Victory over COVID-19 has yet to be declared, but the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel almost seems bright enough to read by. Masks are coming off and, “Have you been vaccinated?” is last week’s — not yesterday’s — question.
In the spirit of pandemic liberation, my wife and I traveled last weekend for the first time in recent memory. Aside from drives to New Hampshire and Brooklyn visits with our granddaughter, travel was one of those pleasures that disappeared from our lives sometime in late March of 2020.
Dependable Limo lived up to its name by delivering us in a clean, comfortable Cadillac to Logan Airport well in advance of our flight. Two minutes into the JetBlue line, post-pandemic travel smacked us with a frigid dose of reality.
My wife spotted the white baggage tags hanging off every piece of luggage except ours. A helpful JetBlue employee tamped down our panic and printed out the tags before steering us back into the line.
Our lapsed Transportation Security Administration (TSA) pre-check status meant we proceeded at a snail’s pace through the security check-in line, halting at one point for a four-pawed TSA employee to take a ball-chasing break.
What does it feel like to walk midday in 110-degree heat? Las Vegas quickly answered that question. Our car reservation was with Thrifty, but the hour-long line we stood in led to the Dollar Rental Car desk where employees were handling reservations for both companies.
The Strip greeted us with a teeming human mass rendered ant-sized by rows of towering casinos. Revelers toted daiquiris in long-necked plastic containers or swigged beers as they walked. Parents slogged through the heat, children in tow. Homeless people inhabited their own world on the crowd’s edge and we walked into The Mirage in time to stand in — you guessed it — another line.
There is a reason Hunter S. Thompson wrote a book about Las Vegas and songs celebrate The Strip’s false opulence. “Who needs to go to Italy when you got this?” We joked as we trekked through The Venetian with its indoor canal complete with gondolas and watched The Mirage volcano spit fire and smoke.
The Flamingo and Harrah’s gaudy signs conjured up visions of my late father taking to The Strip in the final glory years of Sinatra and Sammy. New York, New York’s and Paris, Las Vegas’ outsized absurdity seemed dated next to the gravity-defying architecture defining The Strip’s newest attractions.
Staggering under the heat and the assault launched on our senses from being surrounded by thousands of people after months of pandemic semi-isolation, we retreated to our hotel room’s air conditioning and restless dreams drenched in neon, ringing with the sound of slot machines.
We didn’t go to Las Vegas to gamble; we went to witness a marriage, and for eight unforgettable hours we tried and failed to keep pace with a Mexican-American wedding celebration. We drank hot chocolate spiced with cinnamon and served with traditional pastry and watched dancers sway and swirl to the sound of a band complete with two clarinets and a tuba.
An hour before our flight home, I stood in line behind a guy wearing a loose-fitting blazer and baggy pants with pointy shoes adorned with stubby, sharp-looking spikes. If Vegas is a ship of dreams and disillusion bound to flounder on Reality’s rocky shoreline, then this fellow surely was a survivor staggering bleary-eyed from the wreckage.
It was 70 degrees when we arrived in Logan. It felt good to stumble home.