We’ve been stuck at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas for the past few days because Himself had to go to a conference here. I dislike Las Vegas. It’s full of drunken people with bad taste who are determined to lose money, plus it’s loud, crowded, and tacky. I can’t tell whether it hurts my eyeballs or my eardrums more. Not only that, but most of the restaurants in walking distance seem not to have heard of cooked vegetables.
I did, however, get a chance to escape the windowless conference rooms for a couple of walks with my camera.
It’s a pity that I didn’t get a chance to take pictures on the drive down: the full moon setting as we left the house, the green of the hills as we approached 580 from Byron, the pink blossoms on the orchards that still survive, the drama of acres of dead trees ripped up by the roots, the black and red hills and Joshua Trees in the high desert. But I can’t take photos when I’m driving, and I’m too terrified to get the camera out or open the window when Stefan is driving. That means that what we’re left with is photos from the land of bad boob jobs and worse outfits, where I did my best to avoid pointing the camera at humans.