Returning from my first trip to Las Vegas, I can now make several important observations.  The fourth is this:

Keep to the West

On our first night in Vegas, we walked up and down the strip from the Venetian to the Bellagio and back, trying out both sides of the street.  The changing mood from one block to the next tells how diverse the visitors are.

When planning our Vegas trip as a romantic Valentine’s Day getaway (that just happened to occur in September), I chose the Venetian as the best place to stay.  I’m told it was a good choice.

Walking in front of the hotel, classical music plays out over wide sidewalks, keeping guests immersed in the romantic atmosphere of Venice for the whole length of the hotel.  The effect isn’t as seamless as the music in Disney’s parks, but we definitely noticed it.

Crossing into the next block was like entering an entirely different world.  Loud music wafted out from casino floors that directly abutted the sidewalk, where free slot machines on the street offered promotional chips to entice people inside.  The ubiquitous smell of cigarette smoke was replaced with the even less pleasant aroma of cigars, and the sidewalks were narrow and packed with drunken tourists toting half-empty beer mugs.

At one corner I saw a woman performing a job that must be offered only in Vegas: standing there.  The casino wanted to call attention to a motorcycle (presumably because they were giving it away).  Feeling that the motorcycle itself wasn’t noticeable enough, they stationed a half-naked woman beside it all night, paid to simply stand there and divert the gaze of passersby.  Although I’m sure dealing with drunken tourists makes the job as challenging as any other, its description must have been incredible: “Duties: stand on sidewalk.”

For blocks, a long line of men stood with stacks of what look (at a distance) like baseball cards, flicking them loudly with their fingers to fill the street with a cacophony of clicks before offering the cards to every man, woman, and child passing by.  We didn’t take any, but saw them littering the the ground so densely that the pavement was often invisible.  On each leaflet: a different naked woman.  Given the illegality of certain “stronger” acts of nudity, I assume these were advertising either 900 numbers or strip clubs, though we never really stopped to investigate.

After watching the Fountains of Bellagio, we walked back up the west side of the strip to Treasure Island. It’s much better over there.  The tourists on the west side of the street were less drunk and more greedy.  The porn pushers on the east side seemed to find little value in crossing the street, and the cigar smokers kept away too.  Plus: the hotels just look nicer.

Throughout Vegas, I recognized three main groups of visitors.

First were the wealthy older gentlemen (and they were mostly men) who found themselves so bored of their money they wanted to gamble with it.  This crowd tossed black, $100 chips onto the tables as though they were the only currency available.  I almost never caught sight of them outside a casino.  One man came up beside us at the craps table and immediately had four different pit bosses come over to shake his hand.

Second were the young women (almost exclusively women) who had unfortunately forgotten critical portions of their outfits at home.  In town not for the craps tables, but the nightclub dance floors, they believed (correctly, I imagine) that their chances of getting in stood in direct proportion to the amount of their skin they exposed.  Since Las Vegas permits open containers along the strip, they and their escorts were usually holding drinks about the size of my arm.

Third were the fat, slovenly Americans — usually couples — who dominated the area in front of the Bellagio, Ceasar’s Palace, and The Mirage.  They didn’t come to Las Vegas, Nevada.  They came to Sin City, USA.  Looking for loose slots, all-you-can-eat buffets, and the gilded opulence of some of the Vegas resorts, they were everywhere at once — inside and outside — and usually in the way.

Plenty of people fell outside these groups, of course — casual tourists like my girlfriend and me, business executives in town for conferences, and Vegas locals having a night out on the town.  But watching the Big Three all mingling together in the same spaces was fascinating.

Just stay away from the east side of the strip.

Returning from my first trip to Las Vegas, I can now make several important observations.  The third is this:

Avoid The Sirens of Torture Island

Good experiences aren’t all about high prices. We went twice to see The Fountains of Bellagio, playing first (at night) a piece called Winter Games by David Foster, and second (during the day) Viva Las Vegas by Mr. Elvis Presley.

I could happily have gone back a dozen more times.  Of all the quintessential Vegas experiences, this was one of only a few that lived up to my every expectation.

In the conservatory inside the Bellagio, there’s a small model of the hotel, and in front of it miniature fountains that perform miniature dances.  This adorable touch cemented my perception of the Bellagio as a center of elegance in Vegas.

After seeing the Fountains the first night, we also stopped at Treasure Island to watch The Sirens of T.I. despite having been warned against it.

I knew in the first 30 seconds I didn’t need to keep watching, but by then the crowd had closed in around us and leaving would have demanded powers beyond our abilities. (People behind us foolishly tried to push their way through the crowd, cursing the whole time, but of course it was futile.)

We stayed for the entire show, as my brain cells killed themselves off voluntarily rather than suffer any more exposure to the event.

The plot has brave and daring pirates fighting to reclaim their captured crewman from the dangerous if lascivious sirens.  The pirates lob cannon shells at the siren ship, breaking it in pieces.  The sirens, in response (and I swear I am not making this up), do a little dance and threaten to put on lipstick.  The pirate ship then, for no adequately explored reason, sinks.

This show is new, replacing Battle of Buccaneer Bay, which I’m told was much better.  Allegedly the new show appeals to older audiences due to its increased number of scantily clad women.  As a straight man, by all accounts in favor of women being scantily clad, I can assure you that it does nothing to improve the experience.  We kept away from Treasure Island entirely for the rest of our stay.

Returning from my first trip to Las Vegas, I can now make several important observations.  The second is this:

Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Pay to See CSI: The Experience

We visited the MGM Grand briefly specifically so we could see CSI: The Experience.  Note that I do not offer a link to the attraction’s website, to prevent someone inadvertently buying a ticket.

The description on the MGM Grand’s website reads:

Play the role of a crime scene investigator in this exciting interactive challenge: 3 murders, 15 lab stations, 15 suspects, 3 killers.  Examine bullet casings, match DNA to potential suspects, identify the source of a single strand of hair as you complete the investigation process.  Complete with two state-of-the-art forensic crime labs and dazzling special effects, this new hands-on experience is sure to plunge guests deep into the heart of the action.

Let’s set the record straight.  First of all, you only get to work on one murder, not three.  After choosing which one, you’ll get to study the crime scene — a hands-off mock-up with no human interaction. We took copious notes, as instructed, drawing every detail of the scene on our clipboards in elaborate detail.

Then you’ll proceed to the “state-of-the-art crime lab.”  Most of the stations there were computer touch screens, which stepped through the appropriate analysis by asking us to press “Next” repeatedly.  A few were hands-on activities highly reminiscent of a children’s museum.  At one, for example, we could pick up tire tread impressions, looking for a match against a steel cast taken from the scene.  Only one was remotely close.

At each station, visitors are asked to fill in answers on a worksheet.  My favorite question was this, pertaining to the autopsy:

Toxicology strongly suggests she was _____ before she was run over.

It’s a fill-in-the-blank question!  How quaint!  To answer it, listen to the coroner deliver his report in a video.  At the end, he says (verbatim, filling in the blank):

Toxicology strongly suggests she was dead before she was run over.

The experience costs $30 per person — as much as cheap seats at a lot of the major shows.

Based on the description, I expected something more like Operation: Spy at the International Spy Museum in Washington DC.  The setup there is similar: you’re a spy, tracking clues on an important case overseas.

Operation: Spy, by contrast, is highly interactive.  Visitors start by rushing into a dark tunnel and overloading a security system by systematically arranging a series of fuses.  The handlers offer no guidance, and visitors can’t move on until the task is complete.

At one point we riffled through the drawers in a diplomat’s office looking for secret documents, taking care not to disturb the room and thus risk getting caught.  We then fled into a truck which, through the magic of motion simulation, drove us to a  different location.  En route, we administered a polygraph test, asking a subject direct yes/no questions (entirely of our choosing) by video phone.

Tickets to that experience — which was very entertaining — are only $16 per person.

For shame, MGM.

Returning from my first trip to Las Vegas, I can now make several important observations.  The first is this:

Visit the New York, New York

I didn’t expect to like this hotel.  I didn’t even consider it as a place to stay when we were planning our Vegas trip.  My reasoning went: someone who wants a New York experience should visit New York itself, not a replica in the desert.  Now, I expect to stay there the next time we stay on the strip.

What won me over first was the absence of the second-hand smoke that is ubiquitous in Vegas.  From the moment we opened the door at the Venetian to check in, I felt years ticking off my life.  At the New York, New York, parts of the casino (at least) have two-story high ceilings, letting smoke get pulled up into the ventilation system where it bothers nobody.

But beyond that, the theme is pleasantly cohesive.  Arranged along streets like Broadway are New York staples such as Nathan’s Hot Dogs.  Guests stay in towers like the Chrystler Building, and congregate in areas named for famous New York neighborhoods.

For a casual visit, it looks like an excellent place to stay.

I had a voice mail today from my credit card’s fraud prevention department, asking me to call back immediately.  Although a quick Google search suggested authenticity, I called the number on my card instead but got routed to Fraud Prevention the moment I entered my card number.

My first thought was that the expensive Vegas vacation I recently charged got their attention.  I did spend quite a bit of money in about 30 minutes.  But that was last month, so I’ve already paid that balance in full.  An inattentive cardholder might pay for a stolen $10 lunch without realizing it, but only a complete idiot (or someone impractically rich) would unwittingly pay off someone else’s entire vacation.

Then I recognized a coincidental string of PayPal purchases all on one day last week.  They were all small purchases from online stores, but perhaps such a sudden burst of PayPal (or other peer-to-peer payment) activity had been seen as a red flag.

That was my most promising theory when I dialed the phone.  The nice man in India confirmed what had really gotten the bank’s (computer’s) attention: a single online purchase from Peapod last week for a little over $100.

Peapod.

You know… Peapod.

Peapod!

An online charge from Peapod for about $100 has appeared on my statement at the beginning of every month I’ve ever used this card!  After Netflix, it’s the second most routine transaction on my entire statement.

I appreciate that the algorithms used to detect possible fraud are sophisticated and beyond the comprehension of mere mortals, but that was a little absurd.  When I thought the bank had picked up on some legitimately unusual account activity, I was pleased with their efforts.  Knowing that they’re just flagging my everyday spending, I’m rather less pleased but vastly more amused.

What I want:

Coffee with Splenda

What I have to order:

Small regular hot coffee with one Splenda, no cream, no sugar to go

What I then invariably have to clarify immediately after ordering:

Clerk: Small regular coffee?
Me: Yes.

Clerk: Cream and sugar?
Me:  No.  One Splenda.

Clerk:  No cream?
Me: No.

Clerk: Iced coffee?
Me:  No.  Hot.

Clerk: Small hot coffee?
Me: Yes.

Clerk: Here or to go?
Me: To go.

I’ve never — not once — successfully ordered coffee at Dunkin Donuts in fewer than ten steps.  And (I say at the risk of defending their fans) it’s terrible coffee.  (The machine in my building broke, and I didn’t feel like walking all the way over to Starbucks.)

As Tom Hanks puts it in You’ve Got Mail:

The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short / tall, light / dark, caf / decaf, low-fat / non-fat, et cetera.  So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall! Decaf! Cappuccino!

As every single Boston resident has been heard to joke, “The students are coming!  The students are coming!”  In fact, at this point the students are already here.

My Peapod driver tonight arrived at the tail end of my delivery window, having spent fully 45 minutes just trying to get past Boston University’s move-in.  I was stop 11 of 23.  A colleague spent an hour longer driving through the same area over the weekend.

No fewer than eight U-Haul trucks and two furniture delivery trucks are double-parked within sight of my window.  Across the street, it appears the entire building is changing ownership.

One girl waited on the sidewalk surrounded by her worldly possessions until a van arrived to cart her and her belongings away.  Another girl, the very model of efficiency, simply hailed a cab, piled in with her futon and two chairs, and headed off.  One enterprising gentleman acquired a bellhop cart from somewhere and lugged it up the six steps to his front door before realizing that he’d just have to lug it back down again once laden with his belongings.

At my own building, one departing student rearranged the benches out front to make space for his pickup truck on the sidewalk after finding our loading dock, parking garage, and two makeshift lanes of on-street parking to be taken already.

Despite the chaos, this batch of students seems inexplicably (and delightfully) more civilized than the last.  The only disturbance so far was when the kindly gentleman moving in across the street found his driveway blocked.  Rather than use the other driveway around the corner, or take one of the six on-street spaces next to him, he decided to just lean on his horn until the blocking driver returned — a good four minutes later.  And how did the neighborhood react?  Two people ran out to suggest alternative parking ideas, while the rest urged him to “shut up” in hushed but insistent tones.  (Sure, it had no effect, but the sentiment was laudable!)

This is going to be a great year.

I’m writing bow from a cruising altitude of 39,000 feet, thanks to wi-fi service now on AirTran.

This, I hardly need clarify, makes me almost giddy.

Now I can finally use ubiquitous Internet access like the security blanket it is, and on those rare occasions I might still find myself offline, just break down crying as if suddenly and unexpectedly deprived of the free use of, say, an arm.