appeasement

THE STORY SO FAR:

Alli and Andrew find themselves in the middle of Las Vegas at midnight on the morning of Friday, December 18, 2009, with four hours to kill before Allison has to be at McCarran International Airport. Blue Man Group's show has finished, and the two have no definite plans for the remainder of the night. What will happen next?

We found ourselves in the middle of the Venetian with nothing to do and no further plans. Fortunately, a town like Las Vegas is quite an amenable place to be under those circumstances, let me tell you. We'd hoped to catch the fountains at the Bellagio, but for some reason it seemed as if they weren't running that night. They ran on the hour, every hour, and though we'd never been far out of sight of them since about 4:00 that afternoon, they'd never gone off. I was bummed. I'd caught glimpses of that show from the car as my parents drove down the Strip, and it had seemed fantabulous. It also meant that we really now had nothing to do for four hours. Hmmmmmmm.... We took to wandering. We wandered everywhere, up and down the Strip: into the Paris Casino, right under the gigantic replica of the Eiffel Tower (the elevator was closed, unfortunately); all through the Bellagio, and the multitude of shops and bars and restaurants there; and into the Monte Carlo, where I finally took a crack at gambling. I'd been wanting to try it for some time, and had been wondering if I'd get my chance; Alli had declared that she'd sit it out. Not the gambling type, Alli, I guess. But I didn't want to inconvenience her. Far be it from me to go gambling and leave her sitting there, bored, when she was my special guest. But Alli was insistent: this trip was not all about her. I could gamble if I wanted, so I decided to try. I wasn't brave enough to actually try a real game with live dealers and players. I wasn't sure what all the chips were worth, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself. So I settled for something with worse odds but lower stakes: video poker. I pumped in a buck for a penny-ante poker machine and started playing. And get this! I won $3.25. I was on a losing streak when, quite suddenly, I got four fives. Bang, I had made a profit. I debated briefly whether or not to keep going; I ultimately decided against it. Might as well quit now, when I'd won. Then I could actually say I'd gambled and won in Vegas! I cashed out and then Alli and I debated what to do next. We still had two hours to go. It was 2:30. Her flight left at 6:30. It was advisable to be at the airport no later than 4:30. Our feet were really hurting, what with the 10 hours of walking and standing and moseying we'd been doing. We decided to give in. I purchased a deck of cards at the Monte Carlo's gift shop (that had actually been used on the gambling floor!), and Alli and I adjourned to Denny's. Yes, there was a Denny's right off the Strip. True, it resembled a space station, but hey, it's Vegas. We went in, sat down, ordered some nonalcoholic beverages and snacks, and relaxed for a bit. We were both on our way out. We'd been up for nearly 20 hours now, and not just standing still, either. Our brains were fogged up and our eyes were bleary. Nonetheless, we put a bold face on it. We ate, drank, and plotted. Our pre-printed list of free Vegas attractions was out; most of them had closed down by now. We had been plotting to go see the Aquarium at the Silverton; but that was prohibitively far to walk. The MGM Grand's lion exhibit had shut down at 7 p.m. The fountains at the Bellagio weren't working. The Tower elevator at the Paris Casino was closed. We were out of options. Defeated, we walked back to the Jeep with one hour to go. We chucked all of our purchases into the backseat, climbed in, shut the doors, and just sat there in silence, looking out over the landscape of glittering skyscrapers and flashing neon lights. Despite my best efforts, I dozed. I don't know if Alli did. Her seat wasn't reclined. She seemed to be just looking and thinking, looking and thinking. We had been exhausted into mutual silence. Even the turmoil inside me had died down, and my heart and mind had achieved a rapprochement. Soon it was four o'clock. "Well," I said, "we'd better go." I started up the Jeep, pulled out of the parking lot (making quite sure to look behind me carefully as I backed out), and within a few minutes, pulled up to the passenger drop-off point at the McCarran International departures terminal. I scarcely remember helping Alli unload, giving her a final hug goodbye, getting into the car and pulling away from the curb. I was tired, I was sad that she was leaving (already), and it was rotten cold outside, with a stiff wind. My mind could scarcely form a cohesive thought; too many sensations and feelings and distractions. I got back into the Jeep and watched to make sure she got inside okay with her stuff, of course. But then, once she was in, and it was just me, Roger, and the road again...well, my mind sort of went blank. I now had to face that long three-hour drive home, by myself, in the dark. Just outside of the city I stopped and got some gas. That stiff wind kept blowing. The night was pitch-dark. The distant glow of Las Vegas seemed somehow blank and unwelcoming now, even more artificial. From the gas station bathroom, I could hear the two cashiers arguing about some trivial money matter. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so empty inside. I'd always hated partings, and the hollow, dead feeling that accompanied them. It hit me especially hard that night. There I was, in a gas station bathroom in some godforsaken corner of Nevada, about to brave the lonely road home in the dark of night. It seemed a sad, ignominious, inglorious end to such a luminescent thing as Alli's visitation. I got back on the road and headed south down the I-15 once again. Now the real battle began. As I sat in the car, slowly warming up, surrounded by the white noise of the engine and the wind outside, my exhaustion and sleep deprivation loudly declared their presence. Things began to get dicey. It's a good thing there weren't many other cars on the road at that hour. I began to notice that I was slipping in and out of consciousness fairly early on. I'd "wake up" and find the car heading slowly onto the shoulder, or into the next lane. I'd find my head drooping, or my eyelids sinking slowly shut. My brains felt like they were being dunked into a warm bath; I'd have to shake my head forcibly to get them back into open air again. I'd correct the car's course with a jerk, worrying that some highway patrolman would see me and run me down. This was bad. I still had another two hours to go. I began to question my decision to drive home right after pulling an all-nighter. I'd been up for 24 hours. My body was rebelling on me. It was just a question of whether I could quell the uprising or not. If I didn't... I forced that thought out of my head and kept my eyes locked firmly on the dimly-lit patch of asphalt in my headlights. Then I noticed something interesting. Whereas before I could make out nothing of the landscape around me, now I could perceive the jagged outlines of the mountains to the east. Their black edges thrust up visibly against the lighter purple of the late night sky. "Dawn is approaching," I said to myself. Well, that would make things easier. Once it was brighter my mind wouldn't be screaming "SLEEP!" at me so loudly. Nonetheless, I figured a little creative help wouldn't hurt. I rolled down my windows and jacked in one of my favorite CDs, The Big Come Up by the Black Keys. They're a two-man blues duo out of Akron, Ohio, and boy, do those guys rock. It's nothing but booming, bashing drums and raw electric guitar riffs, plus some soulful vocals. It's enough to wake anybody up. I turned it up LOUD and settled in for the home stretch. Driving along in that Jeep, songs like "Busted" and "Heavy Soul" blasting out of the radio, the freezing wind howling in the cracked windows, the pale blue-yellow lights of dawn creeping into the firmament, is another thing I'll never forget. Appeasement was mine. Nothing had happened between us. There was no embarrassment or ill-feeling left behind, only goodwill and friendship. Even the car accident had been forgotten. Things were as they should be. I felt at peace inside as I drove along. I was glad she came, glad she had fun, glad I'd gotten to do things with her. That was enough. I just about made it home. I pulled into my driveway at about 7:00 a.m., shut off the car, staggered inside, and said hello to the folks. I paused only long enough to text Allison, thank her again for coming and wish her well (and check my e-mail) before hitting the sack and sleeping until three o'clock in the afternoon. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of Allison's visitation.

turmoil

Yes, you guessed it, folks: we woke up early again. This time, the morning of the 12/17, we had to get down to the airport for Allison's flight. Her introductory ride in N42126, I mean. I was going to usher Allison into the world of aviation, and Harold and Apple Valley Aviation were going to help me do it. We drove down to the airport, met Harold, and soon enough he and Allison were preflighting the plane. I helped as best I could, explaining things as I went, a tad over-zealously perhaps. Alli was bold as brass. She got in, strapped in, and watched attentively while Harold went through the motions of starting the plane. Once we were on the taxiway, he let her take over. She got the hang of taxiing real fast. Impressive. Most impressive. We pulled off at the end of runway 18, did our run-up, and then cruised onto the runway. This was the moment of truth. Allison had the controls for the long run down the tarmac. She kept us straight and true, and lifted us off the ground with hardly any dips or bumps. Soon, we were at 5,500 feet, floating contentedly along above Apple Valley. Harold put Alli through some basic maneuvers, being his usual cheery, helpful self. She remained cool and collected, like she'd been flying all her life. She didn't cackle like an idiot, nor panic. She said, calmly, that it wasn't as hard as she thought it'd be. We did some turns, and then flew around to see what we could see. We flew over the golf course, Interstate 15, Southern California Logistics Airport, Bell Mountain, and finally circled back to the airport and landed. Alli gave me one of her signature grins as we unbuckled our seat belts and climbed out of the plane. I'd love to show you some of the incredible pictures I got, but I can't, because I didn't get any. I forgot my stupid camera, both for this flight and for the duration of our time in Las Vegas. More's the pity. I took some incredible shots with Allison's camera, however. If she ever starts a blog, and she uses those photos, you'll know who took 'em. In deference to the amount of sleep we'd been getting (or rather, not getting), we elected not to head straight off to Vegas after the flight, like we'd planned. Instead, we came back to the house and sacked out again for a couple of hours. Well, we tried to, anyway. Alli curled up on the futon in the front room with the TV and dozed for a time; I did my best, but I just wasn't sleepy. That's just the way I am. Once I get up, I'm up. I can't get up, do something for an hour or so, and then go back to sleep. I showered and then began planning our route in Vegas. That meant I got no extra sleep that morning of the 17th. It would come back to haunt me later. But by and by, we hit the road. About noon or so we finally got everything of Allison's out of the house and into the Jeep. We also exchanged Christmas gifts: I gave her some dominoes and a fun card game called Quiddler (where the cards have letters instead of numbers and you have to make words); she gave me another fun word game, mentioned earlier, called Bananagrams. Mom got Alli some notions from Bath & Body Works, which she appreciated (they smelled like vanilla). Then we climbed in and headed out. I don't think I'll ever forget that sunlit ride back to Vegas. It was bittersweet, I can tell you that much. There we were, Alli's iPod plugged into my car radio, Alli sitting beside me and knitting socks for her sisters for Christmas, singing softly and beautifully along with her favorite tunes, me joining in with my broken yowl whenever one I knew came up. And all the while, the fact that our time together was almost over kept looming. It would be goodness-knew-how-long before I'd see her again. Harmonious yet strange is the marriage of rapture and despair! And, underneath the deep-seated affection I had for her as a friend, was another feeling, more desperate, more insistent, more infuriating. It coalesced as a wordless interrogative, and nagged at me unmercifully those last few hours. It had been nagging at me ever since I knew she'd be coming. Do I make a move on her or not? I didn't have an answer to that question. My rational mind and frivolous heart were at war, endlessly attempting to formulate one. The resultant turmoil wreaked havoc in my brain and gut. I felt, during some periods, as if I was sitting on an anthill, as if my spirit were slowly being eaten alive by venomous, mindless Myrmidons. I couldn't sit still, nor think rationally. My Cro-Magnon mind was gone. There was a blind, mute, unspeakable monster loose in the halls, demanding action at any price, no matter the risk. Go for it, the monster bellowed. I can't. She's not interested in me that way. It's impossible. I'm too scared. What if she's unwilling? I couldn't handle it! my weaselly ego whined. Thou craven! the monster screamed. What hast thou to fear? This could be the start of something beautiful! This is your second chance! Don't blow it! But what if she says no? the weasel almost sobbed. Damn it, man! Show some backbone! howled the monster. Are you going to let one potential moment of embarrassment get in the way of a potential lifetime of happiness? No, but what if— And so on, and so on, and so on. You all have been here before. This is high school stuff. You don't need me to spell out the rest of the conversation. It leads right back to the place it began, an endless litany of vacillation, exhortation, courage and cowardice. It's a funny thing: no matter how much you think you've matured in life, when it comes to such a simple thing as asking a girl whom you think you might go places with to take the next step in step with you, you can't do it. Because deep down inside, we're all third-graders. We know we like that boy or that girl, but love is such a big huge mysterious unknown THING, and we're all so worried about opening our hearts to others and possibly getting burned, that we don't act. Instead, we deflect, dodge, run, hide. We project. We drop hints. We hedge. We hem and haw. We stammer. We try to look cool. We pose. We posture. We challenge. We pretend. I'm sure, somewhere in the universe, there must be some planet, somewhere, where, when Male Inhabitant A discovers that he loves Female Inhabitant B, he simply walks up to her, unafraid, and says, "I love you. Let's spend the rest of our lives together." If Female Inhabitant B doesn't love Male Inhabitant A, she says, "I'm sorry. I don't love you." To which Male Inhabitant A, completely free of embarrassment, mortification, self-doubt or angst, replies, "Well, thank you for hearing my proposal. Good day." And then Male Inhabitant A strolls off into the sunset, on the lookout for Female Inhabitant C. If Female Inhabitant B does love Male Inhabitant A, she simply says, "I love you too. Let's get married and move in together." And the two of them live happily ever after. Not as much fun as Earth, you might say. It's a helluva lot more straightforward and honest and open, though, you've got to admit. I'm actually glad I didn't put Allison on the spot during that car ride, or any time after. I needed some time to think. After I'd considered things properly, I figured that I'd done the right thing. Alli and I probably weren't meant to be. Our lives are going different directions, and there are some glaring incompatibilities between us that probably would be insurmountable obstacles in a marriage. (She considers modern art to actually be art, for Pete's sake.) So it's good that I didn't do anything stupid or hasty. But there was a considerable amount of turmoil going on inside me during that car ride, and our time in Vegas. Speaking of which, let's get back to it! We made it to Vegas fine, just after the sun had set and the strip was beginning to light up. Once again, I had to take a few runs at the parking lot. Having missed the turnoff a time or two, I finally managed to swoop in, pay $3, and find a good parking space. Whew. We were in. Now we could waltz about with impunity. First stop? Caesar's Palace. We were going Swatch-hunting. Don't know what a Swatch is? Well, neither did I. And I haven't been living under a rock for 23 years, either. Swatches are something you just hear about, I guess. They're Swiss watches (hence the name), which come in all sizes, designs, styles, and colors. Alli's Swatch (gaudily hued with brown, blue and green stripes) was winding down, and she wanted to replace it. The only Swatch store she'd ever seen had been in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Alli had been to Sin City before, visiting with her family, and had bought it then. That in mind, we elected to head to Caesar's Palace first, get her a Swatch, and figure out the rest. Oh, and we had tickets for the ten o'clock Blue Man Group show, but we had a few hours to kill before that (and after). So, after strolling down Las Vegas Boulevard for a half-hour, going over bridges, through construction tunnels, past people of all sorts and varieties, past the old man in the cowboy hat playing Christmas tunes on the accordion, past the two ladies in platforms on the street corner (one dressed like a devil, the other like an angel), past the Aria and the Bellagio and the Monte Carlo, we came to Caesar's Palace. Now, I've been to Vegas before. Driven past it many a time. Driven through it on occasion. Been into one casino (the Aladdin) a few years back. This was the first time in a long time, however, that I'd been on the Strip and inside one of the most famous casinos in the world. It was fantastic. I can't even begin to do it justice. I'm no stranger to glorified surroundings and I was still floored. Picture vast promenades, dotted with high-end shops on either side, a faux blue sky overhead, magnificent statuary and fountains every few hundred yards. The whole pantheon of Greek gods, their hair adorned with olive wreaths; nymphs, satyrs and hippocampi, surrounded by rushing water; and aquariums filled with the most exotic and colorful fish. Bars, restaurants, rare bookshops, jewelry and designer clothing outlets...it was almost too much to take in at once. I felt as if I was in the middle of a fabulous dream. It was a maze, a labyrinth, a spider's web of opulence and lavishness and sinful excess, seemingly brought down from Mount Olympus for all the world to see. It may all have been a sham, sure, but the illusion was compelling enough. That's one of the things I love about Las Vegas. It's all artifice, sure. But it's fun artifice, convincing artifice, cinematic, glitzy artifice. I'll take it. We located the Swatch shop, and spent a few minutes rooting around. The attendants informed us that, beginning at 6:00, a massive sale would begin. So we elected to find somewhere to eat and then come back after the sale had started. A quick consultation of the directory gave us a prime candidate: the Cheesecake Factory. Allison went all ga-ga when she saw that little name stamped on the directory board. But then again, she'd sampled the Factory's delights before. I hadn't. Boy, was I ever in for an eye-opener. Or rather, as it proved to be, a mouth-opener. We had to walk the entire length of the Palace's promenade once again to get there, but I didn't mind. It gave us a chance to peruse the stores, the fountains, and the faux opulence once again. We descried the restaurant at the end of a cul-de-sac, just past the giant aquarium. I didn't know where to point my eyeballs: at this aquarium or the impressive façade of the Cheesecake Factory. (Why am I using so many French words?) It was staggering. It arched two stories up (and this was indoors, mind), built to resemble an ancient Roman structure, as most of the storefronts in the casino were. Just standing in front of the reception desk, I could see a bar, tables with spotless white tablecloths, huge (faux) pillars, mood lighting, and quite a few people who looked more than happily fed. This was going to be good. And it was. We were ushered to our table, right on the edge of a balustrade overlooking nearly the whole restaurant, with a clear view up to the gallery-like ceiling and the second floor. It was like eating in a Roman palace, with pillars and rich tiling and soft yellow light all around. Like I said, fun artifice. I was truly starting to have fun. That turmoil had abated a little. What the hell, I said to myself. Just roll with it. Whatever will happen will happen and whatever won't, won't. Our server, John, a thirtysomething blond-haired man with short sticky-up hair and a cheery smile, came over, gave us our menus, and made some very genuine small talk. I took an immediate liking to him. He seemed somehow different from 98% of the other servers and waiters I'd met in my lifetime, who were friendly and helpful without being honest about it. Their demeanor, like the statues of in the Palace promenade, was artificial. John seemed truly pleased to see us and glad to be working where he was. That manifested in his conduct. He wasn't sappy or superficial, but warm and jocular. I appreciated that. After warning us that the portion sizes were enormous, John let us have some time to decide what we wanted. We could already tell it'd be a tough choice. I've never seen such a huge menu. It was like a book, as John had pointed out. There were pages and pages and pages of pastas, soups, salads, sandwiches, and other entrées. And that's not even including the cheesecake, which I will get to later. It deserves a blog entry of its own, I can tell you that much. We decided to have a drink while we pored over the expansive menu. Mojitos seemed like a good idea. We informed John, and before we knew it, a pair of tall glasses filled with ice, rum, sugar, lime juice, club soda and mint sprigs was set in front of us. And brother, believe me when I say the Cheesecake Factory makes a fine mojito. I hope they pay their bartenders well, 'cause that was the best dang mojito I ever had in my life. I could detect the rum, beautifully supplemented by the lime and sugar, underscored by the carbonation and perfectly tinctured with copious mint. Heck, I don't even like mint all that much, and I liked this mojito. I began to have very high hopes for the dinner to come. In the end, we decided on the spicy chicken chipotle pasta. We ordered one plate for the two of us, which was a good thing, because the portion sizes were indeed massive. A huge heaping bowl of penne, peas, asparagus, and a just-spicy-enough chipotle sauce was laid steaming before us, and we dug in with relish. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Conversation practically died as we satiated ourselves, all the while continuing to admire our surroundings, trying to guess what language the Mediterranean couple beside us was speaking. (We had no luck.) But wait, I haven't gotten to the best part yet. This restaurant was named "The Cheesecake Factory" after all. It's famous for its cheesecake, ever since the founding couple got the business started in California some decades ago. The menu's cheesecake pages alone would've sufficed for an entire menu at a lesser confectioner's shop. There was so much to choose from. We'd gotten a tantalizing glimpse from the reception desk: there had been a glass case filled to the brim with dripping, gleaming, glistening slices of cheesecake of all shapes, sizes, hues and patterns. And that was only scratching the surface. We pored over the gigantic master cheesecake list, calling out whatever sounded good to each other. I thought the Chocolate Turtle, Dulce de Leche and Kahlúa Cocoa Coffee all sounded delectable. You can guess which one I chose in the end. Come on, I'm a mixologist. I like Kahlúa anyway. Getting to sample some in cake was an idea I just couldn't pass up. The description in the menu said that my choice was "chocolate brownie, Kahlúa cheesecake, and chocolate mousse" all overlaid. Come on now. Try and pass that up, even after a full bowl of chipotle pasta. Alli was vacillating as well. She had been on a pumpkin kick lately (she had tried to get the pumpkin pancakes at IHOP two days earlier, but they'd been out). However, she was also a lifelong fan of strawberry cheesecake. Both options were represented on that menu. What to do? In the end, her decision was made for her. When John returned and asked us what we'd like, he had to inform Alli that, unfortunately, the Cheesecake Factory was also out of pumpkin. So Alli went with strawberry, not without a hint of reluctance, and that was that. In seemingly no time at all, two humongous wedges of cheesy goodness were set upon our table. Both of us just sort of stared at them for a bit. It seemed almost a shame to eat them, they were so beautiful. My slice was sitting pertly on its plate, a dollop of whipped cream on top, another one right in front of the wedge, as if the cake slice was a ship crashing into a creamy iceberg. The slice itself was excitingly tinted, dark brownie underneath, lightening to muddy brown above for the cocoa and the cheesecake itself, covered with dark frosting cross-hashed with wavy light-brown stripes of mousse. Aw, man. Of all the times to forget the camera. After a moment, and an encouraging look from Alli, I picked up my fork and tenderly excised the first bite. I opened my mouth and bit down respectfully. Now, I don't claim to be a religious man, but whatever happened in my mouth right then was something like an epiphany. I could almost hear the heavenly bells ringing, the voices of the angels lifted in a hallelujah. It. Was. GORGEOUS. I've had cheesecake before, many times. I've just had your regular, straightforward cheesecake, no special flavoring or additives, though. I've also had a lot of cheesecake at (for lack of a better term) half-baked shops and restaurants who don't really put a lot of artistry into their creations. The preceding facts became readily apparent as I took that first bite. It was amazing. The Kahlúa wasn't overpowering, but lent a special coffee overtone to the overall chocolate flavor, which itself was explosive. The cheesecake and frosting melted in my mouth almost immediately, while the brownie remained solid for a good while longer, providing an intoxicating textural blend. Alli was no less absorbed. Her eyes were closed and she was emitting the occasional sigh. John came back to the table while as we devoured our cheesecake in a fugue. "Horrible stuff, isn't it?" he asked, with a mock-serious expression. "Terrible," Alli agreed. "Venomous," I concurred. "I'm sure," John replied. "I know you're just eating it to be polite. I can't stand it myself." All three of us grinned. "You guys need anything else?" "Could I have a glass of milk?" I asked, around a mouthful of brownie. John got one for me, and then gave us the bill. I made a point to comment to the lady at the front desk just what a genuine, helpful, diligent guy John was. My conscience wouldn't permit me to do anything else. He was really the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae (or slice of cheesecake) regarding that whole experience. Suitably satiated, we set off once again into Caesar's Palace. My benighted mind had now been opened to heretofore unsuspected horizons of cheesecake, and I was ready for anything. We stopped briefly at a large toy store so Alli could do some Christmas shopping. Her sister was an ardent fan of Uglydolls (you know, those stuffed toys that look like horrible little monsters), so Allison got her an Uglydolls all-purpose bag. I got me a tequila-flavored lollipop with a meal worm in it, and then we left. Now for a Swatch. We ducked back down the curved escalators, down through the three-story gallery filled with enormous plaster statues of half-naked women ("We're surrounded by boobs," I told Alli), and reentered the Swatch shop. Alli had previously narrowed her choices down to three finalists: white band with hippos; turquoise band made of interlocking ovoid stones; or plain brown. She elected to go with the turquoise band. It had to be taken in a little to suit her wrist. While we waited, I browsed a bit myself. I saw one particular Swatch that I liked: plain, no frills, a simple black band and a white analog face, with a small window for telling the date and day of the week. If I'd had $55 I wasn't using I would've probably dropped it right then and there. Suitably Swatched, we exited the shop and plotted our next move. Both of us figured we'd better mosey on over to the Venetian. It was two hours to show time. We could check out what shopping the Venetian had to offer and then walk for a few minutes and be ready when the theater doors opened. I was about ready for a drink, too. We'd been walking past bar after bar after bar, all of which looked exciting and fun and interesting to sit in (and fully stocked). Those mojitos we had at the Cheesecake Factory were good, but they'd worn off. I was getting thirsty, and no mere glass of water could mollify me. So we walked out of Caesar's Palace, turned left, and headed north up Las Vegas Boulevard until the Venetian peeked out from behind Harrah's. We went in, found the Blue Man Group theater, procured our tickets, and then just began to browse. As impressive as places like Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio had been on the inside, the Venetian gave them all a run for their money. They've got a canal inside the casino. A real, full-blown canal, about the same size as the ones in Venice actually are! And they've got men and women in straw hats and striped shirts—gondoliers—punting gondolas with happy couples up and down this canal, just like in Venice! And some of them even sing, too! "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore..." How awesome is that?? So we took to wandering. We peeked in a few stores, and a few art galleries showcasing caricatures of well-known actors and musicians, and also a fair bit of Snoopy-related artwork (Vegas, Vegas, Vegas). We walked under arches, past strange forms of Christmas decoration (a giant, serpent-like sculpture of evergreen branches tied up with red ribbons and Christmas lights, writhing over a cranberry pool by the waterfall). We strolled along the canal, peeking through windows, me drooling over every bar we passed. Noticing my stares, Alli suggested we stop in to Davidoff, a fine cigar shoppe right by the side of the canal. They had a walk-in humidor. I'd never seen one of those before. The glass walls were lined with expensive, fancy cigars of every stamp and vintage. The quality and prices were both outrageous. In the end, however, I folded. I got myself an Opus X, supposedly one of the most full-bodied and "peppery" cigars offered (according to the pretty attendant), for $31.50. Heh heh, I chuckled to myself as I shelled out the money, I can't wait to get home and wave this under John and Chris's noses. I haven't smoked that cigar yet, but I'll let you know when I do, and how green the boys turn. We stopped at a directory to see if we'd missed any interesting shops. As we looked, a bald, uniformed guard in white gloves walked up to us and asked if we needed help finding anything. On a whim, I asked, "Do you have any bookstores here?" The man thought for a moment, and then said, "The only bookstore we have would be Bauman's Rare Books. Head straight that way," he pointed down the hall the way we'd come, "past the escalators, make a right and a quick left. Bauman's will be on the right." He had me at "rare books." Alli noticed the sinister gleam that came into my eye as he said it. The guard began to tell us about a general store on another floor that sold magazines, but Alli cut him off. "I think we'll take the rare books," she said, looking at me with amusement. Bauman's Rare Books was a tiny shop set into the side of a long, low, carpeted hallway on the second level of the Venetian. I could immediately tell we were in for a treat. They had a first-edition copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss in the bulletproof glass case out front. Mentally, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Books, books, BOOKS. They were all in excellent condition, if a little worn and old-looking, and their sheer antiquity (and price) boggled the imagination. I saw 26 rare editions of Edgar Rice Burroughs's original Tarzan stories; a note penned by Walt Whitman himself to his publisher; first-edition copies of everything from Cool Hand Luke to Watership Down; and even goodies like early printings of Charles Darwin's Origin of Species. All right there, right then! In the store! In Las Vegas! We couldn't browse enough. We walked up and down, staring up at the high wooden shelves, wondering at their miraculous contents. The proprietor (probably not Bauman himself, being young, sprightly, bearded, and bespectacled, but quite helpful and amiable) opened up whatever case we chose and let us look at whatever we wanted. He also exchanged book reviews with us; I'd name a title and he'd give me his two cents on it. It was great fun. I handled those books like they were glass. No, like they were nitroglycerin. I must be a hardcore bibliophile, because that store was like a treasure trove to me. How I would've loved to keep coming back, day after day, and peruse all of the volumes in the collection. Alas, we had no time. We thanked the proprietor and moved on. I caught a last titillating glimpse of a signed copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms in the armored window, and then the store vanished from our sight. It was right about here that I figured I was long due for a whiskey sour. We settled on Samba Sushi, a low-lit and chic sushi bar a few yards down the hall, bellied up to the bar, laid down our burdens and sat down on the stools. There was a frizzy-haired man in a gray suit a few stools down from us, reading a newspaper, a champagne flute and a glass of ice water in front of him. By the looks of things, he'd been there a while. He ordered up another drink as we sat there (it looked like something creamy). Must've been a stock market crash or something... Anyway, to our own drinks. I knew what I wanted. The whiskey selection was rather bad, so I decided to have a Jameson sour. Bad idea. Here again I showed my true ignorance of the ways of John Barleycorn. You never make a whiskey sour with anything other than bourbon or Canadian whisky. Doesn't taste right. Has to be the right stuff, Jim Beam or Wild Turkey or Black Velvet or Crown Royal, maybe. Anyway, I dealt with that mishap as best I could while Allison had a look at the menu. She finally settled on Samba Juice, a house special, consisting of rum and a whole lot of fruit juices. I tasted it; it wasn't bad, if you like that sort of thing. She loved it, that's the important thing. We had a quiet drink as we whiled away the last few minutes before the show started. When we got to the theater the line had already formed, but fortunately it wasn't too long. (Good thing we were there on a weekday!) We got in line, and got in fairly quickly. I hadn't quite realized just how close we'd be to the stage. I'd intentionally chosen seats that were just outside the splash zone (the first six rows or so, where everybody was sure to get hit by some splatter or other). On the digital seating chart, however, it had looked as if there was a substantial gap between rows E and F. There wasn't. Row F was right behind row E, the last row in the danger zone. So you may imagine that Alli and I felt a little nervous as we took our seats directly behind folks who had already donned their protective clear plastic ponchos. Our fears proved to be unfounded. We didn't get splattered. I won't say much about the show, out of respect for the performers' livelihood, but I will say this: go see it. If you've never seen Blue Man Group, you need to. As so many others before me have raved, their performance is what all other live shows aspire to be. It was hilarious, visually stunning, interactive, fun, engaging, astounding and captivating all in one. It was a festival of sight and sound I can't even begin to describe properly, so I won't try. Needless to say, those were two hours of our lives well spent. We laughed, jumped, clapped, and gaped all through it. It was brilliant, to say the least. The show got out just about midnight. So, therefore, here ends my narrative for December 17th, 2009. I shall resume at this point in the next entry. I apologize that this was so long; it's just that we did a lot of stuff, and I'm naturally garrulous. You have my permission to read this in parts if you have to. If you do read it all in one go, kindly time yourself and report back to me how long it took you. If you do, you get a cookie.

a farewell to Andy

What follows is a thoroughgoing divulgence of all the venial sins I committed last weekend. I went to Busan, saw a corporate baseball game, consumed dried squid whole, went subway surfing, piddled in an an alleyway, shot fireworks into traffic, won twenty grand at the casino, challenged the East Sea, chatted up a Korean lady, switched hats with a soldier, owned a dance floor, stood on the pitch of a World Cup stadium, dove across the trunk of a car (with the driver inside), and slept in a love motel. Beat that litany if you can.

Busan at night. Not my photo.

Andy, the laid-back Englishman with hooded eyes and a lazy Manchester drawl, was having his last weekend in Korea. He invited everybody up to Busan for a wild night. Accordingly, we met up at 10:30 or so at the Gohyeon ferry station (the expensive passenger ferry for ₩21,500, not the cheap five-grand out of Guyeong or Nongso). By "we all" I mean a good chunk of the expatriate English teachers in Gohyeon: Andy, Jamie and his girlfriend, a new South African couple, Chris (from England) and his girlfriend Melissa (from the U.S.), Adam, Elaine, Jeff, myself, and a few others.

The passage was rough. It was a cloudy yet windy day, and the straits between Geoje and the mainland were awash with some rather energetic waves. Out on the open sea the boat went up and down like a...like a...well, like a boat going up and down on some rather energetic waves. I'm sure anybody out there who's ever done anything like this will know what I mean. We'd hit an oncoming wave, the entire deck would tilt up at an impressive angle, then we'd crash down again with a bang and a spray of water. After thirty minutes of this, most of the passengers looked pretty green. I must admit, sitting in that stifling cabin with the cloying heat and moisture of a hundred human bodies, I got a bit queasy myself. Out on the rear deck it was better, with the fresh breeze blowing in your face (I had to hold on to my hat tightly). I even dared the waves a little. Similar to jumping in an elevator, I'd wait until we were at the peak of our ascent up a wave and about to drop down once again before jumping into the air, hanging suspended for an extra second or two. Similarly, I'd wait until we were just about to strike head-on, then jump and get a jolt to my knees as the ferry deck rose to meet me. It was good fun; sometimes the sun even broke through the clouds and made one feel as if all was right with the world.

We hit Busan and negotiated briefly for a cab. After learning that the aggressive big-city cabbies wanted to charge our twelve-person party ₩25,000 per cab, we left them and their poor haggling skills and took the subway. We weren't so far from Haeundae (as we would have been if we'd taken the cheap ferry; that landed you in Jinhae, at the far western edge of the city). The coastal ferry terminal was smack dab on the southern end of downtown. But we weren't going to Haeundae first. We'd received word of a soccer (football, as Andy and Adam and Chris insisted on calling it) game at the World Cup Stadium, so we endured the long subway ride in that direction.


While we did, I noticed a particularly attractive young Korean lady in a white pantsuit with big, pretty eyes and attractively cropped black hair. Having been too chicken to try out my Korean pick-up lines on the cute cashier in Top Mart (thus far), I opted to try them out in consequence-free Busan instead. I caught her attention and said, clearly: "Yeppun yeoja imnida." ("You are a pretty lady.") She smiled and said thank you...in English. We had a very nice little conversation: she asked me where I was from, and how long I'd been in Korea, and so forth. She seemed a little flustered, but she was smiling and friendly. I was quite sad to part with her at the door of the subway, for our station arrived mere minutes later. Ships that pass in the night, strangers on a train, and all that jazz...

We emerged from the subway into the turbulently breezy day and soldiered to our destination. Despite the fact that the whole stadium (ticket booth, seats and pitch) was as deserted as the premier of the movie Beerfest should've been, we went confidently in and took a look around. We even eschewed the stands and walked right out onto the field. But for ourselves and a couple of guys setting up the sound system, we were alone. This struck us as odd, seeing as how the game should've started twenty minutes before our arrival. So we asked the two electricians.

"Gaeim isseoyo?"

"Ne, ne."

"Eonje imnikka?"

"Yeodeolpshi imnida."

Yes, there was a soccer game...in seven hours. We'd showed up at one o'clock; the game wasn't until eight. That would rather put a damper on the binge drinking we had planned later that evening, so we said screw it, marched a few hundred yards to the northeast, and bought baseball tickets instead.

Then we had a burger at McDonald's (Jeff had two; he's a machine) and then adjourned to Haeundae via the subway to get our rooms and prepare for the night's festivities. We had a couple hours before the ball game started; we planned to get changed and have a preparatory drink in Haeundae and then head back to the stadium. This we did. We had about three beers each at an open-air bar just down the road from the beach. Other foreigners walked in and out, scandalously clad Korean women in tow; but the service was good and the spiced popcorn and salted pasta sticks were in plenty.

After an hour we paid up and headed for the stadium. Before that, however, we stopped in at a convenience store and loaded up: a bottle of soju each, as well as some makgeolli. This last is a different kind of Korean liquor, the color of milk, also distilled from rice but sweeter than soju or baekseju. It's less than ten percent alcohol, but you've got to try it once. Unfortunately the brand we got was utter crap. It was fizzy, for one thing; that should've tipped us off right there. But we reluctantly sucked it down. Andy had perfected an alcoholic technique where one purchases a bottle of soju and a liter of Chilsung cider (remember, that sickeningly-sweet Korean lemon-lime soda), drains half the bottle of cider, and pours the soju in. The result is a whole bottle of mixer. Drinking on a subway is an interesting experience, particularly if you're already buzzed. Forming a wall around each other to screen our activities from innocent bystanders, we alternated taking shots of Andy's soju-cider mix.

It was then that I got up and tried subway surfing in earnest. You've heard of "train-surfing," right? Where you stand on top of a moving train and just ride up there with the breeze in your face (I hear tell some nuts even do it with bullet trains)? Subway surfing is similar, only for obvious reasons you're still inside the car. You just have to stand without touching anything and brace yourself with your legs. It would've been quite tricky on the older Seoul Metro, which lurches and leaps like a drunken jackrabbit. On the Busan subway it's pretty easy...unless you're buzzed. Fortunately I was at the rear of the car and there wasn't much risk of falling on anybody.

We arrived. I'd stupidly neglected to bring a coat, citing my Norse heritage and claiming it would protect me from the chill. There wasn't much chill, but it grew as the night went on: a stiff sea breeze was blowing in which developed into gale force by the time we left the baseball game and lowered the temperature into the 50s, I'd reckon. But none of that mattered. Our excitement grew as we approached the stadium. The red sun was sinking behind it and happy shoppers and sightseers crowded the streets. We were late. We could hear the roars and screams of the excitable crowd, even as we exited the subway hundreds of yards away.

We got separated in the rush to get inside; eventually only Jeff, Darren (the new South African guy), his girlfriend and I made it to the gates. Jeff was clutching a bag with our soju and remaining makgeolli; the guards detained him. Bringing in outside drinks to a baseball game is verboten no matter where you are, we'd known that. But we thought we'd try it anyway. I'd already shown my ticket and entered, so we were stuck with Jeff on one side of the gate and us on the other. Darren and his girlfriend went on ahead; I dithered while Jeff waited for Elaine (with her Miraculous Gigantic Super-Colossal Concealment Special handbag). Then, on a sudden impulse, the imperious cry of a nigh-forgotten ambition, I took off like a shot down the concourse. I'd remembered what I'd wanted to do ever since coming to Korea, and even before: ever since I'd read what Koreans snack on at baseball games. The concourse was wild with people. Vendors were on every side: hot dogs, mandu, ddeokpokki...the smells were bewitching. But I did not find what I sought until I'd gone 50 yards further along, following the curve of the stadium...where was it, where was it? If I didn't get back soon, Jeff and the rest might get through and sit down without me, and without a phone I'd never find them in this anthropic mass.

Ah-ha! I espied it! Flattened, beige-gray body, skin without sheen! Tentacles coiled in death and desiccation, shrunken and twisted! Head held wide by a piece of wood! Yes! I'd found it! DRIED SQUID! Whole dried squid were sitting in a rack beside this one young man's food stall. I jumped up and asked him how much it was.

"Sa-cheon won," he replied.

₩4,000! A bargain! I laid my money down and watched impatiently as the young man got out a small gas burner, lit it, and toasted my squid over the flame. It seemed to take forever; he was very thorough. Then he put it between two pieces of paper and delivered it into my eager hands. I snatched it, muttered a hasty kamsa hamnida and ran back through the throng to the gate whence I'd entered. To my relief I found Adam, Andy, Jeff, Elaine, and Dominic (an Englishman working in Busan, and an acquaintance of Andy's who'd rendezvoused with us at the World Cup Stadium earlier) standing in a circle, talking. Jeff and I stayed to get hot dogs (we were into the classic baseball game food that night) as I commenced to gnawing on my dried squid ferociously, to the amusement and disgust of nearby Koreans. I also sucked down a lot of beer. You can drink freely in the stands at Korean baseball games, and in light of this liberating discovery we all went hog-wild. Jeff and I nabbed a plastic pitcher apiece and accounted for it all during the course of four innings; Adam and Elaine were taking shots of soju behind the stands during their smoke breaks; and the rest were having some mix of the two.

The game was terrific. There were a couple of players who did these really cool things, and...well, yeah. My memory gets a bit blurry from here on out. I remember all of us sliding surreptitiously out of the stadium around the sixth inning or so, when the Lotte Giants were down by eight to the LG Twins (out of Seoul); I remember meeting up with a bunch of drunk Koreans on the way out, including a very friendly soldier whom I swapped hats with (only temporarily, fortunately); I vaguely remember getting the subway back to Haeundae. Then we hit the bars. We went to the Fuzzy Navel, a fine little two-story, wood-trimmed bar with some delicious Mexican-themed snacks. I seem to recall a rather poorly done flare show down behind the bar, and lots of shouted conversation. I met some new people whose names I don't recollect, only inchoate faces and half-imagined snatches of discourse. I consumed an unknown number of beers.

Then we adjourned to Mix, the club across the street, newly opened and without a clientele yet. We went to the VIP room, but it was too quiet, so we headed back down. I remember eating some of Mix's nachos, sitting at the bar and trying to persuade Adam to knock back a tequila slammer with me, and getting down all by my lonesome out on the dance floor. That was embarrassing (Andy filmed me doing it) but not as embarrassing as that yet to come, however.

I'm not sure what persuaded us to go back out into the night, but we did. Across the road, just outside Fuzzy Navel, there was a booth set up, a dart-throwing scam where you got five shots at pink balloons with the possibility of winning some paltry prize or other. The prizes turned out to be fireworks, and Adam turned out to be steady-handed enough to win them. I think he lit his with his cigarette and was standing in the street, firing it, much to the dismay of the booth owner. Trying to top him, I shot mine into the street. Andy got this on film as well. Picture me, marching down the sidewalk with a cavalcade of hooting merry-makers ahead of me, holding myself like the end of ages is at hand, grasping my thin tube of fireworks like a sword or a bundle of fasces, pointing it at the four-lane boulevard and firing off sparklers at the SUVs and sedans streaking by. Thank good fortune itself that I didn't hurt anybody. I'm sure nobody liked seeing sparkling fireballs whizzing by their windshields and doors.

We wandered up and down the streets a while, buying more booze and snacks as we went. We went into a club, but it was too expensive at fifteen grand. Leaving the club and crossing the parking lot, I decided it would be a good idea to take a belly-flop across the trunk of a parked car. I didn't notice the driver was still inside it. He got out and you could almost see the steam coming off him. I mustered my remaining mental and ethical faculties, bowed, apologized, and admitted that I was an idiot (in Korean). The man let his bellicose stare linger on me for a moment longer, blew out a sigh, then walked back to his car, shaking his head and muttering. That, I think, was the closest I've come to being arrested in Korea.

There follows a long, blank, foggy space (sometime during which I relieved myself in an alleyway that was deserted except for the guy on the scooter who fortunately came along too fast to get a good look at what I was doing).

After that there's the casino. We went in and had a look around. I remember it was pretty plush, lots of recessed lighting, soft furnishings, and black marble. Jeff did his level best to stop me donating my money to the one-armed bandit, but I was not to be deterred. I felt lucky. I came out in the red, I think; I spent about fourteen thousand and wound up winning about twenty, if my booze-soaked memory serves. I'm just glad I wasn't so utterly foolish as to try the tables. There were games of poker, blackjack, and hold 'em going on, as well as a few I didn't even recognize. I stopped and stared at three-card draw, but couldn't for the life of me remember the rules. I wanted to set myself down and try my luck, but even I could see that I was in no fit state. Jeff steered me away. We probably spent no more than 30 minutes there; it was a pretty poor set-up now that I think back on it (soberly). The nearest halfway decent gambling to be had is in Macao, I hear, and that is only halfway decent. Saeongjima.

We'd been steadily losing people all night. We'd bumped into a few people at Fuzzy Navel; some had bugged out early from Mix; a few others had likely trailed off during our walk through the windy chill of the spring night. (I was no longer ruing my decision not to wear an extra layer; I was too drunk to feel cold.) By the time we got back to our little love motel, it was just Andy, Adam, Elaine, Dominic, and me. We sat in A & E's expansive room, turned on the Manchester United game and drank soju and mekju until late into the night. We switched on YouTube (A & E's room came with a computer) and put on everybody from Curtis Mayfield to Groove Armada.

I finally left at around 3:30 or so. It wasn't that I was chickening out or anything silly like that. Nope, I was just dog-tired. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I'd been screaming and cheering and stomping and chanting at the Giants game, dancing my shoes off at Mix, and running around the streets of Busan shooting fireworks into traffic and diving across parked cars and whatnot. I bowed out amid good-natured banter and collapsed in my room. A few hours later Jeff came in and followed suit. I found out later that he'd been sent out on a booze run about an hour after I left, and had come back to find everyone passed out. So then he'd gone to the sea (like we'd all talked about doing), in the pitch black of five in the morning, and taken a dip in the freezing water. It was quite an adventure. The water was frigid; he could barely see; and his head was swimming as well as his body. He lost the room key in the water, too. He'd had to dig for it in the wet sand as the waves crashed around and over him. Just when he was about to give up and go back, he'd managed to grab it, sunk deep though it was. That Jeff's a real crazy boy. Only he would consider going to the fanciest beach in Korea in late April, blind drunk, at five o'clock on a Sunday morning and going for a swim. I wish I had half his spirit.

Needless to say, we woke up very late the next day. I woke up soonest, drank some water, and peered owlishly out at the bright day. It was about eleven. After allowing myself a little HRT (Hangover Recovery Time) I went downstairs to inquire about check-out time. I caught the landlord's eye and tapped my watch. He held up ten fingers, then two. Twelve o'clock; we had fifteen minutes. I wandered upstairs, not knowing what to do. I was raised in a country where lodging rules were ironclad. Either you made it out by that time or you paid for another night, no exceptions. In a kind of bleary, half-hearted panic I walked up and down the hallway and banged on the other guys' doors. Andy finally answered his and I filled him in. He'd actually been up for a while. Casting all fears about disturbing other possible patrons of the motel aside, I finally gave up all pretense and yelled in at Adam and Elaine's door that it was go-time.

"ADAM AND ELAINE," I intoned sonorously, "IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, THE TIME IS NOW ELEVEN-FIFTY. CHECK-OUT TIME IS IN TEN MINUTES. WE HAVE TO GO."

There was a brief pause.

"DO YOU WANT ME TO DO MY ONE-MAN BAND IMPERSONATION?"

"Yes," came a muffled Manchester drawl from behind Andy's door.

I had only just begun to warble my best trombone when Adam finally answered his door. Somehow we got our stuff together and wandered out into the streets. The plan permutated a bit, but it remained essentially the same: go to the beach and get a burger. Andy had a tip on a place over at Gwangalli Beach that served up massive foot-tall burgers. That sounded like it would hit the spot after last night, so we went to the subway and rode a few stops, then endured a rather lengthy 500 meter hike to the beach. The day was muted and hazy, with a gentle but chilly breeze blowing. We found the joint and ordered up. They forgot mine. Everybody else munched theirs and huddled under the heat lamp while we made small talk.

After a few hours of watching the waves, the sun, the serpentine kites flying high in the sky and the numerous tents grouped on the sand (there was a fish-catching festival similar to the one I spoke of before going on, with a plethora of tent restaurants in tow), we went back to the subway and traveled to the bus station. It had pretty much been decided yesterday that we weren't going to attempt the ferry again, not after the somewhat tumultuous crossing we'd endured before. I would've been fine ordinarily, but was not willing to tempt fate while hung over. Not that I had any precious lunch to lose, that is. (I'd contented myself with merely writing a civil comment about writing orders down instead of memorizing them at the burger joint rather than complaining; I didn't want to hold up the parade.)

So we got our tickets, went back into the shopping mall that separates the bus station from the street and got some McDonald's (for me), and then headed out. The bus ride was long and agonizing. I used to be ambivalent about buses but now I hate them with all the seething flames of Hell. They're hot, stuffy, bumpy, noisy, uncomfortable, crowded, close, and interminable. That goes double here in Korea. The bus drivers leave the heat on even when it's 60 degrees outside, and they've all got lead feet. Lots of squirrelly stops and starts, never a smooth moment of cruising. Plus they're always swerving into other lanes to go around people they perceive as being too slow, and/or honking at said people. I think the next time I ride a Korean bus I'll seat myself behind the driver and every time he jams on the brakes at a red light or a bus stop I'll pitch forward and land on him. That'll learn him.

And so we arrived in Gohyeon, said our farewells to Andy, and went home. That is the full summary of the weekend's weirdness.

To Adam: Thank you for swigging that tequila slammer.

To Dominic: It was nice to meet you.

To Andy: The very best of luck to you, pal. I hope it was a good send-off.

To that Korean guy in the parked car: I'm sorry. I really am.