If you haven’t read my part one post (or can’t remember it that well because it’s been eons since I’ve regularly blogged), you can catch up here. I’ll give you a few minutes.
Once I got over the whole porn packets, ignoring them for the most part, the trip was a lot of fun. I mean, any city that has a bazillion buffets in it is a winner in my book. And I figured I was able to counteract all the eating (I averaged two plates per buffet, and we went to five buffets because…why not) with all the walking I was doing.
There’s something no one really talks about when it comes to The Strip and that is how remarkably long it actually is. When you look at little maps like, say, this one:
you think, “That’s not too bad a walk at all!”
What you need to know: The Las Vegas strip is approximately 4.2 miles. And that might not sound too bad when you first hear it, but keep in mind you’ll be walking up and down the whole thing again…and again…and again. All day long.
One more thing: You can purchase 24/7 bus passes in one, three, or five day increments (or maybe seven days…don’t quote me beyond the one and three days). They’re a little spendy, but frankly they could charge whatever they wanted. They drop you off at every hotel/casino. All day long.
Upon arriving in Vegas and checking into our hotel (half a mile off the Strip), Husband and I realized we hadn’t actually made any ground transportation plans. We knew we didn’t want to take our car around, and initially those bus passes didn’t really seem worth it. They’re worth it. And for some reason I felt like I could very easily walk multiple miles in ballet flats, no problemo, so that’s just what I did. The second day I decided on flip flops because, you know, those are WAY better than ballet flats.
The Low Point
Here’s what happens when you can’t find a mall on the Vegas strip (seriously we never ever found it, which was made that much worse by my coworker who said it’s very easy to find) and you walk from one of the more northernmost parts of the Strip all the way down to the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign (yeah…we did that…) while wearing flip flops. You sprain both plantar fascia in your feet and a leg muscle for good measure.
You heard me, both of them.
This might have been not so bad if I’d done it, say, in the last few minutes of our entire vacation, but instead I became debilitated right before catching Cirque’s “Ka,” leaving me stumbling and limping all around the Strip. And not the sort of limping that isn’t very noticeable; oh no. We’re talking the sort of limping that made me look like I had one leg about a foot longer than the other. My right leg was prostrate, and I was forced to drag it behind myself, which naturally made my balance a little off skelter, so my arms might have been flailing around. Just a bit.
After the jaunt from the north end to the south end of the Strip, I did
angrily purchase two bus passes, so I didn’t have to walk around *too* much, but seriously, Caesar’s Palace is probably a mile long itself and, unlike the airport, there aren’t any vested individuals driving large golf carts around to assist the elderly or lame (literally and figuratively). By the time we arrived at our hotel for the evening (Husband had to offer a piggy back ride a couple of blocks and it was about that point when I started to see the appeal of drinking enough alcohol to forget about things), it was determined the trip would just need to end the following morning.
Because sometimes you need to ruin a nice surprise birthday trip with sprained muscles.
Naturally, I refused to end the trip without the Bellagio weekend brunch, and I was fairly certain the food would make me feel better (I was right). But, low point #3: we were seated at the table that was literally the farthest away from the buffet lines. In the end, it was worth it because — four words — unlimited pain au chocolat. I’ll let that sink in. Unlimited. As in, I could eat all I wanted.
And so, with my dignity in shambles, I limped through a restaurant full of wealthy individuals (including a table with two couples in their 60s/70s, all dressed pretty much the same. Husband and I discovered this was a thing — dressing like your vacation counterparts, at any age — and we didn’t quite get it).
And for good measure, I limped past them multiple times because one trip to a buffet line is unacceptable.