Deserts and Dramas - OR, CA and NV

Spring Break - Deserts and Dramas

It all seemed like a great adventure when we were sitting in Shari's
sipping coffee and picking at our breakfasts. It was our local Shari's,
a 24-hour restaurant which we regularly frequented in the wee small
hours. The night shift waitresses knew us by name. In much the same way
that the barmen had known my friend and I by name back in England.
Barmen vs. waitresses. Another glaring difference in my transatlantic
lives. Two distinct lives separated by the Big Blue. Enough
philosophising (is that even a word? If it isn't, it should be). Our
great adventure had been initiated by me and my relentless pleading to
go to Las Vegas. One of TWP, Dan (the very same Dan who let us invade
his home at Thanksgiving), told us that his family owned a house just
outside of Las Vegas in a place called Boulder City. Spring Break was
fast approaching so, in a flurry of organisation, I planned our trip to
Vegas with my fellow Brit, Helen. Knowing that we would have to drive
through California we included some sights in that state too. A call to
AAA told me I was far too optimistic, so we cut our stops down
dramatically. That day we had met in Shari's at some hour of the
morning unfamiliar to us all. Closer to bedtime than getting up time.
We lived in Corvallis which is in the top half of the Willamette Valley
in Oregon. Our first stop was the Redwoods National Park in Northern
California. Dan, Helen and I piled into the minivan we'd procured from
Dan's parents with Lewis and Bobby who were joining us too. We set off
and waved our comfortable, familiar Shari's goodbye for a week (as it
turned out every single Shari's in the Pacific Northwest looks exactly
the same, the waitresses being the only inconstant). It was only when
we were settled in and cruising down Interstate 5 (a great long
interstate that spans the west coast) that the immensity of the United
States hit me. It's a very very big place. Digging out an atlas I
discovered that you could almost fit two Englands into the State of
Oregon alone. If that was the sort of thing you liked to do. Yet, I was
told, Oregon's population was very much less than England's (something
of the order of 13 ? to 1), and most of them were crammed into the
Willamette Valley. Crammed is hardly the right word given the expanses
of empty space we were now driving through as we approached the
Oregon/California border. The Oregon countryside is stunning, as is
California's. But after you've driven through it for over half a day it
does get tedious. There's only so many times you can say 'ooh, look at
the mountains' or 'ooh, look at the trees' with any real enthusiasm.
Once over the state line we left I-5 and headed towards the coast. By
late afternoon we hit the Redwood National Park. I know we've all seen
the big Redwood trees in movies and on TV. But it's quite different
when you're driving through them, and I mean literally driving through
them, through one tree. You feel very small when you're confronted with
a tree with a highway cut into its trunk. And while you're busy being
awestruck by nature you drive past a towering wood sculpture of a
grinning lumberjack painted in bold primary colours. A leering
portrayal of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe. This killed the beauty
of the place for me. It seemed like the wrong place for it and I don't
care if it is Paul Bunyan. If you gave a four year old child an
original Constable painting and a box of crayons you'd get much the
same effect, I'm sure. A garish figure in a splendid landscape. I'm
almost certain I'll say this many times but still...only in America.
Lewis's generous parents had offered us a bed for the night in their
beautiful home in Olema, just north of San Francisco. We arrived there
late in the evening; tired, hungry and probably with that disgusting
travel smell clinging to us. Beer and food were provided and we slept
well. Despite the horror stories I'd been told of Black Widow spiders
in these parts.

The next morning we were fed well and plied with fruit and sandwiches
for our journey. I over-thanked Lewis's parents and probably apologised
too, being British. We set off again, windows open, air-conditioning on
and fighting the California heat. We passed by San Francisco and caught
a glimpse of the golden gate bridge. I sang every song I could think of
with the words 'San Francisco' in and bugged the hell out of the
others. Because I could only think of one song, and could only remember
one line of that. Which I sang over and over again for many, many
miles. We ate our packed lunches midmorning out of boredom more than
hunger so when it came to our actual lunchtime we stopped at a gas
station and bought bread rolls and cheese slices. We stopped by an
impossibly blue lake and here we invented the California Sandwich. This
sounds rude, but it is not. Whoever had bought the bread and cheese
(probably me) had not thought to get knives or butter. To make our
bread and cheese into cheese rolls we pushed our thumbs into the soft
rolls, pressed the cheese into the cavity and closed up the hole. I
realise how disgusting this sounds, believe me. And, quite frankly, it
was pretty foul. But it was food and a form of entertainment.
'Entertainment?!' I hear you cry. Please remember that by this time we
had been in the minivan for a day and a half. We were starved for
excitement. On we went towards Yosemite National Park. As we ascended
into the mountains, signs informed us that we should turn off our air
conditioning to prevent the engine overheating. We obliged and were
quickly reduced to very hot, very bad-tempered people. Another sign
warned us of the forest fire risk in this area and I made everyone in
the car assure me that it was a precautionary sign and we wouldn't
burst into flames at any moment. We drove into the park, paid our
nominal entrance fee and stopped first at Yosemite Village to mail
postcards and re-hydrate. I was very excited about Yosemite. I'm an
environmentalist at heart and the idea of all this untamed wilderness
to walk around in was irresistible to me. I only mention this to make
you understand how disappointed I was when the following happened.
Loaded with soda and unhealthy snacks we got back into the minivan. I
was riding shotgun, so I climbed up into the front passenger seat,
crossed one leg over the other and pulled the door closed, very
foolishly, on my foot. I screamed in agony, my foot trapped in the wee
tiny gap between the dashboard and the closed door. As I struggled to
open the door the others asked if I was alright. Here, I pause. Why is
it that if you cry out in pain, or collapse or look ill in any way
people ask you 'are you alright'? Isn't it quite obvious that you're
not? I've always wanted to reply in those situations; 'yes, I'm
absolutely fine, I just thought it would be fun to shout and scream for
no reason'. But, in those situations, I'm generally too preoccupied
with the thing making me not alright. I continue. After the others had
ascertained that I was hurt, there was a lot of jumping out of the car
and taking off my shoe so they could prod my foot and make me yell
again. It became apparent that I had hurt my foot enough for me not to
be able to walk on it. Someone suggested we go to an emergency room and
get an x-ray. I stubbornly refused. I'm not a big fan of doctor places
at the best of times, but I wanted to see Yosemite possible broken
bones or not. I would not be argued with, so we got back into the car
and drove through the park. For a while I could think of nothing but my
gently throbbing foot. But someone spotted a sign for a 'swinging
bridge' and we all got overexcited. We pulled over, looking forward to
pretending to be Indiana Jones in 'Temple of Doom'. I was half carried
to the bridge, which was disappointingly stationary. But it was from
here that I first appreciated the beauty of the place. Mountains
towered around us, waterfalls tumbled down sheer rock faces, a sedate
stream flowed under us and the glory of nature sung its own praises all
about us. There is absolutely no way to describe Yosemite without using
the word 'breathtaking'. I don't think I ever understood the meaning of
the word before I stood on that bridge and was absorbed by the majesty
of the American wilderness. From the bridge we could see the infamous
Half Dome, an oddly shaped mountain that towers over the valley. One of
TWP, probably Lewis, told me a good legend about Half Dome. I think
it's a nice story so I'm going to include it whether you agree or not.
The legend comes from the Miwok Indians of the Yosemite Valley and
specifically the Ahwahneechee tribe. According to legend a Miwok Indian
lady called Tis-sa-ack married a bloke from the Yosemite Valley, some
kind of bird or animal person (I apologise to any American Indians who
might be reading this as I mutilate this legend). So Tis-sa-ack and her
new husband went back from Mono Lake where she lived to the Yosemite
Valley, known to the Miwok as Ah-wah-nee. They had a blazing row
because Ti-sa-ack wanted to go back to Mono Lake; and, because of their
anger, both Tis-sa-ack and her husband were turned to stone and
Tis-sa-ack became Half Dome. It is said that if you look closely at
Half Dome you can make out her head and shoulders and the marks where
her tears fell to form Mirror Lake below Half Dome. Our trip through
Yosemite continued infused by the peace and tranquillity of our
surroundings. It was truly the most serene and placid time of our
vacation. Reluctantly we left Yosemite and continued towards Las Vegas
through the Mojave Desert. My injury seemed to be improving, so I still
wouldn't allow them to stop at any hospitals. I assured them that we'd
go to one in Las Vegas if it wasn't better the next day (it wasn't
better the next day but I didn't tell the others that, a pesky injury
wasn't cutting into my holiday time). I have heard people rave about
the desert, how beautiful it is, how calm etc. etc. The list of
adjectives goes on and on. Having driven through some, I have only a
few things to say about the desert. It's sandy, and there's a lot of
it. Oh, and it's hot. The only interesting thing in a desert, that I
could see, were the roadrunners and they were few and far between. We
amused ourselves on this long, dull, lonely drive through the Mojave
and Nevada Deserts towards Las Vegas by inventing games. Games like the
driving game (can you drive the car with your feet/mouth/nose etc.)
And, as we neared Las Vegas and there were more cars on the road, the
licence plate game. I think that there's an innocent alphabet related
game with this name but ours was a little different. It involved
punching whoever was nearest you if you saw an out of state licence
plate. The only time this became a difficult game was on the way home
when we crossed state lines and couldn't remember which state we were
actually in. Other than that it was rather a painful game. Aside from
games we had a rule on this trip. Whoever rode shotgun had to stay
awake to amuse the driver. As we closed in on Las Vegas it was
approaching 3am. I was in shotgun, Dan was driving, and I was flagging.
Dan had driven this route to Vegas many times before and he knew what
was about to happen. He flicked soda at me to wake me up (or piss me
off, I couldn't really tell and I've never asked him) and told me to
stay awake for a while, just till we got over the rise that was
approaching. He said there was something I'd want to see. Puzzled, I
looked around me. Outside was a vast expanse of dark, dull desert. The
same dark, dull desert we'd been driving through for hours. Nothing
anyone would want to see at three in the morning. I trusted Dan,
though, and stayed awake by quietly humming themes from cowboy movies.
We drove up over the rise in the road and, quite without warning, the
valley ahead of us was flooded with lights and in the middle stood the
infamous Strip. The casinos were clearly visible from the distance we
were at (I believe it was 30 miles) and the lights of the city
dominated the entire landscape. In stark contrast to the miles and
miles of black nothingness we'd been driving through only seconds
before. I was informed by Dan in a bored, matter of fact tone that one
of the casinos had over 5,000 rooms and that they all kept their lights
on all hours of darkness and that the money they made from gambling
alone more than payed for their electricity bills. We didn't drive
through the Strip that night. We made our way to Boulder City ("dam
builders and dam proud of it" apparently), found the house we'd been
lent by Dan's family for the few days we'd be in Vegas and slept for a
long, long time.

We awoke the next morning (actually, it was the next afternoon if you
want to be completely accurate) and went to a casino called Railroad
Pass between Boulder City and Las Vegas. Dan, again displaying his
extensive knowledge of the area, told us that this was the oldest
casino in Nevada. The casino sold all day breakfasts for some
ridiculously low sum so we ordered those. The great thing about Vegas
is that you can get a lot of good food for pocket change. The waitress
put our cheap food down and asked where we were from. Helen and I told
her we were British and, as Americans tend to, she asked if we knew
some friends of hers who lived in Nottingham. We said that we didn't
and she seemed surprised. I don't know why but most Americans think
that everyone in England knows everyone else. Maybe I do know why,
actually. If you're an Englishman living in an American town you tend
to pick up English accents like a radar. I know that Helen and I knew
all of the English people who lived at OSU, and many who lived in
Corvallis itself. Maybe Americans think that if you know the other
English people in their town, you must know all the people in
England...obvious really. The waitress told us that there was a storm
coming. It sounds strange to say, but Bobby and I were pleased by this
bad weather report. We had been compounding a theory since north
California that it would rain while we were in the desert. My reasoning
was that I'm British and the rain follows me. I think Bobby was just
being pessimistic. The storm never came 'though so our theory was
rubbish. Bobby's other theory on this trip was that it wasn't
California until we saw palm trees. We didn't see any palm trees on the
drive and Bobby insists to this day that we must not have driven
through California. Bobby has problems. We decided that we would go
back to the house for the few hours of sunshine that were left and then
drive down to Las Vegas and have our first sight of the Strip in its
nighttime glory. As we drove down the Strip my vocabulary was
dramatically reduced to a handful of expletives and exclamations. There
are way too many stimuli to take in in Las Vegas. We drove past the
casinos at the slow pace that the traffic imposed. Looming above us
were replicas of the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, a hot air
balloon, pieces of ancient Rome and modern Venice... Las Vegas is big
and it's bright. A contrast to the peace and tranquillity of Yosemite
that we'd so admired the previous day. I loved it. I love Las Vegas.
Only the terminally dull could go to Las Vegas and not have a good
time. If someone tells you that they don't like Vegas, they're lying.
There's nothing to dislike. It's made all the sweeter by the delicious
irony that it was originally settled by Mormons and has evolved into
the definitive city of sin. The only thing we stood and watched that
night was the volcano outside the Mirage casino. Outside the casino,
just off the road, is a huge water feature made to look like a tropical
mountain and lagoon, water flowed down the edges of the mountain and
into the pool. It's spectacular in itself but if you stand there long
enough the fake mountain erupts in a cataclysm of spitting flames and
coloured water. You can feel the heat on your face and you can't help
but be utterly astonished. That's the thing about Las Vegas, it's fake,
it's manmade, it should be an affront to nature. But it isn't. It has a
self-deprecating charm and it wouldn't dream of taking itself
seriously. It's entertaining, mind-numbingly fun and above all,
cheap... All the attractions outside the casinos are free to watch,
most of them inside are. The food is inexpensive and the hotel prices
could definitely be worse. The only way you lose significant amounts of
money in Vegas is through gambling (which we were too young for at the
time) or if you buy too much stuff from the overpriced gift
shops.

Dan's parents had some jet ski's at the house and since we were a
stone's throw from Lake Mead we decided to affix trailer to van and
indulge in some water sports the next day. Now, I can't swim so despite
the other's protests and cajoling I designated myself official
photographer and decided to refrain from going on the lake. Lake Mead
is the lake that was created when Hoover Dam was built. And it's huge.
It stretches across a whole corner of Nevada. We went down to the lake
and found a place to launch the jet ski's. The lake really is quite
picturesque, the weather was great, the lake sparkled in the sun
and...only one of the jet ski's worked. This meant that the others had
to take turns. I didn't care of course. I was just there to hang out in
the blistering heat by a beautiful lake. Bobby got to go first and went
speeding away. While Dan wandered off to try and get the other jet ski
fixed and Helen turned the van inside out looking for her sunglasses,
Lewis and I went to try out a suggestion of Dan's. He had told us that
if we bought a bag of popcorn from the gift shop we could feed the carp
in the lake. We bought the popcorn and kneeled on the side of the
jetty. We threw a few handfuls in and nothing happened for a couple of
seconds. Then suddenly the water below us was teaming with fish. We
kept throwing in the popcorn, and before we knew it the lake was more
fish than water. The ducks were walking on fish, fish were getting
pushed up and trapped out of the water by the others, their gills
slapping shut in panic, and Lewis was certain that if he reached down
he'd be able to grab one. It was unbelievable. A little pool of solid
fish. We finished the bag and they dispersed. Helen returned and we
repaired to the caf? for some iced tea. Dan burst in and told us that
no one could fix the jet ski so we were stuck with one. He sat down,
stole my iced tea and proceeded to try and convince me to go on the jet
ski with him when Bobby got back. He assured me that he had an extra
life jacket and that he was a competent jet skier. Lewis and Helen
joined in the fight and, if only to get a quiet life and not be branded
a coward, I agreed. We spotted Bobby bouncing over the waves towards
shore before we'd even had a chance to order lunch. Dan and I went back
to the launch and I made him promise that we wouldn't be out very long.
Bobby handed over the jet ski, said he was starving and headed for the
caf? (or as Bobby liked to call cafes, restaurants and so on, the 'food
hut') to join the others, while we headed out onto the lake. I have to
admit that despite my misgivings it was fun. Bouncing around on the
water, whipping up a wind that cooled us in the heat. Dan suggested we
go check out the back of Hoover Dam and I agreed. We began to near the
dam and without warning the jet ski jolted, let out a bang and the
engine cut out. At first I didn't panic. Engines stall all the time,
right? This was no different. The jet ski was settled low in the water
and I realised with a start that the current was turning us slowly
towards the dam. Still I wasn't worrying. Dan got the engine started
again, turned the jet ski and twisted the throttle. The jet ski reared
up on its end until our backs were parallel to the water. Dan let the
throttle go and we splashed back onto the water. Now, I was worried.
Dan told me to calm down and tried the throttle again. Again the jet
ski jerked upwards. This didn't help me calm down. I was trembling and
muttering under my breath. Dan grabbed my hands and urged me to hold on
tight to him and shift my weight as far forward as I could. He sounded
like he knew just what he was doing so I calmed a little. But I was
still scared. I couldn't swim, I was on a jet ski that didn't work
properly and there were no other boats around to rescue us. At that
moment I was more terrified than I've ever been. Dan spotted a small
beach we could land on across the lake. He told me that we would stay
close to the shore so if we got into trouble we wouldn't be stranded in
the water, we could swim to shore. Or he could pull me to shore, at any
rate. This made me feel better. It was a damn good thing that Dan
waited to tell me about the scorpions, snakes, spiders and other deadly
creatures that frequented those shores until after we were safe. What
is it about deserts? It seems that everything that lives there will
kill you, given half the chance. I don't really know how long it took
us to ride the spluttering, limping jet ski to that beach. It seemed
like forever but I was assured it was not more than a couple of hours.
The jet ski was limping along, neither of us had hats so the Nevada sun
was burning down on us making me at least giddy. The pathetically
broken down jet ski must have been leaking fuel because the fumes were
unbearable. I was becoming convinced that one of us was going to faint
from the heat, the fumes or hunger since neither of us had eaten that
day and fall in the water. Irrational fears maybe, but I couldn't help
it. Whichever one of us succumbed we'd be buggered. There was no way we
could have got back on from the water. If one of us had gone in, we'd
have both had to go in. As we neared the shore and could begin to see
the lake bottom again my panic eased. Shaken, but relieved, we got to
the beach. Dan hitched a ride back to the jetty to find the others and
left me with the jet ski. He paused to warn me to keep away from the
rocks if it got dark to avoid the snakes. I'm sure he had good
intentions but it did start to get dark and the beach emptied of the
few tourists that had been there. And I couldn't stop staring at the
rocks, waiting for snakes to come slithering out like a scene from a
bad horror movie. No snakes came and Dan arrived back with a very
concerned Bobby in tow. The crisis over, we got the jet ski back to the
van. Lewis or Helen made an offhand comment about not getting to have a
go on the jet ski and all my panic converted into anger and I yelled at
them. Thanks to my outburst we went home to change with a cloud of
tension hanging over us. As neither of us had eaten Dan suggested we go
to an all-you-can-eat-for-$17 buffet at the Rio casino. With me still
snapping at Helen, we headed into Las Vegas. After I'd eaten I felt
much better, apologised for my temper, and we finished our day with an
aimless, companionable wander around the Strip.

As I have mentioned we were staying in Dan's family's house in Boulder
City. Apparently his grandfather had worked on the construction of
Hoover Dam. All the workers from the dam lived in Boulder City, which
was how the town had sprung up, and the dam was almost named Boulder
Dam in deference to the workers. Some sycophantic somebody changed
their mind and it was named after Herbert Hoover, the 31st President,
instead. Which is weird to me because the dam was opened by President
Roosevelt. So, why isn't it Roosevelt Dam? Who can tell? Dan and his
family regularly holiday in the house so he is fairly knowledgeable
about the area (as I have already demonstrated). We had already set
aside the day to see Hoover Dam and Dan told us of a little museum in
Boulder City about it, the predictably named Boulder City/Hoover Dam
Museum. We went along to it before we drove out to the dam. I was
pleasantly surprised to find it was a very low key affair. There were
hardly any other tourists and it was tucked away in an office complex.
Had we not known it was there, we'd have never known it was there; if
you catch my drift. The lady who took our money seemed inordinately
pleased to see us and was thrilled to learn that Helen and I were from
England. That's what I love about Americans, they're always glad to see
you. I have heard from other globe trotting Brits that they found big
city Americans curt and unfriendly. So, it's possibly a trait confined
to the smaller cities and towns. I, at least, have no complaints about
American courtesy. I often felt, as with the Hoover Dam Museum lady,
that virtual strangers were on the verge of inviting me to their home
for dinner or offering me their son's hand in marriage. As we went
around the fascinating exhibits the lady kept popping up beside us and
telling us all about whatever we were looking at. Placed, as it is, in
the town where the construction crew resided the museum has much of the
original paraphernalia they would have used. Photographs and stories
that have presumably been submitted by families of the workers adorn
the walls. When Dan let slip that he believed his grandfather worked on
the dam our guide almost exploded, she asked Dan what his family name
was and hurried away. We found her waving frantically at us and
pointing at a group photo feverishly.
"There, there!" she said, jabbing the photo, "that must be him." He
dutifully studied the man she'd indicated and agreed that was probably
his grandfather, although the picture quality wasn't great. We all made
suitably impressed noises, this pleased our guide tremendously and she
ushered us into a room with a television and VCR at the end and a few
rows of what looked like school benches in front of it. Our guide
pushed play, beamed at us happily and bustled out. The video we watched
was, predictably, about the construction of the dam. And it horrified
Lewis and I. Lewis is, as I am, an ardent environmentalist. The video
that we saw was violently anti-nature. Portraying the Colorado River
almost as a sentient being bent on the destruction of all human kind. I
am assured that without the dam Nevada and most of south California
would be arid and dry. And that the dam is a necessary and reasonably
environmentally sound means of providing electricity and water to the
surrounding area. However, it was not the Boulder City Museum's video
which assured me of this. The video tried to convince me that the
natural wilderness of America is evil and must be crushed at all costs.
I came away dazed and not at all sure I wanted to see the dam now. But
we went to see it. Bobby is obsessed with all things electrical and the
biggest dam in North America was like a Mecca for him. As we drove
towards it, past transformers the size of houses Bobby began bouncing
in his seat shouting estimated voltages, wattages and who knows what
else at us. We drove across the dam to find a parking space on the
Arizona side with Bobby almost crawling out of the window to see the
dam. As we walked across the dam towards the entrance which, as luck
would have it, was on the Nevada side Bobby reeled off facts and
figures about the dam. You know when you walk a dog and it runs ahead a
little way, barking excitedly, dashes back to you and then repeats the
exercise. Bobby was doing a good impression of that, without any actual
barking. There's excited, and then there's Bobby at Hoover Dam. We got
to the entrance to find that Helen and I couldn't go in with our
handbags, we'd have to walk back to the van and leave them there. It
wasn't until we were almost half way back again after dropping off our
bags that one of us noticed a sign and then the time. We had spent so
long at the museum and walking along the enormous dam that we had
missed the last tour. Bobby deflated visibly. We contented ourselves
with looking over the edge. It's the kind of dam James Bond would be at
home abseiling down. It's a sheer drop of more than 700 feet and
there's nothing quite as dizzying as being at the top looking down.
Despite my misgivings from the anti-nature video I was impressed. It's
quite a feat of engineering. A real testament to the ingenuity, the
talent and the resourcefulness of man. I heard a story once about the
dam, it may or may not be true, I may have even dreamt it, but I'll
repeat it here anyway. After the dam was built, California used the
extra water to irrigate the desert and create farming land for its
extensive orchards. An admirable and sensible use for their share of
the water supply provided by the new dam. Nevada, on the other hand,
used its share to water Las Vegas and help it prosper into the gaudy
city of sin it now is. A less sensible but, I think at least, just as
admirable use. After all, what would the world be without Las Vegas?
Speaking of the world and Vegas leads me nicely into our evening's
activity. The Luxor casino is the Egyptian themed one, the one with the
Sphinx they always show on TV. Atop the pyramid-shaped casino is a very
powerful lamp which shoots a beam of white light into the desert night.
It is one of only a handful of man-made things that are visible from
space (the answer to my earlier question being; the world would be more
boring from space without Las Vegas). And this is the casino we
explored that night. Caesar's Palace imitates ancient Rome; Venezia
does a passable impersonation of modern day Venice; Paris at least has
cobbled paths and shops with names like 'Le Patisserie' or 'Le Gift
Shop' in its casino to lend a French atmosphere. The Luxor took some
sphinxes, obelisks and a pyramid, threw them together with a tasteless
carpet, little in the way of entertainment and some slot machines. Not
that the sphinxes and obelisks aren't imposing and magnificent. They
are, but the Luxor missed something. It's hard to say what it is, but
whatever it is the others have it. Why is it that no-one ever knows
what 'it' is? Bear with me while I ramble for a few sentences, won't
you? I don't know what 'it' is, re the Luxor, so I'm as guilty as
everyone else. But that doesn't stop it from bugging me ('it' in that
sentence being no-one knowing what 'it' is). Like "I've had enough,
that's it!". That's what? A cheese and tomato sandwich? An elephant
dancing the Can-Can? It's not at all clear. And the dictionary isn't
any help. There are many examples, I won't cite any more lest you get
bored and use the book for fuel. But I think someone should look into
it (again 'it' is not knowing what 'it' is). Someone with a lot of time
on their hands, like a watch salesman for instance (ha ha! I'll bet you
feel like you're getting your moneys worth with quality jokes like
that). Maybe there's a book in it...

The following day we allowed ourselves a lie in, it being our last day
in Las Vegas. Our first stop on the Strip was Circus Circus. We had a
wonderful time. We stood and watched a trapeze act, 'oohing' and
'aahing' with the best of them. We utterly failed to win anything on
the side show games. We bought candy floss and I was berated for not
calling it cotton candy. We played a laser quest type shoot-em-up game.
Since we were in Vegas we made a small wager on the match. Bobby and
Lewis versus Dan and I, playing for a huge prize of...a root beer
float. This was our last night so we were determined to fit in as many
casinos as possible. Next on the list was Caesar's Palace, a truly
magical place. It doesn't take an enormous stretch of the imagination
to believe you're walking along the streets of ancient Rome. The
ceiling does a jolly good job of being the sky and alternating between
dawn and dusk every 15 minutes or so. As we explored the casino we
found another of those free entertainments they lay on in Vegas. One of
the fountains was rigged so that the statues on it moved. They
portrayed the sinking of Atlantis with copious amounts of fire,
brimstone and waves of water and loud booming voices saying sentences
with words like 'smite' in them, because that's how Atlanteans
talked...everyone knows that. Next; to Treasure Island, outside the
casino is an enormous lake where a life-sized pirate ship and an
equally life-sized British buccaneer ship engage in a fiery battle to
the death. Naturally, the British lose every time, the brave bloke
playing the Captain going down with the ship many times a night, night
after night. The final casino we visited was Bellagio's. And here, I
have to admit to something. Much as I have raved about the
entertainment and the dizzying spectacles in Las Vegas it has to be
said that after a few days it all becomes too much. Or rather, too
little. It might be to do with sensory overload. More likely it's
because after too long it becomes perfectly normal to see pirates
waving swords on the blazing remains of their ship. It's ordinary for a
volcano to erupt every 15 minutes. And you're not surprised to walk
past an innocent looking fountain only to find that the statues of
Roman Gods move, talk and make merry. It sounds odd, but with each new
casino it was becoming much harder to be impressed by its offerings.
Bellagio's was different. For a start, we were not planning to visit
this casino. It doesn't have a huge gold lion, or a Venetian canal
outside it. Nothing to draw us in. We were on our way to Paris across
the street from Bellagio's. Music piped out from hidden speakers as we
walked past the lake outside the Bellagio. We all turned to see a
dazzling display. Jets of water rose and fell in time to the music,
forming circles and figure of eights; chasing each other across the
lake; pulsing and dancing around to the strains of Mr. Frank Sinatra.
We were enthralled. It was beautiful and captivating. In a city that
relies so much on over the top gimmicks and larger than life
attractions the Bellagio's fountains were understated and serene. The
choreography of the balletic water jets was ingenious. The music was
chosen well and it was not crowded around the lake. Most tourists were
watching the bigger and better publicized displays in the other
casinos. The music finished and the water fountains faded into the
lake. We hurried into the casino to see if we could find out how often
the fountains danced. We were told every half hour. Inside the casino
we found another calming diversion. A little greenhouse set just off
the foyer. A sanctuary of tranquillity and aromatic plants. When the
time came we went back outside to the man-made lake and were once again
hypnotized by the dancing water.

The next day found us on the road heading back to Oregon. Once on I-5
we pointed the van north, hit cruise control and drove. We hit Red
Bluff in north California shortly before midnight and got ourselves
possibly the worst motel rooms in the whole of the west coast. Another
long day of driving got us safely back to Corvallis. Some quick
arithmetic and consultation of my diary found that we had travelled
more than 3,000 miles and spent around $300 on gas between us. I'd seen
far too much of the great American highway, come to loathe the desert
and experienced dramas and traumas. But, Hell...it was worth it.