Not Our First Rodeo

We’ve traveled together before, the four of us. Three years ago, we flew to Las Vegas to celebrate a chronological milestone for Laura. Since Laura and I share a birth year, they tacked me on as a celebrant. Neither Laura nor I seem to care much for being feted, but we like parties and people so can handle the price of puffing out a few candles. I inherited my aversion to the spotlight from my mother — I recall a surprise birthday party at Olive Garden her church friends threw. She entered an event room packed with people yelling, “Surprise!” Flustered, she immediately declared it a shared party for all, pointing to others and announcing their birthdays. She spread that moment over an entire year before the first round of breadsticks arrived.

I’d never been to Vegas. We stayed on the strip — Planet Hollywood, I believe. I was stunned by the casinos. Movies had led to me expect dark, smoky venues packed with gamblers in gowns and tuxedos. Perhaps that was Old Vegas. Walking through these casinos felt like walking into Target on a Tuesday morning before the crowds arrived. Islands of tourists in wrinkled shorts and floral prints tapped slot machine buttons under fluorescent lighting. This was not the Rat Pack’s Vegas. In fairness, we walked through one night and saw three young women dancing on a blackjack table while faceless men doubled down, but the retail store lighting cancelled the scene’s sensuality. The hotel was nice, and I won $50 on my third spin of a slot machine and immediately cashed out.

We flew to Vegas in matching t-shirts proclaiming Laura’s age, which I still won’t divulge but will say that Neil Armstrong hadn’t yet stepped on the Moon when Laura took her first breath. Tina also passed out cloth bags stamped “Hangover Relief Kit” with traveling supplies. I never used the contents — not because of any inutility, but because I like to keep stuff. It sits on a bookcase in my office, and now you get to see it:

We made some great memories! We discovered Joshua Trees while humming U2 songs. We walked on the Hoover Dam, which I learned is also the Boulder Dam. I just noticed the woman in the far background dressed like Sherry:

In the weeks leading up to our trip, we read headlines of hapless tourists falling into the Grand Canyon. Undaunted, we donned our best non-slip shoes and headed to the West Rim. As we walked toward the edge, I felt queasy at 50 feet. Twenty felt precarious. My feet refused to step closer, as if the slightest move would send me tumbling. A man in a forest ranger shirt shooed people back if they got within 10 feet. I marvelled that anyone would dare. The view from 20 feet sufficed, as you can see from this picture I snapped:

Tina had chosen the West Rim not only for its proximity to Las Vegas, but also for the Skywalk. How human beings can be intelligent enough to build such a platform, yet stupid enough to walk upon it, I’ll never fathom. As the lone male of the group, however, I felt the responsibility to represent the fearlessness all we men share. So off we went to walk on a narrow glass platform, 4,000 feet above ground. They have you don booties so your shoes don’t scuff the glass. I hoped they would run out so they’d have to turn us away, but they have plenty. Stepping onto that glass bridge feels just like you think it would, only more so. We were all in this together. Everyone there, not just us four. Male, female, old, young, black, white — everyone acted precisely the same. That first step advances you two or three inches. The second, the same. A full stride never really happens. You hug the edges, as if you could snatch the handrail, Mission Impossible-style, if the bridge gave way. You can look nowhere but straight ahead, willing yourself not to look down lest you scream. After a couple minutes and four feet of shuffling, you glance down-then-up. Marvellous. Amazing. What an incredible view. You take a tentative step from the railing to the middle of the walkway. You are Rosa Parks, refusing to yield your seat. August Landmesser, who refused to salute Hitler. You are braver than Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart combined. Then a breeze wafts through and you scuttle back to the railing. You make a full circuit, all the way around the U, to prove you can, but your sphincter never relaxes. When you finally exit the bridge, the tension eases and you resume normal breathing. You doff the booties and exchange glances with your fellow skywalkers. You now share a bond. You’ve braved the ordeal together. You’ve learned something about yourself and the same about them. I’m glad I walked the Skywalk, and I hope never to do so again. This pose took every bit of courage in me:

Other highlights from the trip? A faux-Elvis show that made us feel like the hipper version of our parents:

Touring Count’s Kustoms, which I see is now free but cost us a sawbuck or two:

Doing a scavenger hunt on Fremont Street:

Making a political statement:

Great meals, lots of laughter, great friends, walking in malls with canals and night skies. I have only two regrets from the trip:

1. I don’t have enough pictures, especially of the four of us. I’ll fix that in Europe.
2. One afternoon, I was waiting for the elevator to go up to my room, and some blond guy was standing there, fidgeting and nervous, waiting to go down. He had on this amazing silk shirt, with swirls and splashes of color — one that a booger-picker like me would never dare to wear. I mean, this was a shirt. Imagine a Hublot Big Bang but as a shirt. I almost said, “Hey man. Nice shirt.” I hesitated, thinking, “Would that be weird?” I’d exhausted my bravery on the Skywalk. His elevator dinged, he dashed on, and that’s how close I came to meeting Nick Carter.

The four of us haven’t traveled together since. The pandemic aborted a trip to San Francisco and another to The Biltmore. We’re eager to resume our adventures. As long as they don’t include standing 4,000 feet above the earth, shuffling like we’re in an old folks’ home, willing ourselves not to look down.