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Day three of our vacation.
Doug wakes up and says “I had a strange dream.” Apparently, he dreamt he was on the show Beat Bobby Flay.
When the time starts and the bell rings, he grabs a frying pan and goes over to
Bobby Flay and starts beating him with it.
This sets the tone for the day.
We are going to take on the other side of the Las Vegas
Strip today. We take off across the bridge to MGM in search of adventure and
breakfast. Wolfgang Puck, Emeril, Joel Robuchon, and Tom Collicio…no one to
beat there, so we end up in the food court (we’re not looking for much, we’re
anticipating a buffet tonight). McDonalds it is…we opt out of the omelet from
Nathan’s hot dogs. There is no military
discount for this….which reminds me: When we asked the lady at Zumanity if there was a military
discount, she replied with “No, because this show has strobe lights.” So, the running joke has been, no military
discount, must have strobe lights. We both laugh hysterically each time we repeat this--Guess you had to be there.
Anyway, we pick a table and have our breakfasts. Next to us,
there are two young men with beards and skinny jeans. One of them is talking
angrily and waving his hands in the air as he talks. He’s complaining about
injustice and how he can’t get a break because he was just better than the
losers who were getting breaks. He pounds on the other guy’s plate with his
fork as he makes his point. The other guy says nothing, just sits with a
rigidly straight back and listens to the rant. Or maybe he’s mourning the death
of his Panda Express mystery meat stuffed waffle. We linger to listen to the
rant which runs from women who have dumped him to colleges that refuse to give
him a free education to people who won’t consider him for a job because he’s
white. He does not mention his beard. Doug
and I are judging him for his beard, it’s hideous. If we had someone apply for a job with that beard, we would not hire them either.
We hit the M&M store. There’s a midget employee who is
shouting things. I didn’t know she was an employee; I thought she was some kind
of mental homeless person, in need of an intervention, speaking a language of her
own making. Then, the Coca-Cola store with all its
trinkets and throngs of foreign families trying different flavors. Oh, speaking of different flavors, M&M
was trying out Chili nut and coffee nut flavored M&Ms this visit…we passed on those.
More walking, my feet still hurt from yesterday…clearly
today is going to test our relationship. I anticipate whining later tonight
when I start to get tired.
We walk, skipping over the Miracle Mile Shops at Planet
Hollywood because that’s the anticipated buffet (ranked number one on the
internet polls). We check out the shops
in Paris and I eye the Eiffel Tower. Neither of us have ever been up in the Vegas Eiffel Tower. We decide to check out the
price. Military discount? Oh hell yes,
the veteran gets in FREE…they don’t have strobe lights up there!! Woohoo.
We wait in line and get all the way up there. Awesome pictures. Awesome views. High enough to
make your knees a little weak. High enough that even Doug, who has absolutely no
fear that I’ve ever seen, says that he feels that little twinge. Still, it’s
cool.
After Paris, there’s Bally’s and these outdoor shops in a
Bizarre-like atmosphere. Bizarre is a good word. There’s a place that takes
photographs and stages fake weddings. There’s a brief temptation. There are
t-shirts which light up to the sound of music. There are sunglasses and
fake designer purses--Frendi, Guchi, Predia, Louis Vinton. And there’s a jerky shop. We’re
stopping in the jerky shop. JoJo’s
Jerky. The man in the shop tells Doug:
“We grow our own beef. Everything is handmade.” Doug and I exchange a look.
We’ve reached that point in our relationship where we know the thought running
through both of our brains at this moment is “How in the hell to you hand-make
a cow? Isn’t that illegal?” Still,
regardless of the suddenly suspect source of the meet, Doug buys jerky. Doug cannot pass on jerky. For the record, the
verdict on JoJo’s jerky wasn’t all that favorable. I had a friend who once
said, “Pizza is like sex. You never get a bad slice.” This seems to mirror
Doug’s theory on jerky--JoJos is apparently the equivalent of Tortino's frozen pizzas.
He eats this while we walk some more. More walking, yep.
And finally, it’s starting to warm up a little. This almost makes me forget
that I’m getting a blister.
Between the Flamingo and the Linq there’s a street (it’s
new since that last time I was in Vegas years and years ago, or maybe it was
there and I was just at the pool pissed off and drunk while all my money was
being lost). Anyway, we head down this
street and the shops here. Now, a friend
told me to try the food at a place called the Yardbird. I see a place called the Yardhouse, and I’m
like, hey, we should stop to get something to drink and share a couple of
appetizers for lunch….because really, I just want to stop the ever-growing
blister that’s forming on my foot, right in the center between between the pad
of my big toe and the other toes. The
advice was to try the deviled eggs appetizer, so we do because, at that moment,
I am not aware that I’m at the wrong place. We also order the fried cheese—in
our endless quest for squeaky cheese like the kind we had once, fried at some
fair or something. 
After food and a feet reprieve, we head off to finish up the little
street, which ends at a Ferris wheel called High Roller. The thing is MASSIVE. I cannot express this enough. Nor can I
express my lack of desire to ever be trapped in one of the huge pods with 20
sweaty strangers, unable to escape, glass-enclosed death trap that you have to
get in to take a slow road up so high that I think airplanes from McCarran
Airport are flying through the center of. Doug wants to get closer to it. He
wants to see how it works. I take pictures. I don’t really even want to get
close to it. I mean, it might break off
and go rolling down the strip, crushing small children and Asian families as
they run down the streets, their screams travelling on a two second delay. 
In the Venetian, in the canals, there’s a married couple
taking a trip in the white gondola. The woman is heavy set, wearing white and
has a huge smile on her face. The man is wearing a kilt and looks like he’s
hoping a sniper will take him out from one of the bridges over the canal. People
are taking pictures. The gondolier is singing bad Italian. There are some
claps, but I’m not sure if these are congratulations or thank-goodness-its-not-me
claps. The woman grins. The man stares at the water. A camera man sits across
from them filming. I think about an episode of Dateline I saw once.
The Venetian leads to the Wynn. My feet hurt. I’m in agony.
I try to fake it and smile, but part of me knows that this is probably going to
mark the end of my relationship. Goodbye happiness. Goodbye perfect match. I’m going to whine and
ruin it all. And then, while I’m mourning the loss and sure I’m going to die
alone, they’re going to amputate my feet and I’ll have to walk around on the
calloused stumps that once were ankles. And God dammit, I am not coordinated enough to walk around with two feet,
how am I ever going to manage walking around on two stumps? The man I love looks
at me and says, “I’m farting in every hotel on the Strip.” He grins. Okay, maybe there’s hope still.
I drink a lot of water. Smart Water. Fiji Water. Wynn
Water. Propel Water---oh yes, the irony. I have to pee. The signs at Wynn
for the restrooms have both a man and a woman on them. I head for the door. A
security guard stops me. Apparently, I was headed for the mens/Jenner family/metrosexual
room. I nearly walked in on things that I did not want to see and couldn’t run
from without crying in pain. I go in the
women’s room. Hey, this fancy people at
the Wynn have nice restrooms. Marble floors and doors that actually close. Gold
faucets and touchless hand dryers that remind me of those blowers at the end of
a car wash—except for your hands.
Now it’s back. Back the way we came. It’s getting late and
the street “performers” have come out. There’s short Darth Vader with his
platform shoes and oversized head. There’s Spiderman who should have worn a cup
or something; but, I can see why he wears a mask. I don’t have a penis and even
I feel superior to Spiderman. There are two woman wearing only body paint
advertising for a strip club. A woman hands them her baby and says: “Take a
picture with my baby!”
Then, it’s the Miracle Mile of shops at Planet
Hollywood. It’s going to be a miracle if
I survive this night without an amputation. A mile of shops much like the rest.
To be fair, these stores are more within my price range. If I wasn’t all whiny
and tired and hurting, I might have taken more of an interest. We check it all
out. With special attention to the electronics stores. While checking out a drone in Hammacher Schlemmer,
Doug looks at me, farts loudly and says … “Planet Hollywood!”
Finally we’ve arrived at Spice Market. The Buffet.
Military discount or strobe lights?
Military discount wins!!!
The people in front of us can’t decide where they want to sit. They take the hostess around the entire place
pointing at different places and ruling them out. It takes them 20 minutes to pick a table.
People with food piled high on two plates pass by in a hurry to their tables. I’d
say something about them being able to go back for more instead of grabbing all
the food at once, but I figure their feet might hurt and I think they’ve got a
reasonable solution.
We get a table finally. Next to a table where a man has a
plate filled with crab legs. The food is good. Or maybe it’s just the joy of
being off my feet.
At another table, there are two woman in clothes one size
too small. Leopard print leggings and
lots of gold. Long lacquered nails. Bags by Louis Vinton and Predia or maybe
Frendi and Guchi. Ankle boots with straps that cut into swollen feet and
cankles bursting at the seams of the leggings. They talk with flourishes and hair whips. They
scarf food trying to look elegant. Doug and I watch as they go back for several
helpings. And then…at the end…..they start flossing their teeth at the table.
One of them picks up the cloth napkin and blows her nose in it. Doug and I exchange
looks of horror and shock.
The waitress yells at the busser for leaving too many
unbussed tables. The busser yells at her in Spanish, mumbling under her breath
behind her back as she rolls her eyes and throws up her arms.
We hobble back to the tram to Luxor. Full. The rest has
done little to help my feet. 11.4 miles the days before. 11.9 miles today. 5.25
miles the first day. It takes me three
days to do a marathon. There’s a girl
complaining about her feet on the tram. She shows her friends that they’ve
taken 5000 steps. They ooh and ahh at how awesome they are. Doug looks at his
phone. 24,639 steps. He’s hit a new record for the day. The tram
also holds a family with a father who looks like he’s barely hit puberty. His
wife/ mother of children/ nanny/ grandmother and he have 4 children. They are all
wearing sandals. For some reason, I think they’re probably vegans. It must be
the delirium setting in. Doug farts as we exit the tram and head back to the
room, finishing our third day of vacation.
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