It's not yet 7am, and I'm not yet out of bed, although the alarm did go off at 5:30. I decided to stay here, in bed at the Paris Hotel in Las Vegas, surrounded by chintzy French decor, and write.
A note to the Paris Hotel: putting a fleur-de-lys on everything does not make you more French. Similarly, putting la, le, or les in front of a word does not make it French. Your sign for "Les Show Tickets" will always make me laugh.
So I'm in bed in a fake version of Paris, and the sun is just coming up over the mountains. Las Vegas never looked so soft and gentle and sentimental.
Granted, I'm facing away from the Strip—into a parking garage, in fact—but I'd rather look at something stationary like those parked cars than at all those people moving on the Strip.
Keep going. Keep having fun. Keep smiling. It's Vegas; everyone comes here to be happy. Hedonistically happy, but happy all the same.
The yellow sun slowly scootching up the sky is enough movement for me this morning.
The mountains are gray in the distance, and there are still plenty of city lights between me and the mountains, where I know it's cool this morning and where I'd rather be.
It'd be quiet, no sounds but the red dirt crunch as I walk to the edge of the campsite.I'd rather be in the mountains, but instead I'm in a version of Paris and the clock is now telling me that I should get out of bed and get on with the day. I'm here for work, after all.
A hiss of propane as I light the Coleman stove to heat water.
I can see my breath as I turn away from the picnic table and face the valley. In the distance, the lights of Las Vegas twinkle like an innocent Christmas tree and I wonder what kind of people are there right now and if they're noticing the sunrise.
At least I had time to notice the sunrise.
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