It is a strange place, Las Vegas, perhaps befitting the setting for some dystopian science fiction saga come to life. An artificial city, set down in a place no measure of logic says it should be, symbolic of ego, ill-gotten gains and humankind’s ongoing attempt to show Nature who’s boss.
Ostentatious monuments to excess are built up and knocked down and built up again because they can be. Here, all that can be done to separate visitors from reality and natural circadian rhythms is put into practice. They come from far and wide, drawn like moths to bright lights and the promise of happy people striking it rich, there to part ways with their hard-earned and head home, tired, entertained and often not a little hungover.
Stranger indeed then, to encounter Vegas for the first time having been immersed for the better part of three weeks in a bona fide natural wonder, one millions of years as opposed to comparatively a handful of months in the making.
By quirk of circumstance, Vegas happens to be the nearest city of any size for those having just floated the Grand Canyon. Reimmersion in the “real” world for most requires catching planes and renting cars, not to mention hot showers and reacquaintance with soap and razors, and Vegas is just down the road.
I stepped from the taxi I’d caught from the airport onto the shaded forecourt of a high-rise behemoth, a small city in itself, wondering how the friends I’d come to meet – a bunch of Kiwis I hadn’t seen in some cases for decades – would respond to the bright lights and bustle of Vegas, having that very morning woken for the last time within the walls of the canyon.
I recalled my own similar visit to Vegas, all of 30-plus years ago, and how the noise and bustle quickly proved overkill. The intent to spend a couple of days quickly morphed into time enough for a shower and shave then back out into the desert to decompress.
Walking across the forecourt I caught sight of a van and trailer, dusty from the road, pulling up to the front door. Out they spilled, tanned and tank-topped and not a little dirty and disheveled. We high-fived and hugged, they a little self-conscious of their ripeness, me envying them the same. A huge mound of dry bags and duffles grew on the forecourt, luggage carts appeared, and from the heat and glare of the day we adjourned to the permanent nighttime and air-conditioned comfort of the casino. Rooms allocated, we agreed to rendezvous an hour hence in the nearest bar.
“Look at the size of this place,” one said, looking around.
“How much do I tip?” whispered another, looking in shock at the total for a round of beers.
Although I still regard myself as a New Zealander first and foremost, I realized how much of the U.S. has been absorbed into my skin.
There followed a discussion on the why and wherefore of tipping. “Why not just pay people a decent wage?” one asked. “Where’s your gun?” asked another, as a couple of armed and armored security guards walked by.
“Gotta love the cheap gas here, bro,” remarked someone else.
For some, sitting in the air-conditioned cool, out of the sun, freshly soaped and laundered, was something of welcome relief, a chance to finally sink into surroundings more familiar and relax. Their trip hadn’t been without its moments –the Colorado flowing at 40,000 cubic feet per second, campsites under water, the trip leader helicoptered out from above Lava Falls with a serious leg injury … . For others there was a sense of loss, of life scales having fallen off, of an all-too-brief encounter with something physical yet intangible, far greater than themselves.
Regardless of individual circumstance, all would henceforth share a bond.
The Strip seemed more subdued than on previous visits. Several large lots stood vacant, freshly scraped, awaiting their latest grandiose reincarnation. The competing cacophony of bands and bars was largely absent, as were the hordes of half-crocked tourists, scantily clad and clutching foot-long cocktail slushies wandering the pavement.
Our search for a restaurant open after 9 p.m. and not wanting an arm and a leg for a table proved strangely futile. Gone it seems are the days of cheap booze and food as a trade-off for playing the slots.
All too soon, the 36 hours were over. For some, there were planes to catch, flights over the Pacific ahead. For others, renting RVs and ticking a few more items off the bucket list before returning home. I felt subdued on my early morning taxi ride to the airport. Vitamin D deficiency and lack of sleep had something to do with it, partying like an aging rock star with a bunch of other aging rock stars, yet this time I was grateful for Vegas, for being a container for reconnection and the nurturing of fond memories.
Hayden Mellsop is a Realtor with Pinon Real Estate Group and a former fishing guide.
