Vey-cay
March 21st, 2011 -- Posted in san francisco, the city, travel | 2 Comments »(For the record, I HATE it when people call vacations “vaycays” … or when they spell it “vaca.” Vaca is “cow” in Spanish, ok? Personal pet peeve. Nevertheless, here I am, naming my post as a spin-off of the term. Le sigh.)
I’ve often said that Mexico is the ghetto person’s Europe (I’m not hatin, I still go, I’m just sayin) … well Vegas is the overgrown frat bro’s Mexico. That’s right, Vegas, you are so far down on the list of classy getaway places, you rank below Mexico with adults who are trying to relive their glory days. Or something.
But again, I’m not hatin. Stepping off the plane, you know you’ve just got to embrace it all - the ghetto, the fake, the kitschy. The warm, warm sun, yard-long margaritas and portable drinks make that much easier to do. I have to admit, I care a lot less that I’m walking at a snail’s pace behind a crowd of barely-dressed, Jersey Shore wannabes, when I’ve got a vodka tonic in a to-go cup. We could probably all learn a li’l something from Vegas’ open container laws.
I had to - or at least attempt to - hit the pause button on the dialogue of my inner 50-year-old WASP and just get down with the dirty grittyness of it. And I think I did a pretty good job. We did, however, come away with two rules, which are really all you need to know to guide a Vegas journey:
* Never, ever bring your kids to Vegas (yes, mom in line at Wendys with FIVE KIDS under the age of ten, I’m looking directly at you)
* If you have kids at all, it’s a good bet you’re too old (or should, theoretically, be too mature) for Vegas. It’s like Neverneverland - sometimes you just can’t go back.
