After last year, I’d really hoped to avoid Las Vegas for at least another 20 years, but somehow my husband persuaded me to join him on a business trip in May. It didn’t start out too auspiciously: somewhere between airport security in Oakland and the check-in desk at Harrah’s, my driver’s license disappeared. And in spite of three weeks’ daily walking, I ended up with sore feet and blisters.
We did have some time to do a few touristy things, in addition to getting some amazing steak at Ruth’s Chris on our last night there. We rode the monorail up and down the Strip. We went ziplining, which was not quite as I’d imagined it. (My mental picture of ziplining involved gliding gracefully through treetops, not being trussed up like a parcel and thrown out a five-story window.) We rode the High Roller observation wheel at night. We watched the fountain display at the Bellagio.
Despite needing to have Eve FedEx my passport to me so I could get on the plane home, I enjoyed those parts of the trip, and it was nice to see Alex, Greg, Deanna, Shelly, and the rest of the vaping crowd. (I mean, insofar as I could see them through the clouds of vapor on the expo floor. I’ve definitely reached the “been there, done that” stage with vape expos.) But after five days, I was more than ready to get home to the quietude of Vintage Parkway.
At least the photos gave me lots of opportunities to play with Lightroom presets. But I’ve been to Paris and to Venice, and the sanitized, Disney-fied representation of these places in Las Vegas depresses me more than it amuses me.