smoke gets in my eyes
I haven’t been here in about five years but needless to say, I have a few thoughts on Las Vegas.
Upon arriving in this glittering desert mecca, the boyfriend and I wanted to check-in to our hotel early, hoping to find a place to put down the six bags we were (he was) carrying. Ironically, we booked a room at the South Coast hotel, open nary two months and replete with décor “inspired by the Southern California lifestyle.” Five hours of traffic and we ended up back in L.A. Seemed about right. We were told that the only rooms available were “smoking” and since we were road-weary and stinking of cheap cologne rental car, we took our keys and headed to investigate the actual fiery nature of our king room. Walking through the casino, my eyes began to water from the ubiquitous secondhand smoke. I am such a delicate, non-nicotine, non-alcoholic flower. The slightest irritants drive me batty. But no matter, I was not going to be picky.
We found our room and as I stood in the midst of it, grimacing, I asked the boyfriend, “Doesn’t it smell like smoke to you?”
“No, I can’t really tell.”
“Ok, it’s fine then.”
There is a pause. The boyfriend evaluated the grimace, “Let’s just wait for a non-smoking room.” Of course we wait for get a non-smoking room. It could be a smoking floor, I told him, not merely a smoking room. He nodded to no one in particular and mounted up the caravan of duffle bags I packed for our two-night respite. He knew that if we stayed in this room, he would have a sleepless night next to my constant toss/turn analysis of the odor in our chambers. This is why I love him. Because he accepts my passive aggressive nature.
We had lunch in the Coronado Café as we waited for our new room. Just as I recalled from my previous visits to Vegas, there is no ambiance at hotel-run restaurants. The patrons stare blankly at their rib-eye steaks while the octogenarian waitresses tell the story of their relocation to Sin City for the thousandth time. I did notice this time though the extremely wide chairs. As I pulled mine out, it was akin to dragging a park bench. How odd, I thought, what a waste of, oh no wait, that woman over there is three hundred pounds. I was in a mock version of L.A. with citizens from across this great land, chomping on patty melts and spreading their extra-large asses across these extra-large seats. I NEVER feel this thin in the real L.A.
I excused myself from the table after ordering my patty melt and went to the ladies room where the most wondrous bathroom experience awaited me. Oh Las Vegas, with your smoky casinos and your Petri dish of large Americans, you sure know how to design a bathroom for the obsessive compulsive germ-o-phobe. In most public spaces, I am squeamish about bathrooms, plying layer after layer of toilet paper on every surface that will touch or come near my body. When I am abroad, especially in third-world hoods, I am a wreck. But that’s another post. Las Vegas came through for me, man. Automatic flush I’ve seen. I’ve even enjoyed an automatic faucet. But the automatic soap dispenser and infrared paper towel machine were an absolute treat. Short of extracting the urine from my bladder with a sterilized catheter, there was nothing more sanitary than my experience in this bathroom. Me likey. Me likey mucho.
A non-smoking room became available. The boyfriend a.k.a. personal bell hop schlepped our (my) belongings to our new room and both I and he could appreciate the untainted air in 1011. And the fact that the room was less than months old pleased me to no end. Even if this room had been booked every night since its grand opening, there would have only been about sixty occupants before us. That brings the number of non-Katie bacteria in the room down considerably. I almost allowed myself to walk barefoot on the carpet. But I most certainly did not.
We began our vacation. We took deep, non-smoky breaths. Clean air. There ain’t nothing like this in L.A.
Upon arriving in this glittering desert mecca, the boyfriend and I wanted to check-in to our hotel early, hoping to find a place to put down the six bags we were (he was) carrying. Ironically, we booked a room at the South Coast hotel, open nary two months and replete with décor “inspired by the Southern California lifestyle.” Five hours of traffic and we ended up back in L.A. Seemed about right. We were told that the only rooms available were “smoking” and since we were road-weary and stinking of cheap cologne rental car, we took our keys and headed to investigate the actual fiery nature of our king room. Walking through the casino, my eyes began to water from the ubiquitous secondhand smoke. I am such a delicate, non-nicotine, non-alcoholic flower. The slightest irritants drive me batty. But no matter, I was not going to be picky.
We found our room and as I stood in the midst of it, grimacing, I asked the boyfriend, “Doesn’t it smell like smoke to you?”
“No, I can’t really tell.”
“Ok, it’s fine then.”
There is a pause. The boyfriend evaluated the grimace, “Let’s just wait for a non-smoking room.” Of course we wait for get a non-smoking room. It could be a smoking floor, I told him, not merely a smoking room. He nodded to no one in particular and mounted up the caravan of duffle bags I packed for our two-night respite. He knew that if we stayed in this room, he would have a sleepless night next to my constant toss/turn analysis of the odor in our chambers. This is why I love him. Because he accepts my passive aggressive nature.
We had lunch in the Coronado Café as we waited for our new room. Just as I recalled from my previous visits to Vegas, there is no ambiance at hotel-run restaurants. The patrons stare blankly at their rib-eye steaks while the octogenarian waitresses tell the story of their relocation to Sin City for the thousandth time. I did notice this time though the extremely wide chairs. As I pulled mine out, it was akin to dragging a park bench. How odd, I thought, what a waste of, oh no wait, that woman over there is three hundred pounds. I was in a mock version of L.A. with citizens from across this great land, chomping on patty melts and spreading their extra-large asses across these extra-large seats. I NEVER feel this thin in the real L.A.
I excused myself from the table after ordering my patty melt and went to the ladies room where the most wondrous bathroom experience awaited me. Oh Las Vegas, with your smoky casinos and your Petri dish of large Americans, you sure know how to design a bathroom for the obsessive compulsive germ-o-phobe. In most public spaces, I am squeamish about bathrooms, plying layer after layer of toilet paper on every surface that will touch or come near my body. When I am abroad, especially in third-world hoods, I am a wreck. But that’s another post. Las Vegas came through for me, man. Automatic flush I’ve seen. I’ve even enjoyed an automatic faucet. But the automatic soap dispenser and infrared paper towel machine were an absolute treat. Short of extracting the urine from my bladder with a sterilized catheter, there was nothing more sanitary than my experience in this bathroom. Me likey. Me likey mucho.
A non-smoking room became available. The boyfriend a.k.a. personal bell hop schlepped our (my) belongings to our new room and both I and he could appreciate the untainted air in 1011. And the fact that the room was less than months old pleased me to no end. Even if this room had been booked every night since its grand opening, there would have only been about sixty occupants before us. That brings the number of non-Katie bacteria in the room down considerably. I almost allowed myself to walk barefoot on the carpet. But I most certainly did not.
We began our vacation. We took deep, non-smoky breaths. Clean air. There ain’t nothing like this in L.A.
posted by Katie at 4:23 PM
1 Comments:
Did you invite the bell hop in to your room for beef jerkey and sundries like we did at our last Vegas trip? Oh no, wait...that was cupcakes, San Francisco and Doogie Howser. My bad.
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