My Trip To Las Vegas - Brave Man In A 21st-Century Transportation Dystopia

Just returned from a whirlwind two-day trip to Las Vegas to see my old college friend, John Wright, who was in town briefly himself to attend the Interbike Bicycling Convention. My head hurts, my feet hurt, I have no money, and I'm SO sleepy - gee, it sounds like tech week at DMTC!

I had three unexpected tasks just before leaving, yet I still managed to make the uneventful Wednesday midafternoon flight (slow traffic helped). Because of poor planning, I left two tasks unarranged: I had no room, and I had no transportation. Fact is, I couldn't decide whether or not my visit was so brief that my usual practice, a car rental, was pointless. Finally, at the Las Vegas Airport, I decided to rent a car, but there were none available: too many big conventions in town. Stymied, I took an ALC shuttle bus to the Strip instead. I sat in the stifling back of the bus, next to a wizened little Jewish man from New York, who assured me that things in Las Vegas just weren't the way they used to be.

Our bus bounced like a pinball from one side of the Strip to the other, from the Rio to the Imperial Palace, to Caesar's Palace, to the Flamingo Hilton, eventually ending up at the Riviera, where John Wright was staying with his bike shop employee, Mike Boyd. At the Rio, I watched a young, harried, apparently-tardy woman employee use her econo-car to nearly bowl over a torpid jogger struggling in the unexpected 90-degree warmth. At Caesar's Palace, we parked in the driveway directly under the upraised tail of a rearing faux-marble stallion. So uplifting!

At the hotel, I discovered they had no rooms: too many big conventions in town. Fortunately, John and Mike just then arrived from their convention, and John offered the spare bed in his room. Whew!

Transportation along The Strip is aided by the presence of a frequently-scheduled, double-decker city-sponsored bus service called "The Deuce." Like all things with card-related names in Las Vegas, sometime The Deuce helps, and sometimes it doesn't.

After dinner with John and Mike, I boarded The Deuce, bound for the MGM Grand for the evening. Shortly after boarding, the bus driver announced to the lower-level, standing room crowd that there were more seats upstairs "for the brave." Never having been on a double-decker bus before, I started with anticipation towards the stairwell. A woman said "Look! A brave man!" People laughed, and started applauding. I pumped my fist in the air to encourage them. When I arrived upstairs, they were applauding too. So silly!

Returning from the MGM Grand, at 5 a.m., the bus was only somewhat-less crowded than it had been earlier. A man in a sleeveless T-Shirt groused about unnecessary air conditioning.

On Thursday morning, I headed back down The Strip again, intending on getting off at Flamingo Rd. in order to thenceforward walk across Interstate Highway 15 to the Gold Coast Casino, where I was going to meet another old college friend and Las Vegas resident, Ira Gershin, for lunch at the buffet - all the time he could afford on a busy workday. Gabbing with a fellow rider, I missed my stop, and ended up at Tropicana Ave. Knowing now how slow The Deuce's return trip could be, I decided to walk to my destination, 2.1 miles, which I made in time, but only because I had an hour to do it.

Flamingo Road has a pedestrian walkway across I-15 on its northern side. I, of course, elected to cross on the primitive, exposed, and dangerous south side. Homeless folks bummed cash from the turning traffic. Assorted trash was everywhere, including a squashed pigeon. The saving grace was a humble honeybee gathering nectar.

After a pleasant lunch, I returned the same dangerous way back, this time to see the Titanic Exhibition at the Tropicana. I took two detours. I crossed the street to The Palms, and held the door open as two glamorous women, and one beefy guy entered. Beefy guy uttered into his cell phone 'you are too quick to admit that.' My curiosity piqued - you are too quick to admit what? - I followed the glamorous trio through the casino, but broke off when they entered a cafe. Later, I detoured to try and figure out the purpose of an obscure building, unmarked except for a street number. Seemed like a sensitive place - even the trash bins were surrounded by razor fencing. Was it an exclusive strip club, maybe? I was going to ask the homeless guys, but they had headed off to Del Taco with their 'earnings.' The highlight of the return walk was a car slowing to make a turn. A pretty woman rolled down her passenger-side window and spat just in front of me. Did I look homeless too? Or was it something she ate? Maybe the squab was squashed pigeon? Who knows?

After the Titanic exhibition, and another half-mile or so of walking, I tried to return to the Riviera on The Deuce, but rush-hour crowds had utterly overwhelmed the bus line. Entry was NOT possible. So I frantically hoofed it back through the mob along The Strip, 2.5 miles, from the Tropicana to the Riviera, in an hour. The Deuce was so slow that even on foot I kept pace with it, northwards, nearly as far as Flamingo Rd. Ohmigod! So much walking (2.1 x 2 + 0.5 + 2.5 = 7.2 miles) and the day was not over!

Southbound Deuce was better, as John and I traveled towards the Mandalay Bay in order to see "Mamma Mia." Still, the three-mile trip took an hour, and we counted ourselves lucky. Fellow "Mamma Mia" goers on the bus were getting increasingly-agitated that they might miss the show, despite their best efforts.

After the show, the northbound return trip on The Deuce was just the worst! Thousands of people were being dumped onto the streets from multiple shows all at the same time. The bus driver was crabby and exasperated with the swarm of people he evidently considered stupid, particularly those going up and down the stairwell while the bus was in motion. At one point, several people entered the bus through the exit door, and melted inconspicuously among the packed passengers without paying. The driver threatened to halt the bus altogether until the miscreants paid. The threat was hollow, though: we were barely-moving anyway. John, who is known for his patience, began muttering darkly about how Las Vegas was one big Rube Goldberg machine run amok.

This morning, since the ALC shuttle bus return trip to the airport had to be arranged on the hour, I arose at 5:20 a.m. in order to make the 6 a.m. appointment. Since there were so many no-shows on this driver's appointed route, I ended up at the airport at 6:30 a.m., a full three hours before my flight time. What was I going to do with all this extra time? Fortunately, while buying a newspaper, the morning rush-hour security-screening lines grew from outrageous to darn near Brobdignagian, so now I knew for certain how I was going to spend my time. Amusing TSA videos on an endless loop, featuring well-known Las Vegas celebrities, advised people how to avoid security delays. I wished to throttle these celebrities. A chagrined woman cut lines in order to try and make her flight - I felt for her embarrassment. An unexpected gap in the lines gave me a moment's rest from claustrophobia just when I began muttering darkly about how Las Vegas was one big Rube Goldberg machine run amok.

Las Vegas has a very weak government. Much of The Strip itself is outside the city limits of Las Vegas, and within the amorphous, obscure boundaries of the Township of Paradise, where business rules. Transportation issues have been privatized and corporatized, to the detriment of many, many people. As the decades pass, the federal government is apparently adopting the same kind of approach.

Sad, but one must make one's compromises: Next time, despite the assault on the public weal each additional vehicle represents, rent a car!