Stays in Vegas

Since I had a considerable amount of writing to catch up on and the road ahead would undoubtedly feel different than what has been traversed thus far, I was in no particular rush to bail out of Las Vegas. The only problem was that it was now the weekend and lodging establishments tend to capitalize on that. I thought if I don't get a little more resourceful with where I lay my head at night, I might as well start calling these memoirs the Motel Diaries.

Now checked out of my Hughes-esque accommodations, the priority of finding another place to hole up took a backseat to my story. A coffee shop down the street would keep me sheltered from the fourth consecutive 100 degree day and thoroughly hydrated as indicated by the numerous annoying trips to the rest room. Seven, I believe it was. There I hammered away fond memories of the entire camping weekend, only calling it a night when one of the baristas was already complaining about returning in just a few hours to reopen the joint in the morning.

Going on a lead noted earlier in the week from Ali about a hostel, Chance and I braved through the streets of Vegas' infamous weekend nightlife to find it. As soon as I parked, on the curb, a staggering group of young men sporting long novelty beverages approached. My visor flipped up while I bore my fangs through my tone even if it was just my overused "howdy!" I had no beef with these fellows just having a good time but like a wolf claiming territory I had to establish a drunk buffer around my ride. Bittersweetly, the group backed away, one even intimidated enough to apologize for disturbing and they carried on into the merry night.

I slipped through the locking front door as another group of rowdy European men were leaving to hit the Strip. Now inside I toned down the street demeanor and quickly made friends with the front desk host by the name of Zynall.

For a moment I found it strange to be here, as if I were too old to be utilizing youth hostels. I'd come to find later that I was among the younger demographic, though that night, aside from the guys who just vacated for an all-nighter, I'd be the only one. A room all to myself? Why, thank you.

The next morning I came downstairs to book another night, for today I would write about the last chapter in regards to knowing thyself. At the front desk was a different man who would become a dear friend. Preoccupied at first, I startled him when he looked up. In his Haitian accent he apologized insisting it's not everyday one just looks up to see a beautiful man, as he so flatteringly put it. Oh, Lion, you charmer - that's right, his name was Lion. I thought he was gay at first but he just proved to be genuinely sincere. We chatted longer than intended especially once he fished the story out of me. All drifters must have an interesting reason for being in Vegas, Lion declared then continued, "Everyone here, too, is trying to figure out their lives."

Apparently most of the people I would become familiar with during my stay actually lived and worked at the hostel. Throughout the day the same faces would host the front desk and whenever they were nowhere to be seen they would either be taking advantage of their free lodging or out in the city working, perhaps even still seeking a calling.

Lion liked me right off the bat and offered an opening to join a staff represented by a mixed bag of personalities that seemed reminiscent of an older version of The Goonies. I didn't accept the offer but I didn't turn it down neither for it addressed the next stage in my journey.

Now that I knew myself - or at least who I wanted to reclaim - the next big question was what was I to do with it? Before I hit the road I earnestly believed that it was what one did that defines him or her but my perspectives are shifting in the other direction. Who I am defines what I do, I think. Obsessing over titles, diplomas and societal reputations are only now starting to reveal to me a lack of incongruity with the universal pursuit of happiness. Just what am I meant to do?

Figuring out what to do with my life when I finally return may be the biggest boon this trip may manifest, however, as a firm believer in the archetypal hero narrative, surely there will be a third blessing that will elude me until the time is right.

In the meantime, I doubted spending a couple weeks working at a hostel and who knows what else on the side in the entertainment capital of the world, would lead me to my calling but I knew I had to be open-minded to the winds of destiny or whatever you may call it. Chance has brought me this far afterall - pun always intended.

The hostel was located a few blocks down from the heart of Fremont St. Although overshadowed by the Strip, the remaining charm of its former glory made me feel more at home. Not that my suburbs were a stretch of dive bars, abandoned casinos and sleezy motels but it seemed much more palatable than the glamor of Las Vegas Boulevard.

I imagined for a moment what it would be like to take up a janitorial job here in exchange for time on the bags after closing. Fighting for money is still an aspiration too.

With plenty of memories to set in stone, I didn't want my writing to be interrupted by a rumbling stomach. This place called to me blasting Queen from right out the door - not to mention a piqued curiosity in Las Vegas' interpretation of Cuban food.

Despite the lackluster food and service, the old Cuban grandma running the place in addition to the entertaining music videos made it worth being my lunch spot for the next couple of days. Across the street was, for lack of better description, a hipster coffee shop that was more conducive to my writing than the Starbucks I had since been a patron of simply for wifi's sake. Besides the Internet, this place managed to keep my earphones off the entire time thanks to the fantastic choice of music on the record player - even though it broke almost hourly.

Nearly 12 hours later I was cracking my knuckles over another entry approaching completion. My popping joints would've better served the scene just minutes later when the Saturday night overflow of drunks found themselves killing the coffee shop's vibe. If there's a subculture that does a hell of a job antagonizing itself it was this group of collar-popped daddy's boys that are named after their favorite punctuation: bro. An Abraham Lincoln-looking fellow dressed to the nines who had been sharing the space almost as long as I had kept glancing over at me, as if hinting to join forces to oust these trespassers. For better or worse, I dawned the headphones to drown the crowd out with We Are Young, fittingly driving the flow of that entry's conclusion.

Free of most of the social shackles such as a job and responsibility to be somewhere, I was still a slave to one prevalent ball and chain known as Facebook. Instead of going all 60s Batman and Robin with the Lincoln hipster, like an angsty teen, I vented through a status update to which my old adventure buddy, Michael Dresdling replied wishing he'd been there to throw down. The following morning I'd test if he was still spontaneous as ever.

In no time at all he was landing at the airport from Minneapolis-St. Paul! He had been the one to get me hooked to airline benefits so many years ago - himself still very much attached. It was refreshing to see a familiar face for the first time in over a month!

Like clockwork, not even five minutes together and we were already lost, unintentionally finding ourselves on the Strip which was a first for all three of us to ride through.

 

Back at the hostel, I introduced him to Lion and somehow the conversation derailed to advice about ingesting semen as the ultimate contraceptive. A stifled laugh escaped me along with declaring the aforementioned as the quote of the day! Truly a pair of conversationalist those two were. Lion invited us to a hostel-hosted pub crawl later tonight which Mike agreed would be the apt fashion in doing as the Romans do. Perhaps we might find some bros to brawl.

The two of us would kill time exploring the glitzier end of Fremont St, reminisce about our more eventful youth, and find some glue to fix my shoe which Chance was starting to devour.

 

Once night fell, we took Chance over to the Strip to see the Bellagio fountain we had been a fan of since the Oceans Eleven movie but with the horrible traffic and no apparent place to park thanks to cops patroling the sidewalk (my favorite parking place) we watched it from the street going a mile an hour. Sadly my camera's battery failed unknowingly so no footage, my dear friends.

The pub crawl would be attended by a punk rock band and a fellow by the name of Morgan (who I promoted to Captain) who gave me vibes as the Jewish bomb tinkerer from the Munich film. Strangely, I liked the guy. Either he was oblivious to his awkward nature or he was a man with no shame and right now I have much to admire in a man with little to no inhibition.

For my first experience with gallivanting from bar to bar, it was rather low key. Most of the band would split by the third watering hole and the guitarist, also named Mike, only managed to make it to the fifth before starting to strip his clothes. The two Mikes would retire early leaving Lion, Morgan and I to return to one of the quieter establishments to learn poker, chat about the mutual sentiment over the deplorable taste of alcohol, Lion's envy of my virginity, and the proposition of sticking around to find a job as some sort of performer.

The next morning I woke up to two Koreans in my room, thankfully not in my bed. They tinkered with the heat, though, and helped themselves to my toiletries. Suddenly being reminded that I just needed the place to sleep, Mike and I were quick to head out for the day. Since he still had time before catching the flight home we had either one of two pastimes to partake in for old time's sake: a movie or misadventure. Neither happened, actually - time flew by at the mall window shopping as both of us were on budgets.

It felt so strange to be in such a place of commercial decadence. Dirtying the immaculate floors with my dusty boots and probably drawing attention from security guards with my rags for attire, I took a strange gratification in being outside this bubble which I once embraced. Out of place was my new favorite look.

Somewhere between Ceasar's Palace and the hostel, the motorcycle's odometer rolled over to 14,000!

 

Since 800 of it was attributed to Mike for bringing her down to me in San Francisco and now a recently inducted member of the Bonneville family, I let him take her for a spin before taking him back to the airport.

 

Hanging out with an old friend, albeit it brief and subdued, made me want to indulge less in the unknown and more in the familiar. The following day, one of my old coworkers from Virgin and still-standing bromance (different than a bro, bro), Chase, was back home in Vegas. I thought it would be nice to meet up with him after disappearing out of the blue. As the a social butterfly of our flight attendant class, I figured he could also pass on to my old fly girls and boys how I was doing.

The day waned as my makeshift hammock turned from shade to a frying pan as I waited to hear from him. His belated apology for oversleeping came late, however, as I long since came to my senses, made my goodbyes with the hostel hosts, including Lion and spurred myself on. The company of friends and the idea of settling down for work, even if just for gas money, was getting too comfortable for the journey's sake. Not everything that happens in Vegas must stay here and as I explained to a pining Lion, this vaquero must always ride on.