's conviction that my luck is going to change on the next card or roll. It's just not my turn. Even accepting that with complete equinimity does not lessen the frustration that goes with sustained losing. Oh, well, time to get out in the sun anyway.I was up again extremely early (5:00), with little to do but order a pot of coffee and write for a while. I had some specific plans for the day, as January 23 was the 25th anniversary of my mother's death. Normally the day is marked by a period of reflection, with thoughtful consideration and sincere appreciation of a woman I miss to this day. Well, yes, that's nice but where and how am I to mark the day in Las Vegas? Rich and I found a church, a Catholic one out here in the land of megachurches and charismatic congregations. Being from the East there is a tendency to venerate old churches with their craftsmanship and scale. This church, the Shrine of the Most Holy Redeemer, within rolling distance of Luxor, was one of those modern Catholic churches, with expressionistic statuary and modern Stations of the Cross. The seats were padded. I was taken aback at how lovely I thought the whole effect was, despite its modernity and my conviction that all churches should be standing for at least 150 years. The church holds Mass at 11:30 every day, ministering, no doubt, to those for whom Las Vegas has created more troubling problems than a move here was meant to solve. The gift shop was nice, with Brother Andy's Candies, and a pin of the Angel of the Slots. Guess which I bought.
The rest of the day was spent walking around. From church we walked down a side street that caused many of those driving by us to stare. We were decidedly off the beaten tourist track. One or two streets off the Strip will find you on a dusty and desolate street, all overgrown shrubbery and empty lots. The contrast is not so much between the luxury of the hotels, as I think that their luxury is deceptive. There is much muchness, if you will, but the luxury of such places is illusory. Look at any of the (very conventional) Web sites for the casinos and you'll see how they sell pampering and indulgence, but these amenities come at exorbitant prices and are served up with a screw-the-tourist attitude. Last time we were here, I had an $85 haircut. Me. $85. That's 8-5. Dollars. American.
My shift in attitude is emblematic and symptomatic of time spent in Las Vegas. After a while the thrill of spending grinds to a halt and you realize that it's time to go home. There is no bigger fan of Las Vegas than me, but it's best to know when it's time to go. As I write this, I am looking due west towards the mountains and the sun is rising behind me. The windows of The Orleans are glinting in the rising sun, and the red of the mountains is beautiful. The sky, so often described as big, is big; there is no other way to describe how damn big it is. I am watching the traffic on I-15 and the train beyond it is blaring its horn. For some, a train's horn is a lonesome sound; count me among those who feel this way. Who knows where it's going, but it seems like a metaphor of some sort. I cannot explain my desire to search for meaning in such a mundane event; perhaps it is the coffee for which I paid $19. For coffee. $19. That's 1-9. Dollars. American.
Another illusion that hotels here often perpretrate is that of service. I've been harping on the collapse of the ability to serve in what is known as a service economy. Ready for yet another outrage? (I'll have to post my diatribes about Fuddrucker's, Circuit City, and Dell.) On Sunday, the housekeeping staff decided to throw out a full bottle of water ($8) and Rich's pillow. At 7:00 a.m., we ask the Concierge to send up some down pillows, as Rich has trouble with the foam numbers. Me? A couple glasses of red wine and a full day of walking around in the sun and I could sleep on a cinder block. Fine, they tell us, they'll send them right up as well as look for the pillow they took. When we came back to the hotel at 2:30, there was a message saying that the head of housekeeping was just checking to see that we got our pillows. We had not, so I called down and told them we had not. I mentioned that it was rather late for our room to not have been made up, and the woman said I'll send them right over. I said that they didn't have to do that, as there would be no difference now. Now I'm dying for a nap, but am unable to go to sleep because I know the moment I do, they'll knock on the door. I lie down for a minute and sure enough there is someone rattling my door. I open it and there is Security, "Doing standard room checks," he says. This sounds weird to me, so I go downstairs and ask someone. Yes, they have to do that because sometimes the computers at the desk do not accurately reflect which rooms are occupied or not. So their solution is to rattle guests' doors, seeing who answers? Most odd. Returning to my room, I see someone outside knocking on the door. It is Guest Services with the pillows Rich requested — nine hours later. I let the guy in, and remark that it is now 4:15 and my room has still not been made up. Oh, he says, I'll send someone right over; they never show up. I say to Rich that maybe, just maybe, I have too much time to worry about these things, but it is not that simple. When we call on our way out for the evening, I say to the woman who answered the phone that the room was never made up. She tells me that there is a note that I said I didn't want service. No, I say, I told the woman not to have the maid drop what she was doing and come to our room and that we would wait our turn. Oh, she says, a miscommunication. Seems more like a language problem, I think, as while I made the first call, she put me on hold once apparently to laugh with her coworkers. This is the problem with these service glitches, I am realizing. They are usually a series of minor annoyances that, once written down, sound as if I am being too persnickety and demanding. They aggregate, though, and take on a life of their own. Woe is me.
Today is our last full day here. We seem to have done most of what we planned. We may visit some of the outlying casinos, though after my luck of the last few days I've sworn off throwing more money into the casinos. It makes a charming picture, me sitting there next to Rich, watching him play. It makes me feel like those chicks who dote on their men, standing mutely by while the guy does some guy thing. I am particularly fond of Channel 3 News, anchored by two people whose command of the English language is woefully inadequate. The mistakes they make (our favorite is "kids's") are hilarious when they are not serving to profoundly confuse the stories they are trying to tell. Bizarre.
And these photos are just because I like the neon:
A restaurant with neon signage is one of my favorite things, and look at all the extras at this place.
Rich in front of the Flamingo.
The Paris, at night.
My favorite casino, the Barbary Coast (though I think it's called something else now).
