Living Las Vegas

At Home in the City of Lights

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Top Vegas Hotels: Bellagio, Luxor, Rio

Roads from the Ashes: An Odyssey in Real Life on the Virtual Frontier, by Megan Edwards

A Quick Trip to Vegas

There seem to be quite a few people who live in Las Vegas who never go to the Strip. “I avoid it like the plague,” is a phrase I hear often, along with, “The last time I was on the Strip, I went to the .” I, however, belong to a group that may well be a minority. I like the Strip. I go there often. Sometimes I even choose to drive on it when I’m going somewhere else. Sure it’s slow, but that’s good thing. How else would I be able to check out what’s new without rear-ending a limobus or smashing into a tourist who thinks red lights don’t apply to him?

The Strip is very easy to avoid. By using the other corridors paralleling it (Industrial Road, Interstate 15, Frank Sinatra Drive, and Paradise Road), you can even get to venues that face on the Strip without ever driving on it. If you’re careful, you never even have to cross it. Desert Inn goes under it, the freeway goes over it, and there are several routes around it. So it’s simple to pretend you’re really living in Phoenix if you ignore the Stratosphere Tower, the Luxor beam, and certain billboards. Well, okay, all the billboards. But for me, and I’m far from the only local who feels this way, the glitz and glitter of the Strip is not only attractive, it’s a quick escape. I feel very lucky that I can take a ten-minute drive and be enjoying an experience most people only get on a honeymoon or a business junket.

Yesterday, I was worn out after a day of work, so I decided to do what I call “go to Vegas.” To me, the Strip and downtown are Vegas. Where I live is Las Vegas. A small distinction, perhaps, but I think it captures the difference and illustrates the challenge all Las Vegas residents face when they’re in, say, Seattle. When you tell somebody in Seattle that you’re from Las Vegas, you just know they’re thinking Vegas, and no amount of talking can set them straight. I’ve given up. Yeah, I feel like saying. I’m a gambling addicted alcoholic chain smoker with bad taste! I live in a hotel and eat at buffets and sit at the same slot machine every night while I smoke Camels and drink gin!

Anyway, yesterday around four, I headed to Vegas. From where I live, that’s about a fifteen-minute drive. I decided to go to the Paris, where a bar called Napoleon’s has a groovy happy hour. Not only is the bar itself nicely appointed, but from four to seven every night, you get a nice little plate of excellent sandwiches if you have a drink. There’s live music, too, and the windows look out onto a mall that’s always filled with people worth watching. Last night, in addition to the usual parade of colorful tourists, I saw a crowd of attorneys leaving a seminar, two brides with full entourages, a statuesque transvestite, and a man with a cute little dog in a backpack. I don’t think it’s surprising that Napoleon’s is frequented by locals (the ones who do like the Strip) during “happy hour.” Parking is a cinch, and for ten bucks or less, you can get what I consider dinner. (Of course, you can spend a lot more, too — the bar is well-stocked with high-end call liquors.)

After my generous glass of pinot noir, I decided it might be prudent to take a walk before getting back behind my steering wheel. As luck would have it, the evening was lovely, and the Bellagio is right across the street from the Paris. Since “right across the street” is actually the equivalent of a few blocks, it would make a perfect evening perambulation to go check out the flower display in the Bellagio’s interior garden and maybe catch the dancing fountain show on the way.

Outside, the Strip was, as usual, teeming with visitors equipped with every kind of image-capturing device currently on the market. I was carrying a camera, too, and, as always, I couldn’t resist taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the big neon balloon. I also got a closer look at a new double-decker CAT bus. Called “The Deuce,” it looks like a great way to cruise the Strip, especially if you can nab the seat right over the driver’s head.

The horticultural marvel inside the Bellagio featured, in addition to enormous pumpkins, a large scarecrow, oversized autumn leaves suspended from the ceiling, and huge piles of apples and Indian corn, an archway covered in an unusual mosaic made of delicate plants and ferns. A couple more brides were floating about, and the piano bar next to the Chihuly ceiling looked quite appealing. But no, I told myself. This is just a mini trip to Vegas, and I have to drive myself home.

Back over at the Paris, I rode in the parking garage elevator with yet another just-married couple in classic bride and groom attire. They both looked nothing short of ecstatic, and it was impossible not to indulge in a little vicarious joy as I watched them giggle.

In half an hour, I was home. I’d been to Vegas and back in three hours. Come on! Aren’t you jealous?

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