Vegas in the summer. It seems like the craziest idea ever. There aren’t too many places on the earth that get much hotter. Well, maybe the Sahara Desert, and I’ll admit I haven’t been there.
Usually my husband and I go to Sin City in February, when South Dakota winters are brutal. We leave our airport in a blizzard and below zero temperatures, travel for 2 hours, and step off the plane to 70 degree weather, and flowers blooming.
Who wouldn’t LOVE that?
I’m not sure what started the leaving 90 weather back home to go to 113 degree weather in Vegas. I think it was because it’s our anniversary in August. The first time we did it, I was pregnant with the Littlest.
We left the airport to get a taxi, and the heat sort of blew up at me. One thing about having a belly that big…in that kinda heat…people get outta the way.
I was fine. I actually loved it. Summer in Vegas brings out the most interesting people.
You’ve got your normal crazies…and then you’ve got the Summer Crazies. And they are super fun to watch.
Ever since that summer, we have gone back. Making our once a year Vegas habit into Twice a year.
We stay at the Venetian, where Phantom of the Opera has played for years. There’s a place, on the fourth floor, that I don’t think everyone knows about. It’s this secret garden, with a pool. The first time I wandered into this little desert oasis, I thought I was dreaming.
You found it! You must be smart. Here’s your reward. Have another drink.
We have a lot of things we HAVE to do while we are there. But one of them, is going to The Nine Fine Irishmen at the New York, New York.
Anyone who would build a pub in Ireland, ship it to America, and install it in the heart of the Las Vegas Strip, must be either a fool or a bleedin’ genius.
I’m goin’ with genius.
And the best part ever….is the band, Sin É Rí-Ra. Which is an Irish Language expression for a Great Time, Mayhem or Wild Party.
I’m a groupie. I admit it. Every time we go there, by some crazy luck, or Irish luck…our table is waiting for us. Best spot in the house. One time I had to sweet talk the waiter a little bit, but we still got our spot.
If you are under 18, I hope you veered. If you didn’t….please don’t be scarred for life.
And every time I ask the waiter for a piece of paper and pen. To which my husband rolls his eyes, and laughs.
I write the band a love letter. A sappy, drippy, starry-eyed letter to which I proclaim my love for them. I make my way to the front…and hide it somewhere. Sometimes the tip jar. Last time, I tucked inside their music.
I may have to do that little spot again. Because I got the voyeuristic pleasure of watching the lead singer find it. Watched him read it. Watched him smile, and look out into the crowd, and then show it to his drummer.
It’s the small things in life.
My dream is to make it till the end of their final set…at like 2:30. Vegas is behind us 2 hours, and we’ve never been able to go past 1:00 OUR time, which is like 11:00 THEIR time. It always kills me to walk out on them.
Anyway, this year….we can’t do our normal August trip. No secret garden….no Phantom of the Opera…no World’s Most Perfect Band EVER.
It’s ok. I know they will be waiting for me. And this time I may bring a bigger piece of paper, so that I don’t have to write on the back of a blank receipt.
Nah. I love to watch my husband’s exasperated face as I go through the tradition of asking the waiter if he has a piece of paper. I love that it always seems to confuse them.
In the words of Oscar Wilde…