I wish I could say that I was happy to arrive in Las Vegas. But, as Stewbert and I exited I-15 and slowed down, we lost the cooling effect of the wind. I began to bake in my cool-weather gear, which I had not changed since our chilly ride through Zion National Park.
In downtown Vegas the traffic was sporadic, pushy, and unpredictable. I felt as though at any moment I might be T-boned by some clown in an Escalade. And the smell - most major cities have an aroma of inviting restaurants, wood-fire cafes, open parks, or the salty freshness of the ocean. Las Vegas literally smelled glittery and fake, like a strip club.
We found our hotel and parked. At first I was relieved to be off the bike, but I soon found the hotel lobby to be even worse than the hot, heavy traffic. In the 300-foot walk from parking to crowded reception, this is what I saw:
Over here, a throng of middle-aged women strutted past, carrying highball glasses and dressed in a way that suggested they were still giving it the old college try. Over there, a bride clung drunkenly to the arm of who I could only assume was her father. She looked as though she was about to graduate from high school. To my left, hotel staff were wheeling a group of elderly patrons to the slot machines. At reception stood a group of mid-30 guys comfortably on their way to an early mid-life crisis. They stood in a tight group, all slightly overweight and balding, and each wearing sandals, shorts, and a tank top sports jersey. Each held a 24-ounce can of Coors Light, and slurred loudly at the females walking past. Welcome to Las Vegas. It was barely 5 p.m.
I did not think it was possible, but Stewbert and I actually got lost in the hotel lobby. There was no obvious, practical path to reception, parking, or the room elevators. Instead, the hallway jerked through a series of bars, restaurants, and the omnipresent slot machines. We walked, backtracked, convened, and tried to logically retrace our steps, to no avail. Worst of all, the hotel was decorated in an ultra-tacky, glitzy and egregiously trashy style, much like the ridiculously ornate palaces of Saddam Hussein. Between the false lights, groggy patrons, and bells and whistles of the slot machines I thought, "so this is what it feels like to be hypnotized."
The other thing about Vegas that irritated me with profundity was that once inside, I lost all connection to reality. There were no windows. Everything was climate-controlled. The lighting was minimal, and there were no clocks. It could've been midnight, and I wouldn't have known. I realized too, that I was in the middle of the desert, but who knew? There was literally nothing I could not experience, in Las Vegas. Want fresh sushi? How about Texas-style barbecue or an endless buffet? I could go to a range and shoot a machine gun. I could play 18 holes on a Hawaii-lush course. I could go to a show offering all levels of nudity, or see an exotic animal exhibit, or go to another show offering both. I could go to my hotel room, turn on the faucet, and never run out of water. All of this, in the middle of the desert.
We accomplished our goal, which was to link up with my brother and get out. The next morning we awoke, checked out, and were outside the city before breakfast. On the bike, and on the road with the wind in my face I felt free, as though awoken from a bad dream. Now a party of three, our next destination was the Hoover Dam.
What an incredible juxtaposition - first Las Vegas, then the Hoover Dam. Humans have an incredible ability to shape and influence their environment. Sometimes it is hideous, other times it is stately and beautiful. The Hoover Dam project was the result of the need to control flooding and to provide a reliable water source to the farms of Southern California and the American Southwest.
During the 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression, some 20,000 workers descended upon the Colorado River. They dug a series of tunnels through the mountains, in order to divert the water while constructing the dam. They smoothed the canyon walls of loose rock, so that the concrete would stick. Then, using buckets suspended by cables, they poured the concrete into interlocking blocks. The project was completed in five years, which was two years ahead of schedule. This, at a time when a "Construction Innovation" was the cutting-edge use of electric lights, so that people could work at night.
Seventy-five years later - think about that - Stewbert, Dave, and I strolled along the rim of the Hoover Dam. So many of our most beautiful landmarks, including the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Golden Gate Bridge, and Hoover Dam were created during one of America's most challenging times. I leaned over the edge, peering straight down to the water below. The immensity of the dam gave me a sense of vertigo. Even now, three-quarters of a century after she was built, the Hoover Dam is still beautiful, a testament to our ability to create timeless and fascinating structures. She, along with her Depression-era colleagues, is a true marvel.
With that, we hit the road. A comfortable afternoon's drive along historic Route 66 took us to Williams, Arizona. Next stop, the Grand Canyon.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
In downtown Vegas the traffic was sporadic, pushy, and unpredictable. I felt as though at any moment I might be T-boned by some clown in an Escalade. And the smell - most major cities have an aroma of inviting restaurants, wood-fire cafes, open parks, or the salty freshness of the ocean. Las Vegas literally smelled glittery and fake, like a strip club.
We found our hotel and parked. At first I was relieved to be off the bike, but I soon found the hotel lobby to be even worse than the hot, heavy traffic. In the 300-foot walk from parking to crowded reception, this is what I saw:
Over here, a throng of middle-aged women strutted past, carrying highball glasses and dressed in a way that suggested they were still giving it the old college try. Over there, a bride clung drunkenly to the arm of who I could only assume was her father. She looked as though she was about to graduate from high school. To my left, hotel staff were wheeling a group of elderly patrons to the slot machines. At reception stood a group of mid-30 guys comfortably on their way to an early mid-life crisis. They stood in a tight group, all slightly overweight and balding, and each wearing sandals, shorts, and a tank top sports jersey. Each held a 24-ounce can of Coors Light, and slurred loudly at the females walking past. Welcome to Las Vegas. It was barely 5 p.m.
I did not think it was possible, but Stewbert and I actually got lost in the hotel lobby. There was no obvious, practical path to reception, parking, or the room elevators. Instead, the hallway jerked through a series of bars, restaurants, and the omnipresent slot machines. We walked, backtracked, convened, and tried to logically retrace our steps, to no avail. Worst of all, the hotel was decorated in an ultra-tacky, glitzy and egregiously trashy style, much like the ridiculously ornate palaces of Saddam Hussein. Between the false lights, groggy patrons, and bells and whistles of the slot machines I thought, "so this is what it feels like to be hypnotized."
The other thing about Vegas that irritated me with profundity was that once inside, I lost all connection to reality. There were no windows. Everything was climate-controlled. The lighting was minimal, and there were no clocks. It could've been midnight, and I wouldn't have known. I realized too, that I was in the middle of the desert, but who knew? There was literally nothing I could not experience, in Las Vegas. Want fresh sushi? How about Texas-style barbecue or an endless buffet? I could go to a range and shoot a machine gun. I could play 18 holes on a Hawaii-lush course. I could go to a show offering all levels of nudity, or see an exotic animal exhibit, or go to another show offering both. I could go to my hotel room, turn on the faucet, and never run out of water. All of this, in the middle of the desert.
We accomplished our goal, which was to link up with my brother and get out. The next morning we awoke, checked out, and were outside the city before breakfast. On the bike, and on the road with the wind in my face I felt free, as though awoken from a bad dream. Now a party of three, our next destination was the Hoover Dam.
What an incredible juxtaposition - first Las Vegas, then the Hoover Dam. Humans have an incredible ability to shape and influence their environment. Sometimes it is hideous, other times it is stately and beautiful. The Hoover Dam project was the result of the need to control flooding and to provide a reliable water source to the farms of Southern California and the American Southwest.
During the 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression, some 20,000 workers descended upon the Colorado River. They dug a series of tunnels through the mountains, in order to divert the water while constructing the dam. They smoothed the canyon walls of loose rock, so that the concrete would stick. Then, using buckets suspended by cables, they poured the concrete into interlocking blocks. The project was completed in five years, which was two years ahead of schedule. This, at a time when a "Construction Innovation" was the cutting-edge use of electric lights, so that people could work at night.
Seventy-five years later - think about that - Stewbert, Dave, and I strolled along the rim of the Hoover Dam. So many of our most beautiful landmarks, including the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Golden Gate Bridge, and Hoover Dam were created during one of America's most challenging times. I leaned over the edge, peering straight down to the water below. The immensity of the dam gave me a sense of vertigo. Even now, three-quarters of a century after she was built, the Hoover Dam is still beautiful, a testament to our ability to create timeless and fascinating structures. She, along with her Depression-era colleagues, is a true marvel.
With that, we hit the road. A comfortable afternoon's drive along historic Route 66 took us to Williams, Arizona. Next stop, the Grand Canyon.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
