Vegas

Hot machines and cold drinks, ice cold, ice cold water for a dollar hawked on corners and under shade by cryptobiotic beggars and hotel staff with voucher coupons for buffet meals. Vegas was noticeably hotter than anywhere previously, mercifully, a dry heat.

A lot of people seemed to have come from a lot of different places. Everyone gambles, or had gambled once. Inside the casinos there is no glamour. Past the promenade-side bikini girls on blackjack tables, the lure gulped, croupiers have a drawn, jaded look to them. They speak to you without looking directly at you, referring to ‘them upstairs’. They’re fallible too, something I didn’t expect- occasionally they knock something over, a pile of chips or the glass marker set on the winning roulette number. The most cheerful we met was the man in charge at a cheap poker tournament Champ entered at the Tuscany. When Champ lost at the show with pocket aces one hand, the guy remarked at how remarkable it was.

The gamblers are no better. An old-timer tubed-in to an oxygen tank. Great big people on tiny stools. Bellies hanging over the craps table and all magpie eyes follow down to the table. Beyond the Strip, bail bonds shops hablamos espagnol and wedding chapels display the winners and woes of Vegas, baby.

We stayed in a giant loft downtown with a 17th floor rooftop pool overlooking sin city. Penelope the Chi-wa-waaaaa never did stop barking at us with her inimitable throat-croak bark although the three-wheeler Pappy was friendly enough. Our best hook-up yet, I don’t think we’ll stay anywhere nicer in the States than at Erin’s place. Thanks Erin and Thanks Ian!