Wheeling Las Vegas

20th February 2014

Probably my favourite game in the world, she looks like she's having a wheely good time.

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With both bags strapped to my frail frame for the second time in our trip, we (I) struggled through the tube and taxi ride to downtown LA, where we’d have our first Greyhound bus experience—another American cultural icon. I don’t care what people say about the Greyhounds; it’s cheap, efficient, and... it had free wifi, the elixir of my life.

The driver, a huge black lady, introduced us to the bus rules (after, by the way, accusing me of causing the injury to Suzie’s foot).

The rules are as follows:

• Keep your shoes on.
• If you talk on the phone, do it quietly; no one cares about your conversation.
• Don’t do a poo in the toilet.

There were a couple of crazies too, notably a young lady who had to touch the window, her seat, the back of someone else's seat, and her forehead seven times every few minutes. This unfortunate yank also got left behind on the bus and ended up chasing us in the car park. When she got back on, she started talking loudly about how she knew they did it on purpose and was going to call the LAPD. She wasn’t, however, talking to the driver, and I fail to see how she could actually report the voices in her head.

After a reasonably pleasant five hours across Nevada, listening to Johnny Cash, Las Vegas appeared like a mirage. We scoped out how well placed our hotel, also named The Mirage, was. Perfectly situated in the hustle of Caesars, Paris, and Bellagio, it was perfect.

Not wanting to spend our limited gambling money on taxis, we headed for the bus. Within 15 bumpy minutes, we were there... well, sort of. We’d been dropped off at the Bellagio, only two doors down. The problem is, Vegas is massive, and with hop-along not feeling like the trek and my back breaking under the weight of the bags, we hailed a cab. Five minutes of traffic lights and $15 later, we were confronted with the monstrosity that is The Mirage. Huge, garish volcano structures erupt from the pavement beside sliding glass doors and the icy furnace of aircon (or aercaan in the native tongue).

Securing the room closest to the lift and Suzie’s new popemobile, we were impressed. We’d managed to get a central location for about £40, meaning we could probably spend another hundred without guilt-induced mental flagellation. We were here on a once-in-a-lifetime trip, and we weren't going to let our rapidly depleting bank balance spoil it.

The plan was simple: grab a bite of something to eat, watch the fountain, then go gamble on the one-cent machines and get free drinks all night. Perfect.

We wheeled our way out and headed for Caesars Palace. Clinking, clanking, bells and whistles rang in our ears as we passed each casino, a gaggle of desperate lonelies shoving every last cent into the huge flashing machines.

We went up and down stairs—well, up and down lifts—and found ourselves in the palace.

Gordon Ramsay, or Gordon as he’s probably known here, has a total of five restaurants in Vegas, all cleanly named... ‘STEAK’ for his steak restaurant, ‘PUB’ for his Great British pub food restaurant, CHEESE for his restaurant all about cheese, and OSTRICH for his ostrich-themed restaurant (I might have made most of them up, but you get the picture).

We walked around the palace trying to find the pub-themed one, thinking it might be the cheapest. Using Suzie’s disability to get to off-access areas, the swimming pool looked brilliant!

We didn’t find PUB, but we did find “Snackus Maximus,” a Roman-themed snack shop that had us giggling to ourselves at the Monty Python “Bigus Dickus.” Absolute children.

After 10 minutes, we gave up and decided that we would eat in Paris. This 1/4 scale Eiffel Tower penetrates the sky-painted ceiling with its huge legs. It’s really quite beautiful inside.

We were going to eat at the top of the tower, but without a menu to guide us, decided it would probably be too much money. First world problems.

In the end, we settled for the Sugar Factory, a sweet tooth-themed restaurant with tables right on the strip. We started with a dry-ice bubbling bowl of cocktail, which impressed me slightly more than it looks on this video.

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Next, we had an absolute mammoth burger to share with a white chocolate bun. It was equally delicious and disgusting, and after a round of mac and cheese and the inevitable bloating, it was clear that our inner children had won.

Not wanting to waste any time, I hoisted my burger baby up and waddled out towards Aria, a huge glittering gargantuan building. Through glass doors, and more glass doors, and past shops and two more sets of glass doors, we made it into the casino.

It was definitely more of a high rollers’ establishment, but using our new cheapskate skills, we found the one-cent machines. They screamed at us in every pitch and colour to sink money into their personal abyss, and after a few dollars and no idea what was going on, we were frustrated at the lack of free drinks. I had just started the process of working out how much we had spent versus how much we would have spent if we’d just bought drinks—a pastime that fills our daily lives—when a very American older lady appeared, as if summoned by our collective financial guilt. A skill I imagine mandatory for all workers of the casinos.

“Hey hun, ya waant a drink, dal?”

“Oh, erm… yes please,” in a very forced English accent, with faux surprise like it was a gift. “What’s free?”

Clearly experienced with inexperience, and with no pity or classic English condescension...

“It’s a full bar here, hun.”

“Oh… great, two rum and cokes then, please,” acting as innocent as possible, and wanting to shout, “I’LL HAVE IT ALL THANK YOU VERY MUCH, YOU GOT ANY SHAMPERS!?” We kept true to our upbringing, politely sipped our drinks, tipped our new best friend, and quietly schemed about how we were going to stay as long as possible without raising suspicion that we were, in fact, broke.

We needn't have worried, as one glance around the room would have shown us that we were not alone.

“TIGRESS TIGRESS! (bongo drums) TIGRESS TIGRESS!” A beautiful machine in chrome, orange, and black shouted from the corner of the room.

A huge smile painted itself on our faces, and we rushed through the hall like it was Supermarket Sweep. This tiger-themed machine had spotted our weak spots: one-third tiger, one-third kitsch, and the rest bizarre.

This game made absolutely no sense. It spun and lined up symbols, and then sometimes, for no apparent reason, it would start shouting again. A tiger would run on-screen, and money would accumulate, one cent at a time. After several more drinks, we had only lost $3. Using my maths, we were up on money. This had been a good game, but with it making little to no sense, we grew tired and decided we’d try our luck on the red or the black.

Both red and black—and most of the numbers—decided they were not for us. A whole $15 down, we began squirming in our seats. Had we drunk enough to justify spending that much (the answer was definitely yes)? Probably not… “GARCON! WINE PLEASE!” I snuck off to change up another $5 so we could play very, very slowly.

To be honest, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we really are not cut out for the casino. With no real thrill or excitement other than the full bar, it makes risking money very tricky.

We decided that we liked TIGRESS the most and paid her another visit. This time, Lady Luck was on our side. Still without figuring out what the hell was going on, the machine started flashing, shouting, and playing animations, all while the money kept going up and up in one-cent denominations. Finally, we’d made $25 back from the machine.

We loved her, that awful, tiger-themed box of lights and misery. For days to follow, I still heard her siren call… “TIGRESS TIGRESS (bongo drums) TIGRESS TIGRESS.”

Devoid of all atmosphere, we headed to the next casino along, back towards our hotel. The Cosmopolitan greeted us warmly, with a band playing old jazz and blues. An elegant singer in a cocktail dress just about dulled the sounds of the hall of despair.

We looked to take it all in. A hillbilly—a proper, actual hillbilly yokel who looked maybe 25—grabbed his mother and started shouting, “A playyed et for ya mom! Ya hit the twelve, mom!” She received a huge smack of joy on the lips from her son, who proceeded to pull her back to the table.

They were adorable, high-fiving and shouting at each other when they lost, and being generally very affectionate (in a very innocent way). They were sitting at a large octagonal table with screens in front of every chair and two huge dice in the middle, protected on all sides by glass, and sitting on a spring-loaded floor controlled by a huge red button in front of each player.

We later found out this game is craps—the classic Vegas game you see in all the films. Except instead of a crowded table full of high rollers throwing dice down the table, it’s eight people sitting around huge screens. But because you team up and it’s everyone versus the house, there’s still a sense of common good, a community atmosphere, a purposefulness… okay, maybe that’s a bit far, but it’s definitely good fun.

A really nice guy, who looked comfortably wealthy and doing well, showed us how to play.

“It’s easy,” he said.

“So, at the moment, you want to press pass the line. Now’s a really good time to do it. Basically, it’s simple. Now, you want to get a 7 or an 11, but definitely not a 2, 5, or 12. Got it?”

“Yeah, okay, seems perfectly easy to pla—”

“Okay, great. So after the first roll, if it’s a 7 or 11, great! You double your money. But if it’s a 2, 5, or 12, then you crap out. But if it’s any other number, then now the only number you don’t want to get is a 7, ’cause that’s craps, right? The number you need to get now is the number that’s on the button—that’s the first number that was rolled… as long as the first number wasn’t a 7 or 11, or 2 or 5 or 12. Easy. So don’t get a 7. Do get the number that was first rolled. And if you get any other number, then you just roll again. Got it? Okay, so that’s the first rule…”

“Right, erm, let’s just play that first rule, shall we…”

The minimum bet was a whole $5. We pushed it into the machine, and the huge dice jumped into the air. One die read 2, the other 3.5… it meant we’d lost, much to our bemusement.

Fine. We’d play again. After a good couple of hours, and starting to understand this mental game—and enjoy it—we were actually about $25 up by the time we left!

We stopped outside the Bellagio to watch the fountains. They roared into the air to the sounds of Luck Be a Lady. It was magical. The fountains danced and fired what seemed like miles into the air. Each time, a thundering cannon would sound, and a chill would shoot up our spines.

It was a truly emotional experience for both of us. It’s very hard to describe, but there is something about Vegas: the sheer scale, the fact it’s in the middle of nowhere, the hopes and dreams of the hundreds of thousands who gamble, party, or, like us, gawp at this strange alternate reality—it really gets inside you.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s so apparent in our collective consciousness—the prominence it plays in our popular culture—that it hit us so hard. I think just the fact that we had made it all the way there on our own terms, that unlike many who were there, tomorrow our wild adventure would continue.

As we made our way to Mexico, a little scared at the prospect but also madly excited, each day for us revealed something new about the world. And, without the huge, massive cliché I know I’m dropping, each day showed us something we didn’t know about ourselves or each other.

And I think that’s why, listening to the silky sweet voice of old Frank, so perfectly in tune with Vegas, we both held on hard to our composure and let it slip just enough to wet our amazed faces.

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