Still in Vegas

The suspense has been killing you. Has Vegas drawn him in – has it won over the stubborn skeptic with it’s fast ladies and loose slots? The lights, the glitz, the glamor? (What does any of that mean anyway?)

The short answer is no. Vegas is still not the place for me. I’m confident that it never will be. I’m also confident that for one reason or another, I’ll be dragged back here again. I’ve done some scouting, and have added a few new ideas to my “things to do” list for the next time the Vegas eventuality arises.

During my previous visit to Vegas (you remember it, right Ricca?) I was able to score an escape from the city, and headed west to Red Rock Canyon, an aptly named conservation area, 30 minutes west of The Strip. I loved it, and put it on my list. So this time, I dragged Mom and Dad out there for a look. Strangely, it just wasn’t as impressive. I’ve seen so much more of the Southwest now than I had at that point, that it’s slid down a few notches. Still beautiful, and still very worth your time if you need a Vegas escape … but just not as impressive as I had remembered.

So what happens when you put three Floods in a helicopter, and drop them off in the Grand Canyon? You get three happy Floods, that’s what. None of us had ever been in a helicopter before – that in itself was quite fun. Not a thrill ride by any stretch, but a great way to see the world. We were flying at about 130 mph (totally messed up my 75 mph mindset), but it felt much slower. We flew into the canyon, and landed, as you can see above. The company we flew with seemed like a good outfit – the only weird part of the gig is that they don’t actually fly out of Las Vegas, but rather Boulder City, about 45 minutes southeast of The Strip. It worked, and we survived. Something to be said for that. Thus far, the flight has been one of the major highlights – Mom survived without any airsickness (we’re all happy about that) and Dad was tickled pink. Not a cheap adventure, but definitely money well spent for these three frugal folks.

After landing, the shuttle bus was waiting to zip us back to our hotel. Actually the Hard Rock Hotel across the street, because that sounds cooler than the Comfort Inn beside the strip club … but that’s another story. (Not really Michele – there’s no story.) Our exuberant driver recommended a restaurant for us; we took him up on the offer, and it was a winner. Totally old school Vegas casino, restaurant and … microbrewery. $1.75 for a huge glass of tasty beer. Popular place; it took about an hour to get a table, but the hard working crew of Filipinos and Mexicans took good care of us. Cab driver (yes, multiple trips in a single day where Dad wasn’t driving) was a memorable one too. Russian guy, total Mr. Depressed hates the world kind of Russian. You know the type. He loathfully asks where we’re from, and I tell him that we’re Canadian. He perks up. Turns on the radio, and he’s listening to a CBC show that Mom and Dad always listen to. He loves Canada. Except for some customers he had recently that stiffed him, throwing him $6.37 in Canadian change in lieu of actually paying for the ride he had just given them. He tries to sell us the money. The good sport that he is, Dad took him up on the offer. Stereotyping him based on his obviously Russian name, I move the conversation to hockey. The guy is a huge fan, terribly disappointed in Russia’s poor performance in the Vancouver games (as he should be). Then, most importantly, he says the words I’ve been waiting to hear – “I immigrated to the wrong country. I knew I should have moved to a country where they put hockey players on their money.” Yes. Yes Alesky, you should have immigrated to Canada. Maybe next time big fella.

We’re still in Vegas for another day. Next up, Hoover’s Dam.