Maintaining a transatlantic sibling relationship is not without its challenges -an eight hour time difference, a sister that views all form of social media as 'the devil's work', and vividly contrasting life styles all mean it takes effort to remain truly connected. It had been two years since I had last seen my only sister Jane. The expense of flying the family over to California had reduced the likelihood of visits from the UK, and the crummy weather and other tempting locations like Hawaii or Mexico for summer holidays had kept us away from England for a while. In the spirit of sibling ties we decided to meet in the middle, and make it a sister reunion, without the kids. Well the middle would have been Bermuda, which is both dull and ridiculously expensive. Miami or NYC were also possibilities, but the cost of hotel rooms there in May seemed seriously high and we had been there before. Looking for some sunny relief from the steady stream of Manchester drizzle my sister seemed thrilled at the idea of 104f in the desert, and so we settled on Vegas!
The accommodation was super reasonable, my flight was only an hour - whereas Jane's' was going to be long and horrid regardless of where she came in the US so we decided to experience this renowned flesh pot and adult theme part. Of course I really don't like gambling, smoking or the seedy side of life, so my husband was laughing at my choice, and the fact that we found a nice hotel with a great looking spa, no casino and smoke free! In a fit of teenage daughter rivalry swimmer girl announced she was coming too and promptly booked herself in the seat next to mine, but said she would be staying with her college pal, but 'she would be doing Vegas right', unlike her crazy health conscious boring as all get out mother.
I felt surrounded by opposing forces - there was swimmer girl excited for as much excess as she could get her hands on, which probably wasn't much as she was only 18 and therefore not allowed in the casinos or bars. There was my older sis, a big time party girl, famous for getting up at noon and wanting to party the night away, always the last to leave and still drinking the bar dry when others had faded. Then there was Vegas…..how one earth was this going to work out, I was usually in bed by 9 pm?
Much as I miss my sis, we are quite different in terms of our habits. She was a total nightowl, I was an extreme Lark and early bird. For the first time in our lives, we found that coming from time zones that were eight hours apart turned out to be a real boon - when I was getting heavy eyed at 9 pm, so was she. When I got up at 4:30 am, she was still sleeping, but only for an hour or so, as I came back from my run, she was all ready to either hit the strip to shop or breakfast. Jet lag had finally brought our body clocks into perfect synchronicity.
Being a runner in Vegas is a truly unique experience. The first day I had problems just getting out of the hotel - my Garmin route was hysterical when I replayed it the next day. It turned out the Vdara Hotel, was interconnected with the Aria and Crystals, and the road access really didn't exist, at least not in a way any pedestrian could navigate it. In the way that all great exhibitions route you to end via the shop, all the hotels routed you through not just one, but many casinos before you could find daylight. Emerging bright eyed and excited to run the strip on day one I quickly found myself hopping over medians, other barriers and finally running precariously on a sidewalk 3 inches wide hoping that the early morning traffic wouldn't mow me down. Finally I made it out on the strip, and decided to head South.
Running in Vegas is how I imagine an ADD kid feels without her medication, and having mainlined soda and candy for an hour. There is an assault on all of your senses. Verbal messages bombard you 'black jack tables with liberal rules" whatever that meant? were there Republican ones further down the street? 'get your fun books here…" then the flashing neon, ridiculous architecture that doesn't try to represent any reality, and crazy folk that take your breath away - literally.
The strip was at its most entertaining early on Sunday morning. At 5 am I ran gingerly through the crystal chandeliered Bellagio casino, which was around a half mile. Trotting past the Petrossian Bar still heaving with customers, bleary eyed, loud and surrounded by empty bottles it looked so different to the civilized piano bar where we had enjoyed sipping on our cosmo's the night before. Hitting the street I passed groups of police officers rounding up miscreants and reading citations to the drunks in the street. Just picking any kind of route along the pavement proved surprisingly challenging. All normal assumptions about the direction the walkers ahead of you proved to be misguided. The inebriated state of my fellow pedestrians meant that walking a straight line was pretty much impossible for them. This collective lurching and weaving on the strip added an interesting twist to the running process, much as trail running distracts you mentally I found myself having to pay a lot of attention to last minute directional shifts.
At one point I saw a group of five young Italian guys ahead, one dropped to the ground to ostentatiously do performance push ups in front of me, a night of drinking meant disinhibited strength work, but his form wasn't good to say the least. I noticed his four friends created a funnel on the other side of the pavement, forcing me to run by by them so they each got a chance to issue the usual friendly Italian greeting of a slap on my butt. Whilst it was good natured it was a bit irksome to say the least, so when I got turned around on one of the many crazy crenellated walkways of the Excalibur hotel and realized I was actually heading towards the Grand Canyon on Tropicana Ave, I was in a happier mood. Yes it got a little quiet, yes the web sites all said it was safer on the strip, but the irritation of picking my way through the dregs of last nights partiers, and the confusing plethora of moving walkways and all the escalators, meant that I was grateful for some place that went in a straight line, with no one much about. There was a bus service on this road and a few casino workers were dropped off and walking home to their apartments, so it didn't feel too sketchy. Initially there were cat calls from some of the cars 'Damn Girl' and so on…but eventually it got quiet and I started to enjoy watching the sunrise coming up over the cheap motels and run down out of town casinos.
Turning around and heading back towards the strip I realized that even at 6 or 7 am there were going to be people out partying. On my way out I wryly observed their shenanigans like some disapproving grandmother, but as I looked towards Vegas it dawned on me that really I was the total freak. It was no wonder I was attracting attention; there were hardly any runners around, and those that were, were sticking safely to 2/3 miles of jogging on the strip, with water bottle or phone in hand. No one seriously tried to run here unless they went out to somewhere pretty like Red Rocks. Seen through their eyes, waking up obscenely early and setting out to run for an hour or two was probably completely weird, and possibly only something that could be considered if you were in the Rock n Roll Marathon or completely bladdered and taking the famous Run of Shame.
After snaking my way through Crystals shopping mall and the deserted pantheon of high end but pointless Louis Vuitton stores I found a way back into the Vdara, showered, changed and headed out for breakfast. Funnily enough breakfast is hard to find in Vegas, particularly before 8 am - you can get a mojito or a margarita before you can get a cup of coffee or eggs. Anywhere we found serving coffee had a seriously long line out onto the strip. Whilst Vegas is a honey pot of excess, it reinforced my notion that no matter how long or hard you party, there comes a point round about dawn when everyone is looking for redemption, and usually in the form of a good breakfast. An entrepreneur looking for a hot new Vegas restaurant venture would do better to open a chain or hip organic breakfast bars serving great coffee, fruit smoothies, gourmet egg dishes and their own granola; of course the odd greasy bacon item might also do really well for those suffering after the night before!
Behind the facades of eccentric and eclectic architecture there was nothing much to Vegas, just some tumbleweed and tired casino workers. Surviving a trip longer than a few days, or one without a drink in your hand, would be hard unless you ventured out into the desert, or were obsessed with Cirque de Soleil. But in this human circus I had come to enjoy watching the crazies, to reconnect and laugh with my sister, and we accomplished just that. The last laugh may just be on me though, as I think that the ultimate freak show is watching someone try and attend Church of the Sunday Long Run, in Vegas after a night of partying and hedonism. Instead of staggering on impossibly high heels, I was balancing on the lugs of my Newtons; instead of sipping on the yard of red sugary cocktail that seemed obligatory, I was clutching my handy dandy nathan water bottle - now who really was the freakshow?
I texted the daughter to arrange to meet up at the airport, she tenderly replied at 5:57 am 'just got in from a party - don't talk to me on the flight' 'what are you doing up so early WEIRDO!'
