That last one seems pretty accurate, considering the nationality of every member of this trip and where we were and what we conquered.
We had seen baseball games in every city we had been to. On the East, the baseball was passionate and the trips were short, with no more than 24 hours spent in one city (if you count Chicago as two stops). On the West, life moved a little slower, albeit only because we were moving every day.
There had been plenty of beach and plenty of baseball. I arrived in Ontario looking like a Mexican child after it had been 40 degrees in Vancouver all summer, only to be become even more "chihuahua"-ish after 23 days on the road.
In Vegas, there were no baseball games, but there were plenty of games. There were no girls here, but there were a few women. And, you hoped you could win back what you spent on the trip.
Myself, I just won enough to cover about half of my daily Vegas expenses. Others won a lot more... and some, well... I think you can guess.
It was my first time in Vegas, and I was surprised at just how small the strip really was. I mean, when you're ON the strip, it's not small at all - in fact, it's hard to imagine there's anywhere else on earth beside Las Vegas Boulevard.
But when you go off of it, oh boy... it's not surprising that people always die on CSI. Especially when we told one cab driver to take us to a club called "The Nine" and he instead took us 20 minutes off the strip to a "club" called Exclusive Massage.
Our day in the MGM Grand was pretty magical. From our skyline view atop our penthouse balcony to the hotel's public pool(s) that resembled The Real Cancun without the fake storylines, it was the real deal.
We even grabbed a couple of those massive colourful drinks that Ashton Kutcher wolfed down in What Happens in Vegas.
Most of the time was spent either in "recovery" or "descent into madness", but it was totally worth it as a last stop. I mean, I had my butt in plastic seats watching baseball the entire trip and, as much fun as that was, why not end in Las Vegas?
No other city has been purely created out of absolutely nothing to serve as an adult playground. I mean, I've never been to Dubai, but that doesn't seem like what I'm thinking of. Add to the fact that Vegas was created by a gangster so ruthless he apparently killed you if you called him by his nickname and was then shot through the eye before he saw his creation take off and turn to gold, and you have the mixture for a truly historic city. (Hint: he owned the Flamingo)
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Few thins in life have made me more uniquely upset than when I had to leave by myself at 6 a.m. from Vegas. I had wanted to "go home" for quite some time, maybe because the entire road trip seemed a little too surreal, even for my tastes.
But at the same time, when you're out there moving around for that long you feel a connection to the pavement. You enjoy more-and-more drinking water with ice for every meal because it saves money (and is actually delicious). You enjoy the shitty mattresses in the Sheffield House (Chicago) and Pacific Sands (Santa Monica). You don't even mind sleeping on the floor when you lose the bed draft.
You almost feel perfectly comfortable being uncomfortable. You feel grounded, even though everything is up in the air.
I seemed to be back in the real as soon as I sat down in the terminal. That made it a little less painful.
I'll have to read this blog over, myself... so I don't forget anything. Or at least so I don't forget the clean version.
But the journey's not over. Nope. Far from it.
I'll come up with something new soon.
Until then. I'm out.
UP NEXT: Nothing.
