I woke up very early. I killed time for a little while, then made my way down to the hotel buffet for some breakfast. The buffet was horrible. Ugh. I had scrambled eggs, bacon, and decaf. I thought longingly of my own scrambled eggs, which I make with cream, lots of cheese, and butter. So much more delicious. I ate my bad food, read some more John McPhee, and tinkered with the Danger device. The Sidekick/hiptop/Danger device proved very handy while I was in Las Vegas. I spent a lot of time writing mail to David.
I spent the hour before the Guggenheim Las Vegas (no, really) opened walking up the strip and looking at stuff. Then I walked back. I got somewhat lost in the Venetian, the casino in which the museum is stuck. I think my getting lost was on purpose. I was following signs directing me to the museum. I realized afterward that the signs led me all around Robin Hood's barn; the real path was quite short. I guess the fuckers were trying to entice me into gambling. As if.
The Guggenheim Las Vegas (no, really) has "The art of the motorcycle" exhibit until the end of the year. This is an impressive display of motorcycles through history, from steam-powered wooden contraptions to internal combustion engine bicycles to the Scott Flying Squirrel and the bewildering array of motorcycles in the 20s, through the postwar collapse of the industry through the modern sportbike. This exhibit is the reason I visited Las Vegas on this trip. I'm not quite sure it was worth the visit to the American horror that is Vegas, but at least it was close.
After lunch, I found a climbing/hiking goods store in the yellow pages. I rode there on my way out to the Hoover Dam and replaced my sunglasses. Well, almost. I ended up with a dorkier-looking variety of Smiths. What is it with sunglasses designers? Most of the spendy high-fashion stuff you see professional cyclists wearing is just plain hideous. I wouldn't be caught dead in it.
I then rode east and south out of the city toward Arizona, Lake Mead, and the Hoover Dam. The Dam itself has been one of those odd looming national landmarks in my mind from childhood. One of the wonders of the modern world, I was told. Massive. Impressive. I somehow had expected it to be further away from civilization, but I should have reasoned it through and realized that civilization would accompany the dam. A source of water and power in the middle of a desert! Without it, would Las Vegas exist?
I had heard that tours of the dam were curtailed after the attacks on Sept 11. The terrorists have been winning. The United States is cheerfully throwing away its precious liberties with both hands since they made their shock attack. I was happy to learn that the tours, while covering less of the dam than they once did, still occur. And that paranoia about the dam is not new: the army guarded it carefully during the second world war. I took the tour. It was a bit expensive for what it is, and my national parks and monuments pass was no help.
Was it as impressive as my childhood picture of it was? Yes. It's a monument.
The dam was a depression-era project, of course. The last time this nation had the will for such projects was under FDR. (The moon shot may compare; that was also a liberal Democratic president.) It's fitting that the dam is named after the president who did so little to prevent the depression from snowballing. I wonder if we'll have the national will for large public projects in the coming depression, and if we'll name the next big pile of concrete after Shrub.
I rode back to Vegas and my hotel, arriving around sunset. I parked carefully, positioning my bike in the garage as close to the hotel entrance as I could. I did not want to have to haul my bags any further than necessary.
For dinner I walked all the way down the strip to the ugly MGM Grand building. I wanted to eat somewhere ludicrous, and all I could think of was the Rainforest Cafe. It was a long walk, probably over a mile. I people-watched. I dodged many, many silent Hispanic people, men and women, handing out fliers for X-rated entertainment. There was clearly a protocol about how the fliers were handed out, a loud flourish and the extension of the flyer. I had a chat with an older black man, also handing out fliers, but with a much friendlier patter. I stopped at the Harley-Davidson Cafe and looked at their shop briefly. I had been hoping to find a hair band, the long tube kind, to prevent tangles in my hair. (I later learned that they're called hair gloves sometimes.) The H-D Cafe store, however, had nothing that could be considered remotely related to actually riding a motorcycle. I sneered at the clerk and walked on. I had a reasonably nice dinner at the hilarious Rainforest Cafe, during which I drank an entire very powerful margarita. I stood up unsteadily, and began my walk back to my hotel. I stopped for a decaf cappuccino in the Bellagio. By the time I arrived in my hotel room, I was entirely sober. I also had a huge blister on one heel.
Evening mail to David:
Man my feet hurt. Shoes will be broken in good after this tho. Did not do rollercoaster-- too drunk after shot of tequila on top of rocks-y margarita. However the walk has sobered me up. Plus decaf cappooch at Bellagio.
Many japanese tourists. Considered approaching one and saying "kore wa watashi no barupen desu" but decided against it. Many fat amurkin tourists. The sight has inspired me to be a) not fat b) not amurkin. Also 1 tourist with "sverige" on his shirt. No objections to him.
Am nearly packed already. Will get a way early start tomorrow, assuming the nearby Denny's is open early.
I finished packing, then read Assembling California until I fell asleep.