Las Vegas

I’ve got some friends who’re trying to get me to go holiday in Vegas this winter, but I’m not buying it. It’s kind of a cruise to get out there, even starting in Santa Barbara instead of San Diego (not that the drive is such a huge deal in itself—it’s a longer trip across the Atlantic, with less to look at, and I’ll always jump at that particular chance) and it’s in the middle of the desert (but the scenery is admittedly pretty satisfying to look at).

My biggest objections, though, are this: (#1) I’ve already been there, and (#2) everything that makes Vegas such a great getaway can be done almost anywhere else. Santa Barbara is for partying. We can catch shows in L.A. or San Diego. UCSB has pools and perfect weather to lounge in. Chumash has gambling.

Now, admittedly, Caesar’s Palace looks pretty cool. Luxor, too. I just returned from north Las Vegas yesterday and wish I’d had a chance to wander around those two resorts a bit just to look at the decorations. Maybe Excalibur, too, though I sort of remember it—my family stayed there for a few days back when I was closer to ten than twenty.

Vegas is an interesting city, though, and sort of reminds me of eastern Europe in a few respects. The parts that everybody sees (downtown Prague, Budapest, and even Athens’ plaka district) are gorgeous and glitzy and enchanting. The rest… not so much.

Vegas was hit very hard by the recession. It’s got the worst housing rates in the entire country—oops, the rental houses that were supposed to pay for university/retirement/whatever are underwater!—and unemployment is high. The population has dropped by more than 35% in the last decade as people scrabble to escape.

All that shows. It’s visible the moment we step off the strip. Neon lights dim, the dust that seemed like such a trifle at the poolside bar suddenly chokes, and everyone around us is sunburned and slouching under the weight of this month’s rent.

Money troubles look the same across the world, I guess.

Oh, dear.

I started packing yesterday. Technically, I was supposed to start packing on Saturday, but I couldn’t quite face it. I pulled out the vacuum-free bags that make everything airtight and stuffed all my coats and sweatshirts and fluffy shirts into them and then flopped down on top of them to push all the air out. It was an exercise in silliness.

My brother and I have been home alone since Saturday. Our parents went to go work on a house in Vegas, and they were supposed to be home last night. They got too tired, though, so at midnight the house phone rings. I dive for it, praying it didn’t wake my brother, and when I pick it up all I hear is the dial tone. Then my cell phone rings (loudly), and I race back across the room (across the tile, wearing socks and slipping and half-falling all over the place). It’s my mother, of course. They ended up spending the night at some awful-sounding motel called Pete’s Casino, or Pete’s something-or-other. She walks me through how to get my brother ready for school, and then we hang up and I realize I have to be up and out the door in, like, five and a half hours.

Bleh. That said, I don’t know how high schoolers do it. I know I did, once upon a time, but I also seem to remember falling asleep in just about every class except the ones where I had to sit in the front.

This is all an attempt to distract myself from… Saturday. When I leave. Say goodbye to my dad and little brother. Get on a plane and fly to New Jersey. Spend a week with my mother, her brother, and his family. Then get on another plane and fly across the Atlantic.

Oh, goodness. I think it might be time to turn the TV back on. TV’s a good distraction.