Our Man in Las Vegas
As my plane touched down at McLaren airport, I realised with a shudder that, just three days before, my friend had been thrown out of America. The ten-hour flight from London Gatwick leaves you shattered and broken. There are, after all, only so many times you can sit through Miss Congeniality II. I was tired and emotional and the idea of being grilled by scary men with guns before being put on a ten-hour flight back would have tipped me over the edge. My friend had mumbled something about his identity being stolen by an international drug smuggler, but the likelihood is that passport control at McLaren simply didn’t like the look of him. In these times of heightened security, the authorities can refuse you admittance to the country just because you look like an undesirable, and believe me, my friend looks distinctly undesirable.
What kind of freak do you have to be to be refused admittance into Las Vegas, I wonder, as, passport control successfully negotiated, I flop into the limo that awaits to take me to the Mirage Hotel and Casino. This is, after all, a city of freaks. As I stare out of the limo’s darkened windows I see a hobo holding up a sign saying, “I’m not going to lie to you–I just want a beer!” As we turn into the Strip, Elvis and Marilyn stride by, apparently deep in conversation. A man on a unicycle almost crashes into the taxi in front. This is the kind of place where men in tuxedos greet you as you walk into the toilets of restaurants, screaming, “Welcome to the restroom, sir!”
I really should review the company I keep.
The Strip
The Mirage Hotel and Casino was built in 1989 by Steve Wynn, and, with a construction cost of $630 million, it heralded the birth of the themed super-casino in Las Vegas, a trend that would dramatically alter the face of the Strip and the character of the city forever, as the race began to build ever more impressive and, frankly, ridiculous edifices along the city’s golden mile. There’s no town planning in Las Vegas; just a bunch of big corporations vying to out-glam each other, and as a result the Strip is a gigantic, jumbled, unapologetic collage of architectural folly. And it’s great to back!
As I check in at The Mirage I admire the giant tropical fish tank, spanning the entire length of the 53ft-long desk. “What’s that called?” I ask, pointing to a giant, piscine freak of nature, its rubbery lips clamped to the face of the glass. “Oh,” that’s Benny,” replies the pretty girl at the desk. “He’s great, isn’t he?”
I stroll through the atrium, just beyond the check-in desk, replete with water features and rainforest flora, and out onto the casino floor. I’m reminded that The Mirage is a disorientating maze of bars, restaurants and, of course, rows of slot machines. They really don’t want you to find your way out of this place once you’re in. I eventually find my hotel room, half a mile along a corridor on the 12th floor that’s straight out of The Shining. I must invest in a tricycle while I’m here, I think. I discover that my room overlooks Bare, the topless pool, where women enter for free and are encouraged to strip off, while gormless frat boys pay $40 to sit around and ogle. Back of the net!
It’s late now, and my body thinks it’s much, much later. All I’m capable of is an evening stroll. It’s time to reacquaint myself with the delights of the Vegas Strip. First stop is the Venetian. The real Venice is slowly sinking, and will one day be consumed by the encroaching waters of the Adriatic, so thank God someone had the presence of mind to build another version in the middle of the Mojave Desert. The Venetian comes complete with gondola rides and its very own Rialto Bridge. Unlike the real Venice, however, it’s currently showing Phantom–The Vegas Spectacular, a reworking of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.
I cross the Strip and head to the Forum Shops, the absurdly over-the-top shopping mall which leads through to Caesars Palace. I want to assault my senses with the most flamboyant excesses of Vegas straight away; it’s the only way to fully acclimatise. The mall is laid out like an ancient Roman town, complete with animated robot statues of the gods and its very own fake sky painted on the ceiling. The fake sky tricks your brain into thinking your outside, although reason dictates you’re not, the effect of which is a sense of claustrophobia and mild anxiety. I hurry past the designer boutiques into Caesars in need of a stiff drink.
Caesars Palace is huge, and populated by centurions serving cocktails. It’s got even bigger since my last visit, with the addition of the Coliseum Theatre, where Celine Dion entertains the public with her strangulated caterwauling.
Onto The Flamingo, Bugsy Segiel’s art deco homage to pink neon. Built in 1946, it was the first luxury hotel on the Strip and would prove to be Bugsy’s downfall. Convinced that he was skimming the casino’s profits, Bugsy’s mob associates popped a cap in his ass. As I search for the statue of Bugsy outside, to my jetlagged eyes, the flamingos in the casino’s gardens look like camp twats from outer space, which is probably what they are. Last time I was here there was a penguin enclosure. Yes, that’s right, penguins in the desert! I seem to remember they spent a lot of time sitting around puffing and looking hot. Today, there’s no sign of any penguins whatsoever. I expect they finally melted.
I walk further down the Strip to the Bellagio to see if I can spot any famous poker players. The fountains outside the Bellagio leap and twirl to classical music in a stunning display of aquatic choreography. Inside is the famous Bellagio poker room and Bobby’s Room, home to the biggest cash games in the world. Tonight Bobby’s Room is empty–it seems the Big Gamers are still mourning the death of the great Chip Reese and latterly the game has broken up. Scotty Nguyen walks past, though, high-fiving and hey-babying everyone he meets. I down a Sam Adams, the only American beer worth drinking, and head back to the Mirage and oblivion.
Fancy a gamble?
The next morning I awake feeling surprisingly fresh and opt to play some poker. Two days before I was due to leave for Vegas I lost my wallet, including all my cash and credit cards, and then promptly found them again–in that pocket that I never, ever put anything in. Too late. The damage had been done; my cards had been cancelled and I was five working days away from regaining my financial independence. Never mind, this meant that I would bring a finite amount of money to Vegas, which would encourage me to exercise caution when gambling. Not a bad idea. Take heed, people. Besides, last time I was here I had managed to pay for all my expenses just by playing a few hours of poker each day, grinding away at the low limits at the Gold Coast–one of the more down-at heel joints behind the RIO, where the meatloaf in the buffet made you ill but you still went back for more.
The first thing I realise when I get to the poker room is that the lowest limit is no longer $0.50/$1. It’s now $1/$2. Great! This cuts my bankroll in half–instead of sitting with $100 and spinning it up, I’m now sitting with $200, which I don’t really want to lose. I’m playing scared, but I slowly grind my way up to $350 before a five-hour run of crap cards and missed flops sees my stack trickle down to a shadow of its former self. I eventually get my last $50 in with aces against a pair of eights, which, by the river, have quadrupled up. ‘Where have all the bad players gone?’, I wonder. A few years ago I could treat the tables here like my own personal cash machine, but now everyone seems to know what they’re doing. These kids have all read the books and have honed their skills online.
I realise I’m starving so I head to the Carnegie Deli, where $20 will buy a Reuben Sandwich. This consists of a pound and a half of salt beef, a pound and a half of pastrami, a generous helping of sauerkraut on rye bread, topped with Swiss cheese. Oh, and then they chuck it in a deep fat fryer! The dish that arrives at my table looks nothing like a sandwich–more like a giant yellow molehill. I eat a quarter of it and order a doggy bag. I can graze on this for the rest of the trip. I look at my watch. It’s 7.00pm and I suddenly feel exhausted. I’ll go upstairs for a power nap, I think. I sleep right through till 10.30am the next day.
Hmm… I had never envisaged coming to Vegas and losing money at poker. Oh well, I had hoped this would be a piece about the Vegas high-roller lifestyle, but we’re going to have to amend the title. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Vegas on a Budget.
But first, I’m going to have one final blast of the high life. The Voodoo Lounge is the nightclub on top of the RIO. The views don’t get much better than from an open-air nightclub on top of a skyscraper, and tonight the place is pumping. A few years ago, the Full Tilt party took place here in the middle of a full blown desert storm. At one point a gasworks blew up on the horizon. People briefly stopped in their tracks, but because this was Vegas, we all assumed it was some kind of pyrotechnics display and carried on dancing. That was a good night! This is also the home of the Voodoo cocktail, which is a basically gallon of booze with dry ice coming out of it.
Downtown
Fortunately, Vegas is the kind of place you can do on a budget. You may not be able to go to the exclusive nightclub La Bete at the Wynn and gaze at their giant manmade waterfall, but, even if you’re down to your last $100, you can still afford 101 Marguerites at Bill’s Gambling Hall, and that makes you feel like a millionaire. In fact, if you’re skint, you should probably move into Bill’s permanently. And besides, I still have three-quarters of a Reuben Sandwich to live off.
I usually visit Vegas at the height of summer, when the World Series of Poker is in full swing and its 116 degrees outside. The upshot of this is the only time you see daylight is when you’re running into a taxi. It’s just too hot to go out. The artificial light turns you into a ball of nervous tension and you drink too much just to numb the pain. But now, it’s early spring and the weather is beautiful, which means I can explore more of the town on foot. I wander off the Strip and find a bar. This place is refreshing. It’s feels like America, rather than “Vegas America”–a proper blue-collar American bar. Miller Lite and a hotdog for $2.50. The kind of place Tom Waits would drink in; where people come up to you and say things like, “So, buddy, what’s your story?” The kind of questions that an Englishman feels extremely awkward trying to answer.
In downtown Las Vegas you’ll find some of the silliest places in the silliest city in the whole world. It’s a little shabbier than the Strip, which makes me feel at home–were it not for the acrid desert heat, you could almost be in Clacton. Downtown is also where you will find Binion’s, the spiritual home of the World Series. While the famous giant horseshoe and the million dollars encased in glass have sadly been removed by the casino’s new owners, Harrah’s, it’s still a must visit, if only for the cheap hotdogs and great steakhouse upstairs. You can also peruse the Poker Hall of Fame, which still adorns the walls of the cardroom.
Opposite Binion’s is the Golden Nugget, the smartest establishment in “Glitter Gulch”. It’s also, I discover, where all the bad poker players have gone. Happy days!
Five days after my arrival, I’m being driven past the wedding chapels and cheap motels to the airport. Five days is just the right amount of time to spend in this vast Martian landscape, with its air conditioning pumping saccharine flavoured oxygen into your lungs and complete strangers who come up to you and say, “Hey, howya doin’?” a lot. Any longer and you’re in danger of going mad. A little bit of madness, however, is good for you. Vegas, I’m going to miss you.
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