There is a very particular kind of pleasure attached to arriving at a destination, particularly after sitting on your arse for thirty hours to get there. Imagine, then, that the destination is Las Vegas, and that the pleasure of being able to walk again is complemented by an arrival hall that makes no mistake about where you are:
(Yes, for those who can’t wait for the strip, those are slots)
Double bonus: our luggage arrived in the two pieces that we sent, so we could soon get on with getting to THE hotel (emphasis in the original),
where we were happily upgraded to a bigger, better room. But here our luck stopped temporarily, because the bigger, better room wasn’t ready yet, so we were forced to spend three hours in the casino in our 30-hour outfits (including face, hair and addled brains): not a good state to be surrounded by that much bling.
But, resourceful people that we are, we accepted our new hostage situation with grace, and when we finally got the bigger, better room, the shower that awaited made it all worthwhile. How sweet the combination of hot water, soap, fluffy gowns and clean clothes in a bigger, better room in Vegas after now nearly 40 hours with too little sleep.
Of course we should have crawled straight into bed, which is the only thing the clean re-humanised body really craves. But Vegas is the city that never sleeps. And besides, it was only 4pm local time. So after an energising concoction of vodka and taurine, we hit the streets for a brisk 45 min walk (!!) to dinner at Mario Batali’s Enoteca.
The Venetian (like much of Vegas) is famed for its superior fakeness – this time fake Venice, of course, with canals and gondolas and a sun which really never sets.
(That’s not the real sky. And the water in the canals looks clean enough to swim in. That’s fake Venice for you).
Two of our party of seven were late, so due to a ridiculous policy of not seating an incomplete party, we gave Enoteca THE finger (emphasis in the original), and relocated to Batali’s other eatery in the same establishment:
It was a good evening. The fake Batali in the kitchen obviously knew his or her stuff, so we were rewarded with fine food and wine (Batali’s rabbit may even be as good as my own). Some time later we even found our way into a bigger, better bed and slept undisturbed by babies and swollen ankles and bad movies on little screens.
Up at 6am, I think the Rousseaus are back in action. Vegas, baby: beware.