I want to say that every time I go to Vegas, I am startled again by how bright and shiny and sparkly and overwhelming it is, but this was only the third time I’d ever been to Vegas, I think. I would postulate that that means I’m just not used to the giant, flashing, strobing insanity that is the Vegas Experience, but I am not sure that anyone can actually ever get used to it–and if you can, you have probably shut down all the way–a useful survival mechanism, but one that also makes getting around a little awkward for everyone, I imagine.
Our hotel, though–our hotel was an oasis. No slot machines in the lobby. A pool on the fifth floor with drink service. A big, quiet suite in soothing sages and browns. A balcony overlooking the strip, which was just far enough away not to give you seizures. The spa right downstairs. I realized that this was my kind of Vegas–the kind where you are insulated from the heat (hot) and the noise (loud) and the crazy (batshit) and you can make quiet forays out into the madness and then retreat back immediately to the happiness that is high-thread-count sheets and general laziness. I recommend general laziness as a good vacation strategy.
You’d think a vacation in Vegas where you didn’t do much would be
nutty-making: Oh my God, there is so much out there and I am missing it!
But I found it to be beautiful and zen, the exercise in letting go and
just doing the things you want to do, the things that are important and
sound good, because that just makes everyone happy. And that is what we
did, and that is where the happiness came from and why it was such a
On Thursday, we showered for a long time because the water pressure
was–and there is no other word for it–divine, crawled into fluffy
robes and bed. On Friday, we slept late and sipped lattes on the
balcony and read and wandered down to lunch, wandered up to the
spa for a manicure and pedicure and massage, relaxed awhile in the
suite, got pretty for Weetabix’s birthday party, hung out with good people we hadn’t seen in so long, and then went out
dancing like crazy people at a hilarious club. Bottle service
meant VIP and we felt ridiculously fancy. Such a relief, though,
to burst out into the quiet night without a bass thump, and breathe
Saturday, we slept late, had breakfast at In-N-Out (which is perfect
hangover food), and then there was a beach party at our incredibly
generous friends’ hotel–private cabana, so much food, pitchers of margaritas
and mojitos. Playing in a pool is one of the greatest and loveliest
things in the world, I think. Back at the hotel to shower, I sat in
the tub in water up to my neck, changed and went to a
ridiculously hilarious German beer hall where the boys drank liters
and liters of beer and did shots and everyone (except Weetabix’s
husband, damn him) got spanked, because that is how the Germans roll,
apparently. The boys were so happily beer-drunk that they insisted on going
back out, and we ended up in a limo to Fremont Street, which was completely and
insanely ridiculous and shiny and overwhelming. I got sick from my
three-foot daiquiri, and we were all more than happy to head back
to our suite.
Our last day, the boys headed out to Hoover Dam, and I rode up to the
top of The Stratosphere with my beautiful friend Shawn and we talked
ourselves into ridiculous rides that made us scream and scream and
scream. Then there were drinks at the Bellagio with the very smart Jen Wade, serious talk
interrupted by a crazy bartender named Lance who thought we were so
interesting. Then to the airport, the airplane, and oh, my own bed,
where it was quiet and not shiny and loud and crazy. I miss the people,
and the drinks, and the pools, and the people, and the drinks, but as
always, I am so glad to be home.