This is the tale of a little trip I took to Vegas on Thursday … or as I like to call it: The Series of Unfortunate Events. But, unlike the popular children’s books, this is a story of lost luggage, 3-mile walks home, and lots and lots of … fun.
We will begin on the morning of the 26th, the much-anticipated date of departure to the city of sin. The plane ride from Sacramento to Phoenix went off without a hitch and soon after landing I began my 3-hour wait until the seemingly innocent flight to Vegas. And let me just say, THANK GOD the Phoenix airport is breathtaking or else those three hours would have been excruciating — oh wait.
After boarding the flight I assumed would take me, in a timely manner, to my destination, I quickly realized that this was indeed not what an airline that won’t be named but starts with “U.S.” and ends with “Airways,” had in mind. I mean, I’m not like a computer genius or anything (don’t be fooled by the immaculate layout of my blog) but isn’t the computer supposed to work on an airplane before the pilots make the executive decision to board everyone on the plane, taxi away from the gate, and then shut the engines off therefore cutting off the air-conditioning supply to a metal tube that has now become home to 200 people sitting so close together that it would make that person who always breaks all personal boundaries in line at the grocery store feel uncomfortable … ?
After explaining the technical difficulties to everyone, the pilot reassured us that the problem should be a quick fix and we would be up and at ‘em in about 30 minutes.
Three hours later, we were on our way. If it weren’t for the couple from Birmingham, Alabama plopped right next to me, things would have gotten violent approximately 2 ½ hours before that. Explanation: Thirty minutes in, the stewardess walked up to me with the type of sass you can smell from 30 feet away and, while holding a tray of water, said, “do you want some or not.”
As I contemplated the best angle my fist should come at when it met her throat, the woman sitting next to me said, with a twang that gave me a whole new appreciation for Southern charm, “What crawled up you and died?” I personally was going to go with, “You better check yourself before you wreck yourself,” but I mean, whatever.
After finally landing in Vegas (I’ll spare you the details but suffice it to say that finding my luggage in baggage claim turned into a quest that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud), I decided it was time to forget what exact circle of hell the day I had just experienced had dwelt in and just let loose — in fact, it was time to forget things all together if you catch what I am drifting towards you.
The night went as follows (at least I think): hotel check in, discover hotel room has view of brick wall, get bracelet for all-you-can-eat 24-hour buffet, go to the buffet, free drinks at the Rockhouse, walk to a different club as alcohol metabolizes, accidentally rip buffet bracelet, ask around for tape, get tape, tape bracelet, make a convincing argument to barter free passage into a club that cost 40 big ones a person, get in, meet a guy who is simultaneously in the porn and snowmobile racing industry, become intrigued, then get creeped out, turn away and talk to friends instead, bounce out, and then … um … we walked home?
The next morning was great to say the least. Like REALLY great. And by great I mean it sucked.
One particular childhood friend of mine was so sick, she spent the whole day in the room with the curtains drawn and had the dubious task of explaining to the maid why there was a copious amount of towels that all mysteriously smelled like the inside of someone’s stomach. And yes, I did just use copious and dubious in the same sentence. It’s always been a particular dream of mine. So shut up about it.
As my poor friend made the wise decision of staying inside, I thought it would be just super if I showed the rest of the group (there was only one other person) the sights and sounds of the strip. In all my infinite wisdom, I made the suggestion that we all go to New York, New York because “it’s like, really cool.”
An hour and five near heat strokes later, I realized that maybe I should, in the future, work towards being a better judge of the distance between two points — especially when said points are in the middle of a desert and when said walk between these points is done in the middle of August … from 1 to 4 p.m.
Upon return to the hotel room/recovery ward, we found my friend in a much better position than when we left her. And by better position I mean she had turned over since I saw her last. After the 45 minutes it took my body to return to normal human being temperatures, we decided to go to In-n-Out and eat until we couldn’t feel feelings anymore (I’ll give you 9 bucks if you can tell me what TV show that’s from…). We were obviously successful.
Later, we came back to the room, watched Robo-Cop and passed the eff out. Not that Robo-Cop wasn’t exciting or anything. It’s just that it wasn’t.
The next morning it was back to the homeland. But little did I know U.S. Airways wasn’t quite done putting me through their series of mental, physical, and emotional tests. Long story short, I checked in 2 minutes after the time I was allowed and they made me take a later flight, which in turn made me miss my original connecting flight to Sacramento, which ended up scheduling a second, three-hour date with the Phoenix International Airport that afternoon. Just when I thought the first time wasn’t enough — touché Arizona.
Moral of this story: Don’t mess with Alabama, I should have paid attention in geometry, and U.S. Airways can suck it hard.