Lost Wages, Nevada

My first trip to Sin City, I was helping my nephew move from Michigan to Los Angeles in a bid to bolster his writing career. We chose of course the decrepit but historic Route 66. Instead of barreling in to Barstow and just shy of Kingman, Arizona, the signs haling Las Vegas this-a-way
beckoned. With a glance and a smirk dang it we were off. I've been there some 24 times since. Sure, I was probably wide eyed at first but as they say, the glitter has since worn off, and if it hadn't, I would have scrubbed it off my self. The town doesn't hold much for me but in all fairness, when I'm there I'm there to work and don't venture much beyond a 3 mile radius of the strip. Usually after day one of about 6, I'm ready for the cab ride back to the airport. You might too if you've ever spent any time in the lobby of the Imperial Palace. It's like hanging out at my neighborhood Wal Mart only this location has carpeting, craps and a vague impersonation of Dolly Parton shuckin' cards while belting out a kinda believable take on 9 to 5. Now it looks like Cher steppin' up...oh look, my cabs here. I shouldn't dog Vegas so much, there's actually a few chestnuts strewn around that make it semi tolerable. Like the Pepper Mill for instance is definitly a must see. It has a 1969-ish, grotto like interior, with indoor sunken firepits and alcove style seating. You know its got widespread appeal when you pass a couple members of the Hell's Angels headin' out while you're headin' in. When I have more time and more money, I'm gonna get me a rental cah and make for the hills just outside a town. Sometimes the strip can make a man yearn for the likes of the Nevada Test Site or heck, Death Valley.

Hola, Gringo

Have you ever taken a trip and at some point early on, find yourself muttering under your breath,
notsmart notsmart notsmart all the while keeping your perma-grin taught enough your lips bond to your gums?
After trudging through the whole airport ordeal, we've made it to the rental car agency in Cancun and are about to wedge our selves into our motor vehicle of choice, a late seventies era,
VW Beetle. With my wife as co-pilot, we make our way south of town toward our Mayan destination, the sleepy little seaside hamlet of Akumal. It doesn't take long before you're driving down a long stretch of four lane highway in nowheresville with nothing but thick and thicker jungle-like brush on both sides of the road. Not a gas station or driveway or anything for miles.
This is about the time I'm wondering why in the heck I thought an old Beetle would be such a cool mode of transportation...but after almost two hours we make it.
Scoring an off-season condo on Akumal Bay, just a slow movin' little town with lots of rikety bicycles with no crowd of tourists to plow into. It was cool/scary to snorkel around in the chest high ocean, cool to watch the Sea Turtles underwater, scary cuz of what else might appear.
We ran down to Tulum and took in the ruins amid the throng of basketball court sized, tightly packed, sight-seeing buses.
As we headed back up the highway toward Cancun, little things like my wife holding her breath and crossing her legs as we scoured the landscape for a restroom or tall weeds, repeating the mantra: Please Don't Breakdown- Please Don't Breakdown only added much zest to our adventure. In the end, and like the trooper she is bless her heart, my wife never once, through-out the entire excursion, ever attempt to harsh my mellow, nor I her's as far as I know.

Photo from Wikimedia