Las Vegas – City of Sin

It was 3:30 am when the typical iPhone alarm broke the still night. Alert and on my feet in a nanosecond, it was finally time. The car had been packed, parking paid for, and a series of appointments, subscriptions, prescriptions, bookings, itineraries, and the like had finally coalesced to this very moment. Diem and I bid farewell to the children staying with an Aunt and cousin, grandparents and friends, not simultaneously, mind you, and we pulled out of the drive in the early morning darkness. A naturally anxious flyer, I can sit through storms, long train rides, overnight long-haul buses, choppy ferries, and the like with minimal grumpiness; add an airport stop, and I’m a nervous ball.

It’s not flying that is the problem. I love a nightcap on a long-haul flight across India, catching up on new cinema releases from Bollywood. Who doesn’t? It’s getting onto the plane and away from it at the end that I loathe. Countless queues, turnstiles, bovine herding stations, people moving floors and trams, checkpoints, security, and more lines. If there’s one thing I hate terrorists and drug smugglers for, it’s ruining the joys of air travel. As the energetic comedian Daniel Tosh once put it, I no longer have to take my girlfriend to the gate when she leaves town. I can dump her out at the curb. Silver linings.

Never Spirit

I had received a typical robot-mail TSA notice to expect delays for the holiday weekend. It was Saturday morning at Hartsfield Jackson, hours before the sun was to rise, when we arrived at the entrance to the airport. It was Columbus Day weekend. But this gave me little pause for concern. I mean, it’s Columbus Day. When did that holiday become such a travel weekend? The answer is, I don’t know, but it has. I clambered to a Frontier Airlines Kiosk and punched in my information. We were flying Frontier because they filled two essential boxes on the flying to Vegas criteria sheet. One, they flew to Las Vegas. Two, they weren’t Spirit Airlines. I have flown Spirit twice, once to Los Angeles and once to Cancun. Both were horrible disasters.

One involved an organized crime-like scheme in which I was told three times on the way to the gate that I did not need to do anything with my carry-on. Only to find out at the gate that I did indeed need to do something. Pay $60 to take it with me. At a price not nearly as expensive as the last three places, I was assured I didn’t need to do anything about it. I later found myself standing at the gate in a chair, pleading to the boarding audience for someone to pay for my bag. They didn’t take cash, and my plastic was in the belly of the plane. I would later find they didn’t take cash on the plane either. Or offer so much as a glass of water. It was a parched and otherwise overwhelmingly uncomfortable flight to Los Angeles.

Further delays

The second experience involved a delayed flight, missed connection, and standing in line for eight hours to be whisked to a hotel in North Miami, before spinning around two hours later to catch a Delta flight the following morning. We arrived home two days after leaving a city 5 hours away by plane. All I can tell you about Spirit Airlines is that their tickets aren’t that cheap. The Frontier kiosk quickly informed me to see an attendant, and we stood in the massive Frontier Airlines line. It took 45 minutes to get to the attendant, who informed me that since I had prepaid for baggage and checked in online, I needed nothing other than to go to the gate. Then why did the stupid kiosk tell me to come to see you? I wanted to ask, but I grabbed our things and rushed to security.

The view here was even worse. It was the most extensive set of queues I had ever seen. Far worse than anything even the queue masters at Disney World could manufacture. Up and down, over and back, we spun through the endless path. After countless turns in the security line, we arrived at the screening station two hours after arriving at the airport. What were all these people doing at 5 a.m. on a Saturday in early October? The same thing we were doing, hopping a plane west to take advantage of the holiday weekend. Oh, and celebrating Columbus Day, of course.

Finally, on our way

The flight was sluggish and sleepy. The sun rose about an hour after take off. But most kept their windows closed to enjoy the darkened cabin. I dozed in and out until somewhere over New Mexico when the activity in the cabin became apparent that the bulk of the flight was behind us. The crew began the descent protocol an hour later, and we arrived at the gate half an hour early. So, we waited on the tarmac for 30 minutes. Thirty minutes felt very much like punishment. A plane, full of people arriving in Vegas early, particularly eager to get breakfast and a bloody mary, perhaps. But no, we arrived early, caused some scrambling at the gate, and now we must be made to suffer for our transgressions.

Arriving at an airport by plane at 7 am on a Saturday has drawbacks. The only person I could find that worked at the airport ran the taxi stand. By the time I found her, we had zigzawed, if it wasn’t a word, it is now, our way across Hary Reid international airport for so long that the sun was now setting. Of course, that’s not true, but we had walked a lot. Though the instructions clearly described how to get to the rental car facility, it just wasn’t there. I found out eventually that it was, in fact, there. It was just 4 miles away there. A fact the rental brochure failed to articulate, and that we would need to take a bus to the rental facility. Which was located in the opposite direction from where I had been so dutifully looking.

The rental

The long line at the rental place did nothing to subdue the growing sentiment that I was not having a good time. It felt like I had been either napping uncomfortably or standing and mindlessly shuffling through queues and lines for what had felt like a day’s wages’ worth of time. Endless and drollingly dull. Finally, upon arriving at the counter, I was told I didn’t need to stand in line at all. My online confirmation would get me the car I ordered at the kiosk in the garage. I have sat in this line for quite some time for no apparent reason other than to drive myself completely insane. I sputtered some incoherent thoughts under my breath, followed by a very sincere thank you. It wasn’t her fault I was a complete idiot this morning. And so we headed into the garage.

Checking in for the car was a breeze. Finally, something was getting easier. The attendant handed me the keys and pointed us to the parking section. A few rows over, I hit the horn on the keyfob, and the Challenger honked a hello. We intended to spend some time outside of Vegas as well. Cruising the open highway through the Mojave Desert and down the old west Arizona stretch of Route 66. A classic American muscle car seemed to be the only way. At least the only way any God-fearing American should attempt such an endeavor. The open road, endless highway, vast expanses, and horsepower. A supercharged 6.2L HEMI V8 engine with 807 hp and 707 lb-ft of torque type of power. I couldn’t wait to open her up. But I would have to. Our first order of business was to find breakfast.

Hospitality suffers

We headed out of the airport and towards the strip. Our first stop was the MGM signature. A relatively new tower attached to the MGM Grand housed the apartment where we would stay. We couldn’t check in until three—almost six hours from now. But the valet was friendly and helpful. He assured us we could both valet the car and store our luggage with the bellhop, who would whisk it up to the room after check-in with nothing more than a phone call. I breathed a sigh of relief and remembered I was in Vegas. The hospitality capital of the world. Any savvy traveler’s paradise. I was going to get used to this very quickly.

Since living outside the U.S. for two years during the pandemic and working tirelessly as a Chef in the Atlanta restaurant scene for 25 years, I can tell you that service has taken a massive hit in America. Before I moved out of the country, I worked and participated in a world that knew its steps of service—being greeted at a table within a minute of seating. Check backs within a bite of the food arriving. Essential table maintenance like clearing unneeded plates and straw wrappers, crumbing tables, and general timely service seem to be remnants of a former era.

Product knowledge

I now work in a world that takes lunch breaks. I remember beating into my servers and cooks that lunch patrons must be in and out in 30 minutes. I’m lucky now, as a patron, to get out in an hour. Staff education is also a problem. The other day I ate lunch at an unnamed lunch spot near work. The server tried selling me a special comprising a fried piece of pangasius on a bun with appropriate-sounding sauce. Someone in our party asked what type of fish Pangasius was. She stated it was in the Grouper family. Not even close, lady. Pangasius is a river catfish from Southeast Asia. How could you possibly mistake that for a giant ocean-dwelling behemoth that is the Grouper? Someone was ill-informed. But I digress.

We walked into Signature tower one and headed toward the adjacent MGM Grand through several moving sidewalks. The air-conditioned way dumped us out into the shopping court of the MGM Grand and not too far from the food court. All of the “good” restaurants were shuddered from what must have been a bustling Friday night, so we settled for an omelet restaurant set up like a brunch buffet. A wary gentleman not entirely engaged with his surroundings sat there, beginning the omelets. The customers clambered to his window and placed their orders one by one. He placed all their ingredients in a pan with oil, covered it with a ladle of eggs, and handed it down to the next person.

Breakfast

Always trying to be friendly to back-of-house staff, I arrived at the window and asked a benign question. “How many omelets do you think you make in a day?” I asked. “I am not ready. You will have to wait your turn,”. He quipped. Indeed, I would. He eventually motioned to me and asked for my order. I’ll take it all. The paper plate, undoubtedly to keep intoxicated gamblers from chucking porcelain at each other at 9 in the morning, was additionally filled with hefty strips of bacon and some very sad breakfast potatoes. I ordered a beer and coffee simply because I could and walked to Diem to share the 5-pound, $30 omelet I had just procured.

After breakfast, Diem immediately wanted to go shopping. Something I knew from which there would be no escape. So, we headed a couple of blocks over to Planet Hollywood. We chose PH simply because they had an H&M. I had protested mildly. Please tell me we have not gotten up at 3:30 am, waited endlessly and painfully in TSA lines for hours, flown almost 2,000 miles, and are here now for the at-home pleasure of shopping at H&M? But there you have it. We were going to H&M in Planet Hollywood.

Planet Hollywood

Only a few blocks from the MGM Grand, Planet Hollywood was clean, confusingly arranged as most casinos are, and under heavy construction. About a quarter of its shopping area was off-limits. But the H&M was open, and that’s where we found ourselves heading now. On the way, I spied a hat and even glanced at a few souvenirs in the Vegas shop. But gave no indication I was interested, as it would be like blood in the water. Diem would pounce on the opportunity to peruse any store, no matter how horribly vacuous it might be. Instead, I focused on the task before me as we passed closed restaurants and bars. It was still before 10 am as we strolled among all the consumer stores from everywhere in America. All I wanted was a bloody, Bloody Mary.

What seemed like an eternity later, though my watch was showing only about an hour, I must have been in some time vortex or something; Diem decided on some items to wear to dinner. We purchased the garments and headed off the strip to find supplies for the apartment: a little wine, a snack or two, and shampoo. And also to check out something I read an article on a few years ago. Sifting through a news aggregate site in 2017, I stumbled across an interesting article from the British paper, The Guardian. Titled, “‘The tribe has taken over: the Native Americans running Las Vegas’s only cannabis lounge,” I was hoping to check out some critical points of the article.

A detour

The Guardian article discusses a cross-section of issues and ultimately tells the story of how, in the climate of an exploding cannabis industry, a dusty, mildly nomadic, almost wholly forgotten Indian tribe has made a comeback and is recreating its culture and resurrecting its past. Cannabis, commonly known as marijuana, was legalized for recreational purposes in Nevada by referendum on November 8, 2016. But, due to strict federal gaming laws and the city’s unwillingness to act without some sweeping federal decision, cannabis remains banned on most of the strip.

In what may be an act of reaching for something you can never get to, one theory that justifies the stance of no cannabis near casinos is that smoke may waft in and give some upstart and testy Gman grounds to yank a gaming license. Some say they don’t want the competition to their lucrative liquor monopoly. Whatever the reasons may be, the Paiute are happy to accommodate. The Paiute find themselves sitting on the edge of downtown through a confusing and probably endless collection of federal and state law, federal treaties, and right-to-sovereignty pacts and doing so with about 10 acres of land with little ties to local laws.

NuWu Cannabis Marketplace

They can essentially have the only place on, or near, the beating heart of the Nevada gaming scene where the sale and service of cannabis for onsight consumption can occur with reckless abandon. It’s a great time to be a Paiute. The influx of jobs, money, and a sense of security for the tribe’s future seemed to be tied heavily now to the success of the cannabis industry. It’s coined “New new buffalo.” A nod to the opening of Casinos on tribal lands elsewhere in the country. An opportunity the Paiute never attempted to capitalize on, given the concentration of competition and the reservation’s proximity to downtown. It would be a daunting industry to crack into for sure. But cannabis in Nevada, in Las Vegas particularly, is proving to be the tribe’s golden ticket. Their own proverbial jackpot. All I can say to them is, go get ’em.

We entered the welcoming market to find a clean, bustling, ethereally lit space. Mostly windows, a far cry from the dungeonesque smoking basements from movies, the building gave me more of a car dealership vibe than a cannabis dispensary. Diem had no idea what anything was. Save for a few fringe souls in the remote edges of Southeast Asia’s Drug trafficking Golden Triangle; most mainstream Vietnamese couldn’t identify the theoretical differences between Heroin and Marijuana, much less identify them. And that is a good thing. So, it seemed to her to be what it was marketed all around us to be, herbal medicine.

Some details

We walked around the market, checking out its countless ways to solve a straightforward problem of how to get THC delivered effectively to your bloodstream. A dizzying array of oils, sticky resins, flowers (a vernacular of what was called bud when I was a youngster), vaporizers, pre-rolled joints, candies, cakes, and more. I strolled to the counter to discuss this with the friendly hipster awaiting inquiry. What ensued was a conversation I can’t be sure I entirely understood—hybrids, Indicas, Sativas, modes of intoxication, and so on. Todo, we are not in the ’70s anymore.

Though I was here for research, I was fascinated by the vast progress in which marijuana has come in the past 30 years. Did you know you could get strains of cannabis that can target conditions as contrasting and varied as sleeplessness and sleepiness? Fascinating. He explained the difference between Sativa and Indica using a cute little expression to help me along. Sativa is more for an upbeat experience, while Indica provides a future “In da couch” guarantee. How clever. Though the man behind the counter was clearly of European descent, many employees were from ethnic groups across the planet—a detail most would probably miss. I always find diversity in spaces to be comforting. A mantra of strength I adhered to vehemently while managing restaurants was “Diversity in People.” It’s the true strength of our species.

Brighter future

Here in the desert on the edge of downtown Las Vegas sits a tribe that once flourished in the southwest deserts—pushed to the edges of extinction by the introduction of grazing cattle, the damming up of rivers, and the general confiscation of historically tribal lands. Today through a few legal loopholes and the power of sovereignty, the Paiute believe that their newfound industry can propel their tribe into a prosperous future. To understand the once-hopeless position of the tribe, Benny Tso, former chair of the Paiute tribe, was quoted as saying, “I think we’ve prolonged our tribe by three to four more generations.”

Three to four generations? That’s less than 100 more years. Given the explosion of business and jobs for the tribe in the last decade, they grow all of their product on another part of their tribal lands about 20 minutes from Las Vegas; their outlook must have once been very dire indeed. After a half-hour discussion and mainly killing time, we hopped a few streets to the Las Vegas Dollar General. We grabbed a few things for the apartment. With quite a bit of time left until check-in, we decided to roll the dice and see if we could check in early.

Checking-in

The valet was again on point as we swooped into the property to check on our room. As it was still some time before check-in and check-out had passed, there was no wait in the lobby when the friendly lady behind the front desk called us up. I explained to her the perplexity of our predicament, and she agreed to give us a key to the room. Her only condition was that we would not linger if the room had not been cleaned. Only check back periodically to assess the condition of the condo. We shot towards the elevator, stepped aboard, and pushed P37 for the Penthouse. This week we were moving on up to the deluxe apartment in the sky-y-y.

The elevator was speedy, and we were on the 37th floor in moments. We found our room, unlocked the door, and entered the freshly cleaned unit. Bingo! It was a comfortable penthouse studio overlooking the former CityCenter development and the strip. I found our phone and called the luggage around. We had a reservation for a food tour at 5 pm. After a full day of traveling, it was finally time for a shower and to freshen up. I found the remote, played college football to catch up on scores, and enjoyed the view. Even if only for a moment. For there was no time to delay. We had to be at the Aria Hotel and Casino lobby in three hours, and I hate being rushed.

Paradise, Nevada

Las Vegas, Nevada, is many things. Gaming mecca, foodies paradise, entertainment capital, the driest major city in America, the largest city in the Mojave Desert, and many others. However, there is one thing Las Vegas is not. Home to the world-famous Las Vegas Strip. A fact I was shocked to discover. Even more shocked to know that I had never heard of this golden nugget of trivial truth. The section of Las Vegas Boulevard known for its mega Hotel Casinos and full-scale city replicas operates in the unincorporated areas of Clark County known as Winchester and Paradise. Though Adjacent to Las Vegas, the strip is not a part of it. Downtown Las Vegas, Freemont Street to be exact, is the actual Las Vegas of lore and escapades. The old Vegas.

I knew in peripheral ways that the modern-day strip was an offshoot of the downtown area with its classic mob-operated gaming palaces of Neon Splender. Glitter Gultch, as it was coined in the dynamic era of new electricity in the early days of the Gambling city. Electricity did not come to Las Vegas until 1937 with the completion of the Hoover Dam. Las Vegas, a short drive from the dam, was the newly founded Southern Nevada Power’s first customer. The Lore of the booming city in the dawning days of the 20th century is legendary. These things we will discover yet. But for now, we must return to the massive palace of entertainment known formerly as CityCenter.

Aria/CityCenter

Our Uber pulled around to the entrance of our building, and we jumped in. A cool cat from LA, he’d lived in Vegas with his wife and now teenage children for two decades. I asked what he does for recreation, not necessarily on the strip, and he immediately said Freemont Street. I logged the entry for future reference as Diem, and I hopped out at the entrance to Aria Hotel and Casino—a beautiful entrance filled with exotic cars and no doubt tantalizingly famous individuals. Our food tour would begin here—lip Smacking foodie tours. I wanted exclusive and unhindered access to dining in the city. And here, the world declared, was the best—the cornerstone of the mighty CityCenter development that now dominates the Paradise Strip skyline.

Clouded in an air of mystery, the Aria Casino Hotel CityCenter complex boasts some of the most exclusive shopping in the world, a massive casino, and some of the best dining the world offers. It all has an air of corruption, and Dubai deals gone bad. Began as a joint stake between MGM Resorts International and Dubai World investment company, construction would begin in 2004. At a total investment of $9.2 billion, it is the largest private construction project ever.

Lip Smacking Foodie Tours

The first stop on our tour of culinary delights was the award-winning Javier’s: Fine Foods of Mexico. I paid a hefty fee to get into this exclusive club and splurged for the drink package and the helicopter flight around the Vegas Strip. The evening cost a whopping $1,000, but I hoped it would be an absolute explosion into Vegas life for Diem. How can I give her the best and blow both of our minds? A night for the ages. Vegas done right. No holding back. And this is how it began.

The project would open behind schedule five years later, with lawsuits abound. Dubai World would sue MGM. The Harmon Hotel would be shrunk in height first due to structural integrity issues created by poor construction practices and eventually be demolished piece by piece as it was in the middle of the already operating development. A development that now hosts a Waldorf Astoria, The premier Shops at Crystals, Aria Resort and Casino, Vdara Hotel Condo Tower, and the Veer Condo Towers. It is an impressive site. It even has its own transportation network.

Javier’s Finest Foods of Mexico

Javier Sosa

Javier’s, a very famous established restaurant, is headed by a man named Javier Sosa. Like many immigrants who have come from across the expanses of the known world to America, Javier comes from humble beginnings. Born in Colonio Indepincea, in Tijuana, Mexico. Growing up in what he describes as happy poverty, Javier filled his mind with the old Latin expression of el sueño del pibe or the child’s dream. That cultural permeation of belief that he, too, could become a soccer superstar. He chose at 19, on the eave of nationals for soccer, to leave his ambitions aside and immigrate to America to hopefully provide a better life for his family.

Acquiring a job at a restaurant in Laguna Beach called Tortilla Flats, Javier would hone his restaurant skills through a 23-year run at Tortilla Flats- mastering every position from dishwasher to General Manager. After 23 years at Tortilla Flats, Javier opened his first Javier’s at Laguna Beach in 1995. What would culminate is a career of excellence in Mexican Cuisine few could compete with. Casino mogul Steve Wynn and NBA juggernaut Kobe Bryant are just some names that fell in love with Javier and what he does. Kobe particularly loved Javier, his family, and his food. The paparazzi often flashed him on nights out at Javier’s. We headed into the private dining area often reserved for Kobi and his friends.

Dinner

The lighting was perfect. We all were seated at this beautiful table with magnificent overhead chandeliers lighting the table from above. Beautifully decorated. These are some of the best decorations I’ve seen in my years of catering and doing these things. It was beautiful. We had several different types of sauces on the table. Roasted Jalapeno, Verde, and red. Served with house-fried chips
and a pineapple Margarita with fresh pineapple. Diem’s favorite. I was happy to see this drink served with this meal. And best of all, Diem loved it.

The entree was a well-executed split enchilada. One side stuffed with chunks of fresh Dungeness crab, expertly steamed with butter, garlic, onion, and white wine, covered in a delicious tomatillo sauce. The other is a beautifully roasted chicken enchilada with a deep and rich guajillo sauce. All with a sprinkle of melted Monterey Jack cheese and drizzled with house crema, garnished with avocado slices and cilantro sprigs. It was very, very good. Delicious even. We quickly fell into conversation in an intimate setting of about six couples, from quick jaunts from L.A. to annual fall vacations from Canada. There were as many excuses for coming to Las Vegas as there are people in it. After dinner, we all scampered off to the next venue.

The next stop

We wandered through Aria while our tour guide Donald spun yarns about the sights—the source of much of the information I am describing now. We walked around, we looked, and we saw some of the displays for the holidays. As well as a few very interesting art pieces. The “Silver River” piece by famed American artist Maya Lin a poignant expression of an environmental controversy gripping the region. Part of a body of work Lin refers to as her last “Memorial.” In 1981 at the age of 21 and still a graduate student, Lin’s proposal was chosen for the design of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., A fact at her age that made her a household name. In her last “Memorial,” a series of art pieces on the world’s great rivers, Lin states that they are “a tribute to environmental loss worldwide and aspects of the natural world that are disappearing before our eyes.”

After perusing the art and displays, we walked towards the entrance to Julian Serrano Tapas. Headed by renowned Spanish Chef Julian Serrano, he opened the famed Picasso in the Bellagio in 1998 and now turns his sights to his cultural past with Tapas. As we walked in, an interesting fellow played the guitar at the entrance. He was talented enough but gave me a strange, crazy-eyed glance as I snapped his photo. It perplexed me strangely as we reached our craftily prepared dinner table. A table that was set in deep contrasting colors. Crisp whites, deep reds, and very black were the colors on the menu today.

More Dinner

The drink was a traditional Spanish-style red Sangria, which was intoxicatingly delicious. I sat next to Jeffrey, an attorney from Vancouver, and we had a great laugh talking about the differences between litigation in the US and Canada. It was a very spirited and fun conversation. He still wears a robe simply as an attorney. Canadians can be a bit eccentric at times. He asked me about my position on Herschel Walker, and I almost lost it in uproarious laughter. It seems our issues back home in little ol Georgia have become International. We had such a great conversation. They were so much fun. Once a year, they would come to Vegas and ball out. You know what? I can appreciate that.

A seemingly endless train of tapas filled the spaces as we sat laughing—a dainty Pan Manchego over Cristal bread with fresh tomatoes. Chicken croquetas with bechamel and paprika aioli. My favorite is Medjool dates stuffed with goat cheese, wrapped in bacon, and served with a refreshing apple puree. But the star of the show had to be Paella. Either an abomination of the median or simply a delicious rice dish, the combination of chorizo with chicken let me know a great deal about whoever was running this operation—possibly Serrano himself. Only gentiles put chorizo in their paella. A true Valencian would find it an egregious violation of all things pure. Jamie Oliver’s and Gordon Ramsey’s put chorizo in their paella. Ferran Adria, I assure you, does not.

A digression

Apart from this most trivial of observations, everything was delicious. Though the paella had great flavors, it was rushed, and we missed out on the golden, crunchy texture that comes from the dish roasting slowly in its specialized pan. The pan and dish represent a very real collision of a dying Roman world and its consumption by the Muslim Conquest. Food represents our past in so many ways. It really is a map of human history. As rice spread across central and western Asia, it became a staple in the Levant and Northeast Africa as Pilaf before finding its way across Africa to Spain in the closing years of the Empire. Here it blended with the cooking methods and equipment of the late Roman period to become Paella—such a beautiful thing. But I digress.

After the last plate was cleaned, we were off to the last stop on our tour. A place that would undoubtedly be my Favorite. Least for the food and more for the service and atmosphere. However, the food was flawlessly executed and delicious. We cruised across the marble floor in the Shops at Crystal on our way to Mastro’s Ocean Club. Owned and operated by Landry’s hospitality brands, including the Golden Nugget Casino, and hotels and restaurants worldwide. I would hope they knew something about operations in the fine dining sector. They did not disappoint. Mastro’s Ocean Club reminded me of some of the old places I used to work in the early days of my career. The late 90s and early 2000s. Before 9/11 collapsed, Chef-driven restaurants and gourmet dining became more affordable and available to the masses. Additionally, the uniforms just blew me away.

Yet another dinner

We had this fantastic cocktail that contained dry ice. It was a lemon drop-type thing. As the waiter slowly poured the drink from a shaker-made table side, the drink began to bubble and smoke as only dry ice can—a cute touch. A creamy Burrata Caprese salad. That Apulian mozzarella oozes creamy stracciatella goodness when cut. Though often a misrepresentation, pure Burrata di Andria must be produced at all steps within its PGI (protected geographical indication). Which is far from the deserts of Nevada. And since the cheese is fresh and past its prime at 48 hours, I doubt this was a pure product. But, the flavors were good with the freshness of the hothouse tomatoes and acidity from the balsamic reduction.

The salad was followed by a Shrimp cocktail and a perfectly seasoned New York Strip with bechamel and Espanol sauce. Very old school steakhouse offerings and impeccably served. However, it was the desserts that stole this show. Served family style on large platters, the sweet treats included one of the creamiest New York-style cheesecakes I have tasted and a divine, earthy, warm, and intensely rich dark chocolate torte. But even here, something stood out. The cream of the crop, if you will. Maestro’s award-winning warm butter cake with vanilla bean ice cream. Making guest appearances on shows like “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” (who cares. I know.), this cake is incredibly good.

“The butter cake has a sweet cream cheese frosting that is layered on top of our yellow cake before it is baked. This melts into the batter – giving the cake its descriptive name. Then, it is flipped upside down before serving and raw sugar is bruleed on top creating a slightly crunchy layer”

Justin Floerchinger, Regional executive chef, Mastro’s Restaurants

Maverick

After we cleaned the dessert plates, we were carried, stuffed, and almost lifeless into the Aria Casino—fat pigs for the taking. Overflowing with delicious sustenance, a healthy serving of alcohol, and a desire to take on the roulette table, I plopped down and put $100 on black. Black it was. Knowing time was not on our side, I grabbed my chips, cashed them in, and made our way to the dungeon. Far below the air-conditioned fun of the Casino is the belly of the structure. A Maverick air tours company van would pick us up near the loading docks’ dumpsters.

The food sweats had begun to take hold. Horizontal seemed to be the only way my body wished to be. The seed of Irritation was beginning to take purchase. “Where was this damn van,” I thought, “somebody, please save us from this burning hell,” as it finally came screeching to a stop a few feet from our position. We clambered aboard the transit van and sought refuge in its air-conditioned interior. Crisis averted for now. It was a short ride across the strip to the far side of McCarron International Airport and home to the Maverick hangers and lounge.

Boarding

We wandered around the lounge, looking at a few items here and there. A scale model of a helicopter engine. A small gift shop. But ultimately, we found ourselves half asleep on a couch, waiting for our ride. Pilots would come and go, and people would leave and return, but our tickets had not been called. I was again beginning to feel impatience and irritation coming on full strength, but our Pilot was just in time. He called out orange, the color code of the boarding pass we were given at check-in. We gathered at the pilot and stepped out into the warm glow of a concrete pad two miles across in the desert night. As we approached our steel stallion on the pad, I hoped for our pilot’s best Swartzeneger as he yelled, “Get in the Chopper.” Alas, it was not to be.

The helicopter accommodated a pilot and six passengers. We had all been weighed when we arrived, and seats were assigned by this piece of data long before our tickets were called. I had a back window seat on the helicopter’s right side, with a substantial German couple in the middle and left rear seats. The pilot in the front left and another couple in front of me. Diem, probably the lightest person in the group because she weighs next to nothing, was sat in a forward seat in the row. So, she was in the nose, the tip of the chopper, and she could see everything: zero, no obstructions. However, I was a different story.

A seat without a view

After an excessive amount of time, we were finally buckled in, pre-flight checks complete, and the rotary engine purred to life. The pilot had sat me on the right side in the helicopter’s rear with a full window. We are a go for a great ride so far. Next to me was a German couple. Nice enough, I’m sure, but as the helicopter hugged the ground, getting out of the airport’s airspace, we lifted and headed straight for the east side of the strip heading north. As we fly around Vegas, the helicopter’s right side always faces oblivion.

Now I’ve got these asshole Germans, completely and without concern for others, filling the void between myself and the other side. And all I can hear the whole time is, “Wie komme ich zu das Fuhrer. Heil Hitler!” Again, what I heard, not what they said. All I can see are their hands blocking my view and their phones. I got so many great pictures of their phones videoing beautiful shots that I could not get. But hey, Diem got some great footage and the best view. And that is all that matters. I don’t care about the expansive wasteland. That was my view. It’s fine. A dark oblivion that was just amazing. Nein!. I’m not bitter.

By now, it had been a long day. Diem and I had been on the move for almost 24 hours. We were exhausted. We found the transport that brought us to the airport. Now she would take us to our Casino. As we arrived back at the MGM grand, the desert night’s warmth made sleep seem more desirable. It was a short time before sleep overcame us both.

Day 2

Still, on Georgia time, I awoke before the sun rose. I stumbled out of bed and went to the balcony to find a full moon just setting over the Aria complex we had dined in the night before. In short order, the sun rose behind me almost in a perfect dance as the moon fell out of sight. That sharp brilliance made the hotels pop with their reflective tints of gold and silver. It possessed a unique sparkle against the ocean hue of the deep blue early morning sky. I coaxed Diem out of bed, not entirely ready to face the world, and we headed for breakfast. There was much to see today. We needed to get an early start. We picked the little restaurant in our building for convenience. But it was quick and tasty.

Today was the day I was probably the most excited about. As you know, we rented the Dodge Challenger. I’ve never had possession of a car that is quite like this. It was powerful and beautiful—a 6.2L HEMI V8 engine with 807 hp and 707 lb-ft of torque. I rented the Challenger from a luxury rental agency to get the high-end specs. I usually am not a car person, I have never been. Cars are tools for transportation and financial liabilities. I’ve never owned one for pleasure, only for function. This was new to me. And this car just had it. I mean, it had it. I couldn’t help but get giddy as the Vale pulled the beast of a machine around the entrance and towards us. For the time being, this was my car. I sat for a moment taking in the rumbling purr of the engine. We hopped in and headed south toward Needles, California.

Leaving Las Vegas

As we left the urban sprawl of Vegas behind, the landscape became breathtaking. I had never driven through the southwest desert landscape. Particularly not at the helm of a super-powered American muscle machine. Everything about what we were doing felt right. How can one show someone the beautiful expanses of America, except behind the wheel of a massive American muscle car? After this experience, there will be no other way. As we continued into the desert, the mountains’ beautiful tan and brown hues against the dusty, sandy foreground combined with the wide deep blue sky to form an impressive landscape. Broken only by the isolated settlement or massive field of solar panels that populated the region. Beyond the settlements and solar arrays was left only a patchwork of shrubs and other sparse desert flora.

We purposely missed a turn on Nevada Hwy 163 to continue a short distance on U.S. 95. For no other reason than to step foot in California and because we could. It was our adventure. We took some photos for posterity and continued. The beautiful backdrop of the Mojave Desert is inspiring. As 163 climbs toward Laughlin, it snakes through the ever-growing mountains. Through each mountain pass, we would pop out into the open expanses of the valleys. The valleys here have a vast openness that seems too big to touch. Our path out the other side was visible as we descended into each valley. Out there, in the ever-shrinking distance. The mountains, road, and sky collide into a faraway vanishing point on an ever-expanding horizon.

Bullhead

At midmorning, we hit the dusty town of Bullhead City, or just north of it. No cloud could be seen as the sun climbed ever higher in the clear sky. We cruised through town, stopped at the familiar and always reliable Family Dollar, and grabbed snacks and drinks for our trek into the mountains. It was somewhat remote and dusty but still had the telltale signs of suburban America everywhere. Finding true wilderness is difficult even in the vast expanses of the American Southwest. As my father would say, there’s always a truck stop around the corner—sage-like intuition.

Out of Bullhead, we followed the Colorado River south and snaked down towards Mohave Valley. We crossed the river just south of Bullhead before coming to an uncannily familiar sight. Diem grabbed me from the passenger seat. As I turned to look, I thought to myself, do I see what I think I see? Within moments it was apparent. We had driven over the hill and into a valley full of rice swaying in the breeze. It looked so similar to places in Vietnam that I think it caught Diem as a pleasant surprise. The dusty causeways crisscrossing the fields, the massive stacks of rice straw, and the irrigation canals it was a surprising sight. The only thing that separated the scene from back in Diem’s hometown was the rocky bare mountains in the background here instead of the lush jungle mountains back home.

Into the Black Mountains

We continued south and finally made our way into Arizona north of Needles. The southern tip of Nevada is on the east bank of the Colorado River. Which, by this time in its journey to the sea, had become tame and languid. Further down Highway 95, we turned east onto 153 before merging into the Oatman Highway at the entrance to the Black Mountain pass. As we entered the pass, the landscape again became new and enchanting. Across the small planes were dotted Brittlebush, Rush Milkweed, Creosote Bushes, and desert conifers like the Pinyon. It gave the sight a coarse and almost desolate yet thriving appearance. Nothing worth sustaining someone if stranded in the desert mountain, mind you. It was yet teaming with a lushness that seemed dangerous and barren.

As we climbed further into the mountains, the signs warning of Ass crossings the next eight miles added further to the moment. We were far from the Southeastern U.S. True to their claim, we encountered a few loitering around a bend. Two Jack Ass’ hanging out in the desert mountains of Arizona.

The Donkeys of Oatman

With prospectors come beasts of burden. Early attempts were underway to coax gold from the region before any claim was made in the area. Prospectors had been in the area for decades when Johnny Moss founded his claims in 1863. Beasts of burden were often abandoned in the wilderness. Whether from a prospector who died on his claim or lost from a mining camp. Today the area is populated by a large population of now feral but tame donkeys.

Further on, the road continued to wind through some incredibly beautiful terrain. Spots with random crosses amidst desert scenes. Cacti hanging over cliff edges, mounds, and monuments to the desert landscape with the sea blue sky above. Some scenery almost looked otherworldly as natural spiked towers lifted into the horizon—a primordial scene. After an hour or so into the black mountain pass, we found the Oatman Fire District.

Olive Oatman

Oatman began as a staked claim by prospector Johnny Moss in 1863. It was one of two he claimed in the black mountains. The first he named Moss. The second he named after a now all but forgotten character of the closing days of the frontier, Olive Oatman. Somewhat of a celebrity in her time, Oatman was both a victim of deteriorating Indian relations and an excuse for its continuing deterioration. Her family joined a band of Brewsterites, a Latter Day Saints movement splinter sect, and headed for California from Illinois in 1850. In the Black Mountains, they were attacked by a small warrior band of Native Americans, said to be the Tolkepayas. However, that is credited to conjecture. What is known is that only Olive, her younger sister Mary and their brother Lorenzo survived. However, Lorenzo was left for dead with the rest in the wilderness of the Mojave desert.

The tribe took Mary and Olive into slavery, forcing the girls into menial tasks like gathering water and tending fires. Olive was 13. After a year of enslavement, members of the tribe held a trading summit with the Mojave people. The Mojave noticed the girls and the Mojave Chief’s daughter took an interest. Topeka, the Chief’s daughter, was determined to remove the girls from the distressing situation. After apparently hardnose negotiations, the girls were finally purchased away from the warrior band of Natives. From there, the girls walked with their new captors to the Mojave’s village on the Colorado River at modern-day Needles.

Olive returns to civilization.

In their new home, things were much more pleasant. The girls were given land, and when she was discovered and returned to “civilization,” as it was put at the time, Olive had both a name and nickname from the new tribe. Something gave if someone had been fully assimilated into a community. Mary perished from starvation during a particularly bad famine during Olive’s time with the Mojave. Her brother, remember Lorenzo left for dead, continued to look for his sisters, and the circumstances of her repatriation are cloaked in controversy. When repatriated and returned to her brother, she had a native tattoo on her chin and arms, meant to guide her in the afterlife. She is said to be the first American white woman to have ever been tattooed and America’s first female public speaker as a lecturer on her experiences.

Whatever her reality had been with the Mojave, her experience and tattoos were spun into a propaganda tale by Reverend Royal Byron Stratton to marginalize already vulnerable Native populations. As time marched on, the negativity of Olive’s story eroded. Though Stratton used the royalties from book sales to send Olive and Lorenzo to the University of the Pacific, it appeared his liberties with the tales of the Oatman sisters were for less than noble purposes, like justification for removing residents from their lands. Later in life, Oatman would speak more positively of the Mojave, and her husband, John B. Fairchild, would spend his later years hunting down and burning copies of Royal Byron Stratton’s books on Olive’s time in captivity. Read into that, whatever you might. It’s a very interesting and forgotten story in the days of the dying frontier.

Oatman, Arizona

The road into Oatman looked like a scene out of Breaking Bad. Abandoned meth lab RV’s, dilapidated campers, and rusted-out trailers. A harsh-looking environment scattered with a few dusty and extremely hardy desert trees and shrubs. In these forbidding mountains, two very lucky prospectors struck a $10 million gold vein at the Oatman claim in 1915. The population swelled shortly thereafter from a few dozen prospectors and surrounding community to over 3,500, making up the standard gold rush town of shops and innkeepers, guides, barbers, lawmen, and everything else that comes with a boom town.

By 1924, less than ten years later, United Eastern Mines, then the largest employer in Oatman, would shut its doors after depleting most of its adjusted for inflation 2022, $215 million worth of gold deposits. In 1941 the federal government ordered the remaining mines closed due to the war effort, and Oatman began a rapid decline into history. As of the 2020 census, Oatman houses 102 permanent residents. If it weren’t for its spot on Historic Route 66 between Kingman and Needles, Oatman would have probably turned to dust like most neglected matter in the desolate Mojave desert.

Oatman Proper

As we entered into the unincorporated community and Census Designated Place or CDP, a few scattered, more modern, and well-kept homes emerged. Though no matter how nice they seemed, the harshness of the scenery still gave the houses a difficult and struggling feel. We came rather quickly to a gravel lot labeled public parking, and I whipped the Hemi-beast in and found a spot to park. It was still morning, and the lot was sparsely populated with other wandering souls like ourselves looking for a good time.

Rocks

The first place we came to was the aptly named Oatman Rock Shop, and we wandered in. The homely facility offered a dizzying array of all things rocky and geological. Unpolished chunks of amethysts, quartz, and malachite. Massive and smaller geodes, whole and half. Crystal Jewelry of many shapes and sizes. As well as a sketchy section labeled “Nava Jewely,” a bastardized sign long in neglect that should have read Navajo Jewelry. We perused the offerings, found a few lovely necklaces for the girls back home, and went to the shopkeeper to purchase our baubles. A young man in his early twenties with unkempt shaggy hair and a whispy attempt at facial hair cashed us out.

His energy and enthusiasm were almost infectious as he asked if we had passed through the sidewinder yet. “The Sidewinder, what’s that?” I asked with one eyebrow elevated to show a deep interest. “It’s a section of the highway.” He stated in a not overly patronizing air of matter-of-factness. ”Incredible turns and views”. He added, almost bouncing in childlike energy. ”Where is it?” I quickly followed. “It starts as you leave town going towards Kingman.” I asked him if he had been in the area long. “My entire life,” he quickly sputtered. He then began to rattle off a series of names that I could only guess were other dusty settlements in the area where he had also resided. We thanked him for the goods and the information and headed further into town.

The Town

The seed had been planted. No matter what we did from here on in Oatman, I was ready to leave it behind. The sidewinder was beckoning the Challenger and me, calling us to hit the road. But first, Diem needed to see Oatman. A relic of the former era of expansion and gold in the West. Save for its power and broadband cables crossing the streets, the town with its wild west wooden architecture looked like it had come straight out of a Clint Eastwood movie. It probably has graced a movie or two. We took some time to inspect the town and shops and spotted a billboard on the old restaurant with the tattoed face of Olive Oatman. Perhaps not a forgotten figure after all. At least not entirely.

Probably my biggest surprise was not so much that there were motorcycles everywhere. I knew the town had a bike festival and was on a very popular riding route, but who it was exactly that was riding. We walked up to the Shooting Gallery. Sort of the centerpiece of the town. In the style of an old west saloon, with rows of bikes parked up against the old horse bars. The modern-day steeds of iron and oil. The duality was striking at first, even arresting. Amidst this scene stood an actor standing out front. Dressed in old western attire, he was undoubtedly a part of the many staged gunfights and shows that erupt around the town at various times throughout the day.

Eine Überraschung!

He was engaging with what, at first glance, I thought to be a rather clean and tidy biker. They exchanged pleasantries, and I couldn’t help but notice the Bavarian accent the biker had with his expertly trimmed beard. I quickly noticed the German patch on his leather vest and realized he was in a group of German bikers. After loitering briefly and eavesdropping on the conversation, it became clear that this wasn’t uncommon. It’s not unusual for wealthy Germans to travel to America, purchase everything needed to become a biker and spend a holiday traveling around America, experiencing life as they see it in countless movies and television shows. What’s up with all the Germans?

I took a few photos of the unusual sight, and we continued. The only restaurant in town, whose name is forever forgotten to me, was beginning to open as we walked up to its front door. A less-than-modern dive complete with unattentive waitstaff, sticky floors, and dollar bills stapled to every available surface area except the floor. There they just stuck. It gave the impression of disgust on a level I can’t say I’ve ever dined in. We were greeted relatively quickly, but unbeknownst to me now, a rush was coming, and it would be one of only a few times we would engage with our server.

Oatman Hotel Restaurant and Saloon

Bar food wasn’t exactly on the menu these days, and I was both not surprised and saddened when I discovered that every menu item involved either a massive vat of hot oil and batter or just a massive vat of hot oil. We ordered a couple of beers, mainly for Instagram, wings, and cheese sticks. Apparently, the transient tourist migration begins in earnest around lunchtime every day. What ensues is that the town swells from its humble population of 102 to in the thousands. And on bike week, the tens of thousands. Today was a holiday weekend, after all. Bikers for Columbus were on the move.

The second time we engaged with our server was when she delivered the food. By now, the restaurant was hopping in a manner that seemed to indicate that the ship was sinking. At this point, we hurried our snack, only wanting to flee. But obtaining our server’s attention was less than straightforward, and we settled on the first person I could grab. We saw our server the third time when she returned my card. We quickly exited the burning structure.

Oatman and Its Architecture

Once back into the warming sun, we explored the dusty town a little further. The streets and side roads were lined with some unique architecture. Everything fit in the code of the wild west. Even an interesting A-framed house sat high on a hill overlooking the town. It must be the Mayor’s house or something. Diem’s giddying excitement was infectious as we continually snapped photo after photo of her in front of various scenes. I always find joy in these moments. I am living somewhat vicariously through her discovery of an entirely new world. And though I see it for the first time as Diem, I also fundamentally know this place. Its facade is repeated in countless forms of media and literature. This place has existed on television my entire life.

I also know that feeling of Diem’s from experiencing it in reverse when we traveled all over Vietnam for two years. It’s one thing to see distant and very different worlds in media. It is an entirely different thing altogether to stand in the scene. We had indeed arrived in a place in the world that is a modern-day reflection of American history. The Wild West, though tamed and civilly subdued. The only shots fired in this frontier outpost were blanks. It still produced the intended effect.

Out of the Black Mountains

We went to the Challenger and began our way out of town. As we made our way slowly through the east side of the now congested streets of Oatman, the sign signaling the beginning of the Sidewinder pass quietly passed by. The resulting ride was thrilling. The incredibly beautiful bluffs and rocky spires filled the horizon on the winding mountain road that hugged the slopes. Much of the road was without guardrails, making for an often harrowing experience. We would take turns and edge corners in many places only to find more breathtaking scenes of jagged rocky outcrops and cut-hard sandstone cliffs shaped by the elements of time. The road narrowly tucks into the ancient, vibrant, and dynamic landscape. The scenery is just strikingly beautiful.

We stopped a few times to catch some of the impressive views. And one particular spot, the Sitgreaves Pass View Point, was of particular note. It had a spacious gravel parking lot to accommodate numbers and a path that snaked into an overlook. Complete with an old graveyard, benches, and crosses scattered throughout the area. As we stepped out into the overlook, a magnificent sight fell upon us. The browns, tans, and rust colors reached out in an endless distance to touch the intense blue sky. It was broken up only by a few distant, wandering clouds hovering above the horizon. It was a sight that had a deceptive sense of vast emptiness. As where we were headed was in view, if only our eyes were good enough to see it. We sat for a while and enjoyed the view. But the day was getting no less warm, so our time exposed to the elements was short. It was a quick push down the mountain into the valley and Kingman.

The Mother Road

The sidewinder pass is relatively tight, boasting 191 turns in 9 miles. A section of what was once the mightiest road in America. And more interestingly, one of its first. Most traffic before cars traveled along the railroads west or the rivers in the east, but it wasn’t until the 20th century that a road to traverse this vast, open expanse of America for cars and trucks was needed. The original route began or started in Chicago and wound across plains, deserts, valleys, mountains, and reservations to Los Angeles.

It was shortly after one when we rolled into Kingman. We had come to Kingman to discover more of the mystery and culture that is America’s mother road. Home to the Route 66 Roadside Attraction Museum, where I planned to explore more of the road’s history and lore. What vestibules of forgotten Americana lay beyond the doorway? Located in the old Powerhouse building in Kingman. It is the oldest known reinforced concrete industrial building in Arizona. Generating electricity in Oatman from 1909 to 1938.

The Visitors Center

Sharing the building with the Museum, the visitor’s center was clean, spacious, and doubled as a souvenir shop. A handsome train on a long track circled the perimeter of the center some 15 feet above the floor. It chugged around the room as we perused books, shot glasses, and all the other things one finds in souvenir shops. So deliciously capitalistic as most museum shops are.

We purchased a couple of tickets and made our way to the entrance. We spied one of those cheesy picture booths on our way, and Diem and I jumped in for some cheap fun. The machine malfunctioned and spit out a featureless white background with our low-quality printed faces on top—no excited backdrops of the mighty monuments for us. We laughed at our misfortune and continued to the museum.

The Museum

The Route 66 museum was well curated and a relatively open and expansive warehouse space. Partial walls are distributed throughout the museum to break up the exhibits and give them a nice flow. The first exhibit in the line generally spoke of semi-ancient periods of tribal footpaths that archeologists have determined crisscrossed the mountains and valleys of the region. It was these century-worn paths that eventually gave way to, at first, wagon trails, followed by the railroads and, finally, the mighty fleet of America’s private cars and commercial trucks.

The first European arrived in the region, a Spaniard named Juan de Onate, in 1604. He documented the first accounts of the Native Americans living in the area. It would be almost two centuries more, during the most famous American year, 1776, when the humble Spanish missionary, Fr. Francisco Garces, traveled through the region. The many tribes of the region, the Mohave, Hualapai, and Havasupai, aided the missionary and taught him the many paths throughout the area, particularly routes to the Pacific.

Beale’s Expedition

With the nation’s birth and rapid expansion, the need for all-season routes across the continent became more critical. With fur trappers and early panhandlers roaming the region by the late 1700s, it would lead to a great migration that would see the region swell in the first two decades of the 19th century. The earliest American exploration came in 1851, with a mapping expedition by Captain Lorenzo Sitgreaves. For months he explored the border regions of Arizona and California, developing maps and seasonal specs.

His work would lead to the 35th parallel becoming the chosen path for any trail through the area. In 1857, John B. Floyd, secretary of war under President James Buchannan, petitioned for an expedition to search out a southerly western route to the coast in the new state of California. This task was contracted to Navy Lieutenant Edward F. Beale. With the only stipulation to follow as closely as possible to the 35th parallel.

Setting out

With these conditions set, Beale, loaded with 44 men, 12 wagons, and a menagerie of animals, including 25 camels fresh from Egypt, left Fort Defiance, New Mexico Territory, and began his quest to create a road through the region. The expedition saw success and a lot of luck and reached the Colorado River on its 49th day. Beale would spend several years fine-tuning the route for things like time and distance between springs.

The resulting work would produce the Beale Wagon Road—America’s first federally founded and funded road. At a total cost of $50,000 for the 400-mile road, it was also one of the continent’s least expensive roads ever built. The route would become widely popular and serve hundreds of thousands of travelers as the West was won.

The Professional Server

As we explored the famous road’s history, an exhibit particularly sparked my interest. The first restaurant chain and professional servers in America. Anyone who has watched a Western knows the reputation and services barmaids and waitresses offer in the west saloons. And, so too, in the time, did Fred Harvey.

Fred Harvey

Born on June 27, 1835, in London, England, Fred Harvey immigrated to the United States via Liverpool at 17. He landed in New York and became a busboy at Smith and McNell’s shortly after that. There he would work his way through the restaurant, learning procedures and practices that would serve him well in later ventures—qualities like service standards, fresh ingredients, and the importance of your word. After traveling across America and taking various jobs, including jewelry maker, Harvey settled in St. Louis, married, and opened his first cafe. The business thrived for some time when war erupted across the nation, and his partner ran off to join the Confederacy with all of their earnings.

Harvey found work soon after for the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad, which was acquired shortly after that by the now-defunct Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. After rising quickly in the company, he was relocated to Leavenworth County, Kansas, where he would live until his death. From this railroad outpost, Harvey would travel all across the railroad network but always found food service lacking everywhere he went. By 1873 the itch to return to food service and fill the void he perceived in the railroad network was too great. He would open two eating houses two hundred and eighty miles apart on the Kansas Pacific Railroad.

The Harvey Way

His great deal that would unleash a movement in food service would come when, in 1876, he struck his first deal with Santa Fe Rail superintendent Charles Morse for eating houses along the route. Fred Harvey would civilize the West, standardize service, and create the first American Chain restaurants in these establishments. He set standards for his employees and brought dignity and respect to the industry for women previously exploited. For a woman to work at a Harvey restaurant in 1900, they had to meet strict criteria that included; being single, white, and between the ages of 18 and 30, agreeing to remain single for at least the first year of employment, completing a strenuous two-week training program, sign contracts of a 6, 9, or 12 month duration, wear no makeup and only approved hairstyles, maintain a crisp and clean uniform, stay in, and obey all dormitory rules and curfews, and must not date male employees.

This standardized and consistent service offered to the rail passengers created a culture and experience that became as much the draw of, at first, railroad travel and, later, cars as any other attraction on the line. In return for their service to the company, the more than 100,000 women who filled the roles of Harvey girls throughout the Southwest were given opportunities not well known to women before the time. Things like what they did in their free time, whom and when they married, or what careers they pursued. In a world framed by train schedules and hard work, the Harvey girl went on to help shape the role of women in society for the next half-century. Upon Fred Harvey’s death in 1901, his hospitality empire consisted of 47 Harvey House restaurants, 15 Hotels, and 30 dining cars on the Santa Fe rail line.

On the Road Again

The United States Numbered Highway System began on November 18, 1925, with the stroke of William M. Jardine’s pen. Then the United States Secretary of Agriculture. This act led to the creation of the shield as a marker for highways and the north-south, east-west numbering system. Of course, the Route 66 routes on the Santa Fe trail became part of the initial system. Though, during the great depression and dust bowl days, the highway served a less glamorous purpose. Its roadbed and roadside eateries became the escape route for hundreds of thousands fleeing the famine and drought that smothered the plains through much of the 1920s.

We walked through the displays showing the devastating times for Americans. Starving children, bankrupt farmers, and emaciated livestock were fleeing what was the breadbasket of America. Scale models of Tin Lizzie’s, complete with mannequins, showcased the families’ difficulties as they fled the crippling drought. An event embedded in American history through literature such as John Steinbeck’s classic American novel “The Grapes of Wrath.”

Grapes of Wrath

Highway 66 is the main migrant road. 66-the long concrete path across the country, waiving gently up and down on the map, from the Mississippi to Bakersfield-over the red lands and the gray lands, twisting up the mountains, crossing the divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert to the mountains again, and into the rich California valleys.

66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert’s slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight.

Excerpt from the “Grapes of Wrath” John Steinbeck

The Golden Age

We continued through the museum as it made its way to the golden age of Route 66. The era of “Anywhere America.” A designation I give to the period of rapid boxed expansion across America. This period in post-war America saw the advent of subdivisions and, with them, suburbia, modern appliances, and a standard blueprint for the average American home and town. In this environment, the true glory of Route 66 was realized. With its drive-in restaurants and movies, service stations, and countless roadside attractions, Route 66 became an attraction in and of itself. There was always something to see on Route 66.

Servicemen returning from the war in the Pacific and Europe spurred this growth in the West. Many trained in the West and decided to move there upon their return. From 1945 -1960 areas in the west along Route 66 saw their populations grow by as much as 74%. It was an age in American history of prosperity and opportunity. Society shared a community goal of progress and was bound together by external pressures like a common enemy in the Soviet era—a golden age in America.

Electric Cars

We finished the museum with a walk through a scale town from the period. Complete with a barbershop, drug store, and service station. The exit was through an electric car museum on the floor beneath. I wasn’t expecting much or concerned about an electric car museum. But, it was well curated and had an impressive collection. EV golf carts belonging to Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson to the once-fastest EV on earth, the Buckeye Bullet 2.5. Which, in 2009, set the then-fastest EV land speed record at 303.025 miles per hour. A 2008 Tesla Roadster and a 1909 electric luggage tug. The collection was worth a look.

Diem and I exited the museum into the growing desert heat. A long train roared by, adding to the nostalgia and idea of the expansive west of former years. As we headed out into Kingman, we passed a tourist sign for photo opportunities, but cars were lined up waiting, so we pressed on. The town was populated with cute little shops and roadside sights, giving the small desert town a charming air. We cruised through the streets and headed for the Interstate. It was a long push back north to Boulder City.

Northward

We picked up Highway 93 off of I-40 on the western edge of Kingman and made our way northwest toward Boulder City. The scenery that unfolded across the expansive desert was a nearly perfect blue sky set against the earth tones of the jagged barren mountains. The highway stretched as far as the horizon allowed, disappearing far ahead in a hazy distance. Eventually, the desert plain gave way to more mountains. Complete with beautiful vistas off the edge of the highway as it snakes through the mountain pass north towards our next destination. Eventually, the tan and brown landscape gave way to vibrant colors of rust and brick.

We had arrived in the region of the Colorado River at Lake Mead. The Devonian sandstone gave the environment an almost Martian feel—the deep rusty reds ablaze in the afternoon sun. Just east of Boulder City, we exited the highway for the Hoover Dam Access road. From there, we snaked through the canyon toward the mightiest American dam. The massive infrastructure to tote off the generated electricity rose around us from the canyon walls and across the mountains toward civilization. Like mighty mechanical webbed spires of progress, they climbed sharply into the deep blue sky—such an arresting sight in an otherwise barren scene filled with steel and cable. Passing underneath the Mike O’Callaghan – Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge, the mighty Hoover Dam first appeared.

Hoover Dam

Harbinger of modernity to the once wild mountain ranges of western Arizona, construction began on the once-largest dam in the world in 1931. Named after President Herbert Hoover, the massive construction project would, in many ways, shield the area from the economic uncertainty of the great depression. Sprouting a new city, Boulder City, for the sole purpose of housing the army of workers and supporting industry and their families during construction. Completed in 1936, it is one of the most extraordinary pre-war public works projects ever. Providing electricity to the region and a water supply to satiate the thirsty desert inhabitants. Provider of life and power, the dam would transform the American Southwest and provide a literal and figurative foundation for the development of modern America in the Colorado River basin.

If not for the things this dam brings, today’s great cities would not have been possible. Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Diego, and Phoenix would all probably still be dusty, backwater outposts in an otherwise hostile environment. We passed through the entrance plaza, which today required no entrance fee, and wound our way up to the parking deck just before the dam. The concrete used to build the deck, and newer buildings had been produced with local red sandstone, giving the structures a very integrated feel to the overall scene. We parked the car in the only spot left that offered shade. And only partially. As we exited the car, the heat was oppressive. We ducked back into the shade of the deck and headed to the street. Diem, wanting no more exposure to the intense afternoon sun, stayed behind in the protective shade.

Exploring in the Heat of Day

As I stepped out into the light, I looked right. The Mike O’Callaghan–Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge stood off on the southern horizon. A beautiful concrete archway design that spans the Colorado River. Carrying I-11 and Highway 93 across the expanse between Arizona and Nevada. Opening in 2010 at 1,905 feet across, it is the longest single-arch bridge in North America. Suspended a staggering 880 feet over the Colorado River, the Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge is also the second-highest bridge in the United States and the highest concrete arch structure ever built. The concrete steel structure complemented the iconic concrete behemoth, the hoover dam—a mighty sight suspended from the rock on either side of the impressive canyon.

After a short gaze, I turned my attention toward the dam and away from the intense sun. The sun, by now, was perfectly positioned in the sky to cast its direct gaze across the land. The sandstone cliffs and massive concrete structure acted as an oven raising the temperature of the canyon to dangerous conditions. Relentless in its pursuit to rid you of all bodily fluids. The sparse and mostly fenced-off construction zones offered little in the way of reprieve. I walked at a brisk pace hopping between what little shade there was. My clothes had become instantly soaked, and I wanted little to do with the situation save for my unyielding drive to secure some good images.

Hopping the Shadows

I found shade in one of the observation platforms extending from the upper walkway, as it sat in the shadow of a welcome center on the dam’s edge. The full dam was beyond view from this vista, so I did not linger. I passed by another section also under construction. Inside the fenced-off area were two what appeared to be copper statues of winged men seated. They had a very progressive era aura and went well with the overall theme of the dam and its facilities. Though a functional public works structure, it is well-curated with art accents and many architectural enhancements to display the period of its construction, the 1930s, and those of local indigenous peoples. I had read in a tourist pamphlet on the site that there were beautiful reliefs of the Navajo, but today the sight was closed.

I walked across the dam to get a good view of lake mead, the Memorial Bridge, and the welcome center. I’ve seen the lake from the dam in countless media, but I always remember the lake as being high and near the top. So it was rather arresting to see quite a distance down to the water’s surface. Of course, I knew of the Deadpool threat to halting electrical production and how states were in brutal fights over the future of drinking water in the region. But to see the lake’s old water level marks in person was incredibly dramatic. I quickly looked at the lake, the bridge now forward from the dam, and the water intake towers but dared not loiter. By now, the sun was so intense all I could think was damn, that’s one hot star. Its heat in this sandstone kiln had become too crushing to be enjoyable.

In Need of Hydration

I returned to Diem as quickly as I could. We ducked into a small cafe/souvenir shop at the bottom of the parking deck. Its windows were so covered in tint to protect patrons that one could make out no movement inside. At first, I thought it was closed. I hurriedly purchased two sports drinks, draining one in its entirety before we reached the door. As we left the monument to progress in our mirror, the clouds on the distant horizon began to bellow up. It was a beautiful sight as we popped out of the mountain pass east of Las Vegas. A vast desert plain, dusty sandstone mountains in the distance, pillowy cumulus clouds floating languidly in the fading afternoon, with Vegas’ skyscrapers rising from the true horizon splayed across the scene.

Best Vietnamese in Vegas

We stopped in the suburb of Henderson at what was marketed as some of the best Vietnamese in the Vegas metro area. Pho Bosa Kitchen was mainly empty and had a rather unorthodox menu. Complete with oxtails and fried catfish. In my experience, restaurants that venture out of their comfort zone to draw customers aren’t getting any on their core cuisine. Additionally, it was a no-contact establishment. We had to order through an app even while seated for dinner service. But they had the staples, and we decided to take it to go and downloaded the app to place our order. While we waited, a robot rolled by, taking food to the two other diners in the restaurant. Eventually, our order arrived, and we headed for our penthouse apartment.

With evening quickly approaching, the sun sat fat in the western sky. We enjoyed our dinner while watching the clouds wrapping the sun in a spectacular setting as the life-bringing star dropped behind the Spring Mountains. Tired from a long day of exploring, we lounged for a while, and I ultimately drifted off into a comforting sleep. I awoke a few hours later, around 8:30, to find Diem getting ready. I knew at once that we would be going out tonight. It was our first full day in Vegas. Why wouldn’t we go out?

A European Tour

We found our way to the MGM Grand and the relatively new Vegas Monorail. A station that sat perched a few hundred yards from the lobby of our building and most of that distance was populated by moving sidewalks. We wouldn’t want to break a sweat too early on this warm desert night. I purchased two-day unlimited passes from the kiosk, though I would later find that to be a waste. We never could seem to find another station after this one. A bizarre transportation network indeed, with only a handful of stops whose stations were both hidden and out of the way. We took the rail to the Bellagio, Paris, and Ceaser’s block and departed the monorail station. It would be the last time we would find such a station.

Paris

Paris is a magnificent property. Though an illusion of the senses, its Parisian architecture and tightly wound streets give the setting a fun and French vibe. We strolled by a few eateries of the world’s most famous Restauranteurs. Some beautiful establishments predominantly displaying names like Gordon Ramsay, Bobby Flay, and Martha Stewart. I noted a bar that looked like an old rail station. It was decorated with an oriental dragon, giving the scene an unnerving colonial vibe. But this is a casino. I have no delusion that this was done in any maleficent manner.

Diem wanted to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower, so we looked around the elevators for some time, trying to find the ticket booth. I had been to the top before and knew we needed to procure tickets ahead of time. But I could find no such booth. Eventually, after asking a few questions, we were pointed to a booth, not in view or convenient. We purchased two passes for the top and headed for the elevator. A short time later, the door opened, and we were ushered inside.

Up or I’ll cut you!

The cholo that operated the elevator looked like he had just finished a tour in San Quentin. Complete with a jailhouse haircut and neck tattoos. They must be really desperate in the “guy who stands in the elevator and pushes buttons” department. But I digress. We reached the top, the elevator opened, and the view was spectacular. This is the view from which I captured the feature image for the article. You could see the strip, Bellagio, Caesar’s Palace, the Luxor pyramid, and the suburbs as they faded into the distant night. As we made the circle and enjoyed the panoramic view, we came across a typical Vegas tourist passed out from too much drink and being attended by staff. Best to leave now before the elevator became occupied with potential rescue crews; we both agreed and caught the next ride down.

The Bellagio

After exploring the Paris Casino, we made our way across the street to the bougie Bellagio, one of the grandest of palaces to the hedonist the world has ever seen. As we entered the magnificent structure, my stomach began to rumble. Never far from my appetite, we found a little Asian bistro tucked in the corner of the casino floor. The aptly named Noodles offered something from just about every Asian cuisine known to modern man, including Vietnamese Pho, Sichuan Dan Dan Noodles, Pad Thai, Japanese seafood Udon, Mandarin Beef stew, Cantonese Dumpling noodles, Malaysian Roti Prata, and on and on. It was an impressive collection. Diem ordered the Pho, and I the Pad Thai. We enjoyed a little sake and a beer in the wonderful little establishment tucked on the fringe of the bustling casino floor.

After our late-night snack, we headed to the lobby as I wanted to show Diem the Fiore di Como. A beautiful glass sculpture by the renowned American Dale Chihuly. The foremost master of glass art. The sculpture depicts his interpretation of Italian flowers in spring. And also happens to be the largest blown glass sculpture in the world. Comprised of 2,000 hand-blown flowers, it is one of Chihuly’s most recognizable works. Completed in 1998 and unveiled at the opening of the Bellagio that same year, it is meant to inspire patrons of the hotel of a beautiful Italian spring. It makes the Bellagio lobby one of the most beautiful Hotel lobbies in the world. Upwards of 20,000 people a day visit the lobby to see this masterpiece of blown glass.

Lake Cuomo

After exploring some of the famed casino’s art and architecture, we strolled toward Lake Como near the entrance. We nestled in at the water’s edge, known for its spectacular water display, awaiting the show. Paris sat across the lake in a brilliant display. It is simply electric on the strip. As we took it all in and Diem posed for some photos, the lake began to churn. And with that, the water show began.

If you’ve never seen the Bellagio water show on Lake Como, then let me tell you, it is magnificent. Over 2,000 water nozzles, spraying upwards of 400 feet in the air, all choreographed to music and lights. One of the most iconic Vegas strip images is the world-famous fountains in the foreground of the impressive Bellagio Hotel and Casino, with countless media showcasing the display. The closing scene of the Vegas crime caper movie Ocean’s Eleven, the George Clooney and Brad Pitt version mind you, takes place in the glitzy shadow of the impressive lake show. We stood transfixed to the scene as the fountain pumped thousands of gallons a second into the sky above. Eventually, the display wained to a bit of mist above the water’s surface before finally settling into its glass-like sheen once more.

Hail Caesar!

As the show was over, we now stood in the heart of the European section of the strip and decided to walk to Caeser’s palace. A fan of the man’s legend, I’ve read every non-fiction book I’ve come across on the subject. I always love cruising the casino and checking out the Roman style art pieces and architecture. In some cases, however, they are more of a cliched caricature than anything historically tangible. Nonetheless, I enjoyed it. After a few hours of exploring the world of decadence and Dignitas, we grabbed another ubiquitous Uber and made our way to the palace of tacky glitz.

Fremont Street

We hopped out of the rideshare in front of the Golden Gate Hotel and Casino at midnight. The dated glamor of the scene gave it all a powerful nostalgia for a place and time I had never known. A place that exists more now in the consciousness of America, that time and place that represented the mob days of Las Vegas. Though what it was or how it felt, few people now really know—a caricature of its former self. Known now as the “Freemont Street Experience,” it is essentially a bright, load, and stimuli overload of a pedestrian street. Complete with its giant television-like screen stretching a quarter mile down its paved corridor.

All the fabled casinos of mid-century lore can be found here. The Plaza, Golden Nugget, Golden Gate, Main Street, and 4 Queens, to name a few. We quickly came across the famous Coyboy Vic sign of the Pioneer, and it was as if being whisked away to 1960s Vegas. Not really. The giant television, the 80s hair cover band rocking out Journey, and throngs of people having a good time and trying their luck at one of the seemingly endless casinos lining the streets made for a very electric environment. We wandered the streets for a while ab even came across an old Edison bulb-covered sidewalk. It, more than anything, added to the period feel of a bygone era. The hour by now had grown late, so we hopped back to our home away from home casino, for a little late-night pizza and a comfortable bed.

Day 3

A Ride to Nowhere

We woke again in the early morning—no time for rest in the land of luck and sin. We ordered breakfast in our lobby restaurant and enjoyed ourselves on the veranda. A small bird joined us while we ate and discussed the day’s events in the warming morning. With only an afternoon appointment on the docket, a rare find in our rental steered the day’s activities. Underneath the passenger seat, we discovered an unscratched California lottery ticket that yielded a $100 win. This dictated that we must drive west to find a place to cash in our unexpected earnings. Along the way, a billboard for Alien Beef Jerky in Baker further solidified our need to travel westward.

Again the vast desert expanses were enchanting. The long, perfectly straight highway disappears in the distance on an almost featureless horizon. Occasionally we would roll into a small dusty mountain range that would break up the otherwise desolate landscape. Around mid-morning, we rolled into Baker and stopped at what turned out to be a very unsuspected surprise.

Alien Fresh Jerky

Being a bit of a sci-fi nerd, Alien fresh jerky was everything my 12-year-old self wanted it to be. Made to look like an alien outpost, the facilities included UFOs, interstellar cars, and a robot marque. Inside was just as tacky and wonderful—a veritable cornucopia of jerky, alien-inspired snacks, kitschy souvenirs, and cardboard cutouts of the captain and his crew. Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a (insert something funny here). We perused the wild flavors like Abducted Cow Beef Jerky and spent far more money on snacks than I think either one of us was expecting. Snacks procured and a little fun had, we continued north from Baker through the Silurian Valley.

We were back on a two-lane state road snaking through the wilderness. With the Avawatz mountains to the west, the views became close mountains and desert expanses again. A few times, we encountered sections of the road that had recently experienced washout conditions as it had disappeared beneath the sand—signs of a dynamic, ever-changing landscape. We stopped again at Salt Creek Hills: a BLM, Bureau of Land Management, ACEC Area of Critical Environmental Concern—home to the Amargosa Springs, old mining settlements, and the oldest structure in San Bernardino County. The area has been a valuable human resource since prehistory, providing a rare water source in the expansive Mojave desert. We took some time to explore and catch some beautiful views of the area. But the heat was building, so we did not linger.

On to Pahrump

Around midday, we came to the dusty outpost of Shoshone. With a population of 31, it was the least populated town we had visited on our journey. Just west of the Nopah range, we turned east out of Shoshone and crossed the Amargosa River towards the Nopah mountain pass and Pahrump. Here the scenery took another unexpecting turn. Bleached sandstone cliffs began to caress the road’s edges, with the brown and rust-colored Nopah range striped by eons of pressure and erosion beset on the horizon—an enchanting scene.

We made our way through the pass and into the valley beyond. Out of the pass, the road turned sharply north. As we rounded the bend into the valley, the long northern expanse stretched out in the infinite distance—a dusty, almost featureless plain beset on all sides by the Nopah mountain range. Straight ahead was our bearing as we continued through the valley on the impressive unwavering road, never deviating even a fraction from its perfectly straight trajectory.

Distant Storms

We continued beyond the shadow of the Nopah range, turning to and fro languidly through the low mountain pass. Slowly, upon the horizon, forming as a rolling cascade, what must surely be a rare sight in the Mojave desert. Whisps of clouds had begun to coalesce into an extensive storm system, casting a menacing shadow across the rugged peaks. As we barrelled toward the growing storm, it eventually swelled and grew to engulf the entirety of Charleston Peak, save for a few foothills in the foreground. The boiling and churning of the storm seemed to foreshadow a coming threat. But it never moved beyond the mountains. Only bathing the high peaks, she offered little relief to the thirsty desert valley below.

The surprising thing about the Mojave desert is its often inconceivable distances one can see. Giving the scene a scope one rarely gets in the southeastern U.S. This fact was made evident as we rolled into Pahrump, a few miles from the edges of the Spring Mountains. In Pahrump, the sky was bright, and the mountains were large. You could see the entire range from tip to tip, and the massive storm sat like a hat on top of the range. It was an impressive sight. We turned south in Pahrump and descended toward the Las Vegas Valley.

Bellowing clouds

As we skirted the Spring mountains to our left, whirling dervishes spun in the parched desert fields to our right. The ominous storm clouds over the Spring Mountains cast them in complete darkness. Exposing only their lowest peaks. A few miles out of Pahrump, it briefly rained. The heat was tremendous, and the rain only reached the ground a minute before it was again consumed high above by the dry desert air. In the distance far away, lower ranges showcased the cycle of precipitation due to pressure changes above mountain ranges. A small storm cloud seemed to grow above each cluster of peaks we came to.

Spring Mountains

Not far from Vegas, we crossed the Spring Mountains and stopped briefly in Mountain Springs, elevation 5,490 feet. I expected nothing, as I didn’t know what this was, other than a pass through the Spring mountains and into Vegas. I walked around briefly, but there wasn’t much here of any import. A few buildings and businesses. It had none of the tell-tell signs of any historical or social value. There was no plaque declaring some expedition crossed through here in some unimportant year, that it was the last home of a rare and endangered desert slug or some other trivial but exciting thing. So, we quickly took our leave, crossed the pass, and returned to suburbia.

The Grand Canyon

We made a brief pit stop back at the casino before heading out to a surprise I had kept from Diem since I booked it. It required us to leave Vegas again, which I mainly looked forward to as an excuse to drive the muscle car even more. It was about 30 minutes to Boulder City from downtown. The Boulder City Airport, to be exact. We had an appointment on a fixed-wing craft to tour the Hoover Dam and the mighty Grand Canyon. This was another highlight I was looking forward to.

The plane was set to take off at 4. With about an hour to takeoff, we grabbed a sandwich from a very primitive snack bar and sat in the lobby for a snack. We mainly had survived the day off of breakfast and Alien beef jerky, so a snack was much appreciated. I took the time to look around the small municipal airport, admire the random engine, and otherwise browse a few trinkets at the gift shop. Eventually, our plane was called for boarding, and we were escorted to the tarmac. Slapped with her Grand Canyon Airlines livery sat a 1977 De Havilland Canada DHC-6-300 Twin Otter.

Boarding Grand Canyon Airlines

Founded in 1927, Grand Canyon Airlines has provided customers with beautiful views of the Grand Canyon for almost 100 years. This fantastic fact is believed to make Grand Canyon Airways the oldest air tour company in the world. We positioned ourselves under the wing while the crew called us to board. On a plane of this size, weight distribution is critical, so everyone was weighed in the lobby, and seat assignments were dished out accordingly. As Diem and I were called, we sat across the row from each other. Her side consisted of one seat, while my side contained two. I was given both seats for the flight. Nice perk.

We taxied down the runway on schedule at 4 pm and lifted off in the dusty desert air. The airport was beset in an open tan plain of pocked desert shrubs, bordered by distant sandstone mountains. The unwavering highway or random meandering dusty dirt roads were the only things that broke up the otherwise featureless scene. Within minutes of take-off, the white bathtub rings of lake mead came into view. It is an arresting sight to see the contrast of red sandstone cliffs and, suddenly, a white, perfectly level band circling the lake.

A Breathtaking Scene

What I don’t read about in the news stories discussing the lake and the future of hydroelectric power and water in the region is how big lake mead is, even at such a low water level. At its current level, the lake is so vast and primarily empty that it stretches far into the distance, even at our height. The ring that encircles the lake reveals where the water level once was, giving one the sense of how much water is present and absent—a remarkable view in any event.

As the lake region gave way, a glimpse of what would come slowly filled the horizon. The muddy Colorado River came into view as it snaked its way out of what I would call the end of the canyon. A small mountain range rose from the desert floor to become the plateau that makes up the edges of the Grand Canyon. Just over the mountain range, the canyon came into view in all its magnificence. Suddenly, we were, glimpsing down into one of the wonders of the natural world.

More Stunning Views

It was unlike anything I had ever seen. I can best describe it as a giant scar gouged into the high plateau. Eons of deposits and erosion through wind, rain, and river, carved out the vast and arresting canyon. Massive canyon walls, feeder canyons, and the always present Colorado River. At one point, it looked like a high plateau with a canyon carved around it and a canyon carved into that canyon. The scope and scale of the place were just breathtaking. As far as one could see was a seemingly endless canyon. Brick and rust reds, tans, and browns layered the earth in almost perfect symmetry. The shimmering placid river slowly flows at the center of it all. Almost Martian in its barren intensity.

After an hour over the canyon, we found our way past the dam and back to the airport. The view of the dam, the river flowing from it, and the lake dotted in the distance among the barren mountains was beautiful. I even caught a glimpse of the Las Vegas skyline in the dying afternoon. Spread out on the other side of the McCullough Range. We returned to the car and ultimately to the road and on to Las Vegas. It was time to get ready; we had a date with an Iron Chef.

Morimoto

Masaharu Morimoto was born in Hiroshima, Japan, in 1955. Best known as an Iron Chef in the original Japanese and American iterations. He is also among the few Chefs of any caliber I admire. Creative presentations, combined with what is often described as “left-field” dishes. His creativity and ability are legendary. Here, in Las Vegas, on a warm desert night, we had reservations to dine with an old friend of Diem’s from her college days back in Da Nang. It was the first time since arriving in the U.S. that we had come across friends of Diem from back in Vietnam. I knew it was to be a memorable evening for Diem.

We arrived at Morimoto’s at the designated time, but Diem’s friends were running late. Traveling from the suburb of Henderson, they had no doubt had traffic issues on the drive-in. However, the hostess was nice enough to seat us anyway rather than make us wait for our dining companions. I took the time to peruse the beverage menu and found an excellent selection of Japanese whiskeys and house-brewed beers. I ordered a bottle of Morimoto’s Signature Imperial Pilsner and a glass of Roku, or Japanese gin.

Our Guests Arrival

I sat and enjoyed the crisp beer while continuing to browse the food options. As I was trying to decide between several options that looked quite appealing, our guests arrived at the table. Like Diem, they weren’t entirely versed in the nuances of American fine dining, so I was given full authority to order as I pleased. That, I must tell you, was no trouble at all. The server returned to take our new arrival’s drink order, and I pounced on him like a lion on its prey. Wagyu Beef Carpaccio with Yuzo soy, ginger, and sweet garlic, calamari tempura salad with quinoa and white miso dressing, Oysters Foie Gras with uni and teriyaki, Clam Miso Soup, Crispy whole fish with spicy takana sauce and papaya salad, and duck confit fried rice with a fried duck egg on top. This was what I wanted, now for our guests.

Of course, that was for the entire table—a party of four. I knew, however, that Vietnamese women take no pride in gorging themselves at dinner. In the gracious, formal way, they would mostly nibble through very little of what was served. Much of this massive spread would be mine alone. I couldn’t wait to partake. In due course, the dishes began to arrive one after the other. As was expected, everyone else at the table sampled a taste or two of each dish, leaving plenty for my ravenous appetite. It had been days on the move. It was our last night in Nevada. I was famished.

Dinner

Everything was absolutely divine. The carpaccio was melt-in-your-mouth excellent, with a bit of acid to cut the fat from the soy and ginger. The calamari was crispy and light. The oysters were so good I ordered another. The small Kumamoto oysters, already buttery and rich, went to the moon with the foie gras and salty and sweet teriyaki. The soup and whole fish were also delicious. But the simple and elegant duck confit was terrific. I stuffed myself with the offerings but knew that dessert would come soon. And soon it came indeed.

We ordered one of each of the three desserts offered that day. A blackberry panna cotta with blueberry ice cream, New York-style cheesecake with fresh berries and strawberry sherbert, and chocolate smores ball with chocolate ice cream and cocoa nibs. They were all excellent and delicious. But the smores ball was a show unto itself. As the plate was set on the table, the server placed a shot of rum in a copper pot and lit it on fire. He then poured the flaming mixture on the chocolate ball filled with marshmallow foam. After a few moments, the chocolate began to sheen as it heated until finally, it broke at the top and cascaded down to the plate. The Marshmallow began to brown, and the smell of smores filled the air.

Debriefing

We sat while the girls caught up, and I vacuumed away all the tasty little bits on the dinner table. They said their farewells, posed for a few, see you in another ten years’ pictures, and we were off into the intoxicating world of Vegas at night once more. Tonight would be our last night in Vegas, so we headed out to do what any loving and romantic couple must do when in Vegas. Pretend you are not in Vegas and take a romantic cruise through the waterways of a fake plastic Italy.

Our Last Night in Sin City

We entered the brilliant night to explore one last evening in glitter gulch. The Venetian shimmered in all its glory on the horizon above the street. Gilded Mcdonald’s, Outback Steakhouse, and Best Western filled the space between us and the fabled casino. But before we walked the distance to explore the Venetian, we wandered our way to the Mirage to catch its famous volcano erupt and spurt in all its fabulous glory. The first “attraction” on the strip was Steve Winn’s brilliant move that began the era of modern Vegas with popular attractions and mega shows, from the pirate show at Treasure Island to the fountains of the Bellagio. They all became possible because of Steve Winn and the Mirage Hotel’s erupting volcano.

We cuddled up at the rail overlooking the lagoon and volcano, and right on cue, the water began to bubble, and the volcano came to life. In its basic form, it is nothing more than a fancy fountain with a coordinating light show. However, it represents much more. A changing of the guard, so to speak, as the old Vegas Casinos, with their organized crime ties and the golden age of Vegas, were replaced by modern Megacasinos owned by massive corporations and backed by billionaire private interests. Opening in 1989, the hotel would boast the first strip attraction in the volcano, host the popular Sigfried and Roy show beginning in 1990, and host the first residency Circue de Soleil show, now a staple across the strip. However, as with all things, an end is inevitable. Hard Rock International purchased the Hotel in 2022 and is expecting to renovate the property to include the removal of the iconic volcano attraction that has awed passersby and audiences for 35 years.

The Venetian

As we walked away from the Mirage, the bell tower of the Venetian came into view, creating a beautiful scene with the almost full moon hovering in the night sky. We walked across the street to the hotel, and the size and scope of the property became clear. Once inside, the faux streets of Venice materialized in the spaces that fill the hotel. Renaissance shop fronts lined the canal that winds through the casino, with the occasional arched bridgeway crossing the canal. We watched as the gondolas cruised the water with their skilled boatmen, and we followed them to their place of origin.

We found the booth to purchase tickets and paid the exorbitant fee of 100 and something dollars for our 10-minute boat tour of fake plastic Venice. Our driver was a thin lady, probably in her 60s, who confessed that she was once a backup singer and dated an Allman Brother sometime in the 60s. She sang us a swooning song on our tour and was a very skilled singer. Even in all of its artificial glory, the ride was fun despite the fake-painted sky above. After the song was sung and the canal traveled, we returned to the strip and shortly to bed. It had been another adventure-filled, exhausting day.

The Last Day

Given the restless nature of our previous days, this morning was slow and unhurried. It was well after eight when we finally emerged from the room. It was a quiet Tuesday in Vegas, and the casino was primarily uninhabited. The chaos of the holiday weekend had faded into a quiet calm that was surprisingly alarming. Everything just felt tired and uninteresting. Our breakfast was served almost immediately with no wait for the first time since arriving. I scarfed down a stack of pancakes while Diem picked over her salad. We then made our way to the strip and saw the street and its massive mega Casinos in all of their daytime glory for the first time.

New York, New York seemed a big draw for Diem, so we walked across the pedestrian bridge to look closer. Giant replicas of the Empire state building, Grand Central Station, the Chrysler Building, Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and others filled the sky above. It is a striking sight in the bright Nevada sun. We made our way inside and cruised the streets of Greenwich and Broadway. Mimicking classic New York streets at night, the streets were lined with countless eateries and shops—a unique experience. Complete with a Coney Island-style arcade. After some time exploring its streets, we moved on to the next.

More glamor

Next was Excalibur—the giant home of King Arthur and his famous court. The inside had a medieval theme with faux stone walls, ramparts, palisades, and stained glass accents reminiscent of the period. We breezed through on a sort of whirlwind tour of casinos. So at that, we took the moving sidewalks to Luxor and the age of pharaohs and pyramids. The heart of the pyramid-shaped casino was a massive open space with statues of the mighty Ramsey guarding the entrance. The casinos were beginning to blur together other than the wall decorations, and Diem wanted to do some additional shopping before we left. And on that note, we headed to Planet Hollywood as they have a shopping mall with an H&M.

Gordon Ramsey’s Staring at Me.

Diem went off to shop while I explored the world of roulette tables and high-dollar hamburgers. But before I wasted money at a table, it was time to grab a bite. I posted up to the bar at Gordon Ramsey Burger and ordered the most expensive burger. The burger was simply the Truffle Burger – tremor cheese, bacon, truffle butter, frisee, pickled shallot, fried egg, and truffle aioli with Truffle Parmesan fries. The total for the burger and fries was $39.99. And yes, it was a fantastic burger. However, there was a cutout of Gordon at an angle behind me. As I was eating, I kept catching what looked like a person in my peripheral vision close to me. But every time I turned, it was just Gordon, standing with his arms crossed, staring at me. At one point, I turned, catching that shadow again, and I looked hard at the cutout, and he simply said, “How’s the fucking burger?”

After downing the burger, I headed to a roulette table to enjoy a little gambling while Diem continued shopping. I won $100 on an unscratched California lottery ticket I found under the seat of our rental, Vegas luck baby, and it was that $100 that I used for a bit of gambling fun. It took about two hours to get through it, so I walked over to the Wynn Hotel and Casino to see their famous botanical garden. The garden was gorgeous. Carousels decked out in flowers and beautiful displays. But time was not on our side. The hour was growing late, and we would soon need to check out, turn in the car, and head to the airport.

In closing

Wanting to slow down a bit, we made our way to the city’s outskirts for one last meal before the airport—a P.F. Chang’s in a nondescript shopping mall. We were one of two tables in the entire restaurant. It was late in the afternoon on a Tuesday in Vegas. We sat in the fading afternoon and debriefed on our time here over a plate of sticky pork ribs, and broccoli beef. The trip was magical for us both. It was the open road and exotic landscape that captivated me the most. And so, over our egg rolls, the next adventure was hatched—a 10,000-mile road trip with our three daughters next June. There will be much to plan, and many contingencies to consider. Who knows, maybe we’ll see you on the open road.

For more articles with a “Road” theme, click here.

To read the article on the Paiute Indian Tribe’s story in Las Vegas, click here.

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