After a pretty exciting and full day yesterday, we decided to allow ourselves a somewhat slower pace during our fourth day in town. We started out by revisiting the Pyramid Cafe in the Luxor, Matt opting for the chicken and waffles this time. He persuaded me to not get it again (even though I thought it was really good last time), so I had eggs benedict and a pancake instead. I also decided to have bottomless bloody marys, which is always a delight. While the cafe’s pancakes are, indeed, quite good, I’d overall describe the Pyramid Cafe’s fare as reliable but not necessarily something to write home about.
As we enjoyed our breakfast, however, we couldn’t help but observe an old, white, nondescript, straight couple sitting at a table near to us and who presumably were going to vote for a convicted felon for president, apparently in spite of a book that has a thing or two to say about lying and stealing and committing adultery. Their delusions and hypocrisy aside, something clearly set them off about their dining experience, as they were visibly unhappy as they angrily ate their food. At a certain point, I heard one of them tell the waiter—their hands held up in the air with frustration—that the pancakes were cold. Clearly, however, it wasn’t so bad, as they continued to eat this apparently terrible food clean off their plates, every last crumb. Eventually, however, the woman became so visibly upset after finishing eating that she exclaimed in exasperation, “I’ll figure it out! I should just go to the front desk!” and stormed from the table and out of sight, leaving her husband sitting in exasperated silence. She eventually came back, defeated, but managed to castigate the server one more time when they returned, “Our check please! We need to go!” She stormed off again and left the man to pack up their things and pay.
It all just seemed such an unnecessary waste of energy; I have no idea what this kind of behavior is meant to help solve. Hopefully, however, they’ll be dead soon and incapable of casting anymore votes for people who don’t even represent their best interests. All this said, Matt and I couldn’t help but chuckle, watching their frayed nerves unravel.
Following breakfast, we went back to our room to have what we termed a morningcap as opposed to a nightcap. Wondering if such a thing is a thing, we discovered that the closest we have to a morningcap are gin slings from the 17th and 18th centuries; however, when I try to re-verify this research, I can’t find a smidge of evidence, so I have no idea where we thought we learned this.
Next we made our way to the pool, a staple of a lot of these giant resort hotels on the Strip. While the pool wasn’t necessarily packed—there were still plenty of chairs available to recline upon, and the Excalbur’s three pools, sectioned off from one another, offered some little space for a dip—the area was still overpopulated just enough that I would’ve preferred some pool-goers to disappear. Additionally and frustratingly so, the pool areas pipe in terrible club music at an unnecessary volume, incessant drum beats unchanging and unimaginative, a hellish soundscape to induce headaches. (“It’s to prevent others from overhearing conversations,” Matt explained. “Can’t we all just speak quietly, then?” I wondered.)
Matt and I eventually decided to check out the pool reserved for guests with a special membership, and we managed to spend some time reclining in the sun and later dipping our feet in the refreshingly cool water. None of the staff told us to leave while we were in this forbidden area of the pool, but that will all change when we try the same trick tomorrow.
Following our pool time, we elected to check out the very northern part of the Strip, so we made use of the Las Vegas Monorail, a 4-mile long rail system with seven stations, the route tracing Las Vegas Boulevard. We boarded the monorail at the southern terminus, the MGM Grand station—a brief walk from the Excalibur—and Matt and I were immediately so impressed with how clean everything was, a far cry from Minneapolis’s own lightrail system, a cesspool of urine, smoke, drugs, and fist fights. While the Vegas trains came rather infrequently every eight minutes or so, the monorail is still a very handy, inexpensive resource to have if you need to limit some time off your feet exploring the Strip. It also is a lovely way to enjoy some views of the city as you travel from one end to the next, catching glimpses of not only the Strip itself, but also of swimming pools from an elevated height to see what other resorts have to offer. It also provides a pretty impressive view of the Sphere, one of Vegas’s newest additions, an impressive structure, a giant glowing orb displaying various colorful images, sometimes ads for ice cream, sometimes a giant eyeball, sometimes fantastical landscapes.
We eventually disembarked from the Westgate station, the closest stop to allow us access to Fontainebleau (albeit still a 20 minute walk farther, on account of the Vegas Strip’s exaggerated sense of scale). Fontainebleau is another one of the Strip’s newer additions (if measured by the date it opened but not built), and a resort with a long, storied past. The Wikipedia article does a pretty good job of summarizing the resort’s difficult and arduous process from groundbreaking to grand opening. The short story, however, is that the project was announced in 2005, construction began in 2007, and when the structure was topped off in 2008, it became the tallest building in Nevada. Unfortunately, it would be still over a decade before the resort would finish construction: financial difficulties, bankruptcy, lawsuits, changes in ownership, and—eventually—a little thing called COVID delayed the grand opening until December 13, 2023.
Outwardly, Fontainebleau is a magnificent structure, a shining example of minimalist design, a giant, thick arc of shimmering reflections. Inwardly, the resort is welcoming and brilliant, exquisite lines of soft, white light tracing elegant ovals and circles terraced into the tall ceilings, great, white columns adorned with unadorned vertical lines of simple gold. This resort also had a calming atmosphere compared to the locale’s located more centrally and south, perhaps on account of the time of day or the noticeably smaller crowds or both. I found myself really enjoying a moment sitting at a table on an upper mezzanine, gazing at the resort’s casino. I wanted to get a drink while we marveled at the beauty of Fontainebleau, but Matt suggested getting a drink at our next stop, Circus Circus, on account of the hopefully cheaper prices. That, I’m afraid, was enough to persuade me to leave, but in retrospect I wish we would’ve stayed a bit longer, as I really enjoyed Fontainebleau quite a bit, and I would be quite inclined to stay there on a future visit.
Circus Circus, located just kitty corner from Fontainebleau and weirdly only a 4 minute walk away, is—as you would expect—a circus-themed resort, and gaudily so, making no apologies for what it is. It also felt more like we were back in downtown Vegas, its appearance mesmerizingly shabby and real, a character reveling in its imperfections. The resort also features its own Midway with carnival booths and their owners pushing various, traditional games to win things no one needs: giant panda bears, that sort of thing. However, no one was really playing or enjoying the Midway, sad booths from a bygone era empty of excitement. And while the drinks were, indeed, cheaper at Circus Circus, the overall disuse of the place left me feeling a bit depressed and wishing we would’ve stayed longer at Fontainebleau.
Much of the rest of our afternoon was spent lollygagging from resort to resort, and I must say that after a while, all the resorts started to bleed into each other, no matter how magnificent and individual their fakery. The Wynn and Encore, for example, were particularly egregious in their indulgence in appearing to be nothing more than a generic theme that (at my kindest) I would describe as giant shopping mall, lacking in any distinguishable character that Circus Circus, the Excalibur, or New York New York have in spades. That said, Matt and I did enjoy a fun moment outside Bar Parasol in the Wynn, a whimsical establishment accessible via a grand staircase, a giant open ceiling above, adorned with huge, elegant, magical parasols that slowly floated up and delicately descended softly down, flummoxing the senses into thinking that it wasn’t the parasols moving, but, indeed, the entire platform we were standing on to gaze upon the mischievous illusion.
Where the Wynn and Encore left much to be desired, the Venetian and its sister the Palazzo offered a return to that Vegas fakery that—I must guiltily admit—I started to fall in love with. The Venetian, for me, is probably the resort I think of when I think of the Vegas Strip. And I’ve already told Matt a couple times that when we go back to Vegas, I want to stay at the Venetian. I think what makes the Venetian memorable and exciting in a way that, say, the Excalibur doesn’t (recall that I previously wrote that the Excalibur doesn’t event almost succeed at suggesting you’re in a medieval castle), is that the Venetian is so consistent and perfect in its design. It’s absolutely a fake Venice, of course, but it indulges in and doesn’t apologize for the fakery: it’s a superbly polished Venice, angular canals with deep, crystal clear, blue water zigzagging through Gothic building facades with grand, stone, pointed arches, gracefully romantic balconies, classically ornamental balustrades, elegant split pane windows lit from behind with a soft, yellow glow, a ceiling of blue skies visited by silky, feathery clouds. There’s also a whole section of the Venetian meant to look like St. Mark’s Square, and we’ll indeed spend some more time there on our last day.
It was soon time for dinner, and I was determined to visit In-n-Out Burger, a fast food staple out West and in Texas. There’s one location on Las Vegas Boulevard, south of the Venetian, in a small, outdoor shopping strip. It was bizarre walking through this area as everything was sized normally rather than extravagantly, and I found my senses feeling bewildered at how small everything looked: building facades, fountains, the cobblestone, the palm trees. Meanwhile, In-n-Out Burger itself is a no-nonsense place (black-and-white checkerboard floor, walls of simple white, square tiles) and the fast food joint comes with a very simple menu to match its very simple decor. The key, however, is to know a secret that only insiders will know: order everything animal style, which means that a burger will be dressed with extra thousand island dressing, mustard grilled patties, and extra pickles while fries will be dressed with cheese, spread, and grilled onions. I really enjoyed my burger and fries at In-n-Out, and I highly recommend you visit one whenever you go out West. My only regret is that I didn’t get a milkshake as well! Next time, I suppose.
Soon we found ourselves wandering farther south, stopping by the Flamingo where we saw actual pink flamingos in the resort’s Wildlife Habitat, a four acre garden with fake streams, fake ponds, and fake waterfalls (but real flowers and trees and other plants). As we marveled at the flamingos (how often do you see them in a lifetime, anyway?) I exclaimed, “Look at those flamingos’ legs! They’re such sticks you could just break them in half!” And Matt calmly observed, “I imagine a flamingo being out of water is like a human being in water.” We also spent some time looking at the koi in the ponds where I wondered, “What do koi do all day?” to which Matt blithely responded, “I dunno. Suck on a rock and spit it out?”
We decided to hop back on the monorail at the station near the Flamingo and took it all the way back south to MGM Grand. After we got off the train, we headed to the Tropicana, but we arrived in Vegas mere days after the resort closed for good on April 2. It had a good long run, however, opening on April 4, 1957. But times are changing, and the building is being demolished to make way for a yucky sports stadium. Outwardly, the Tropicana’s design is actually somewhat unremarkable: a kind of soft brutalism, a tall structure unafraid to reveal its concrete. Despite the looming demolition and chainlink fence keeping people like us out, we were able to get relatively close to the dying building, catching glimpses of the main entrance.
It was at this point in our adventures that—I must admit—we both began to feel some fatigue with the Strip. Three days of exploring this ridiculous extravaganza is quite enough, as eventually some of the resorts (especially the ones that just look like big, uninspired, generic shopping malls) start to become immemorable. The rest of our evening displayed our fatigue as we spent some time to decompress back in our room at the Excalibur, and then later we took cheap, canned cocktails to the Brooklyn Bridge outside New York New York and sat underneath the nightly desert sky. While the evening sky was calming, the Strip itself is just so inundated with incessant energy of glitzy lights, twelve lanes of traffic, and herds of human cattle that it all becomes a bit much.
Our last two full days, however, will break up the monotony from our time on the Strip, and I can’t wait to tell you about it.
Stray observations:
- It’s best to buy your tickets to the Monorail online using your phone, as you’ll receive a modest discount.
- At the south entrance of Fontainebleau stands a magnificent, 46-foot tall sculpture called Lovers #3 by Urs Fischer. Constructed of aluminum, stainless steel, and gold leaf, its long, whirling shapes reminded me of a shining colossal tempest, a rushing surge of golden sea water, as if a mythological beast could emerge from a torrent of liquid metal at any moment. Conversely, it also felt like the sculpture could’ve actually been some microscopic fragment of ore but viewed as if magnified through a brilliant lens.
- Following our visit to the Venetian, we also walked through the Linq, apparently, and—speaking of big, uninspired, generic shopping malls—I have no visual memory of the Linq, and I merely wrote “modern generic” in my notes to help me remember anything about it. Sure. Okay. That helps. So maybe skip the Linq, as it clearly left a huge impression on me.