“What reservation?”
I chased three cooped up bord boys around an opulent Art Deco lobby while Kaety’s body language radiated impatience, anger and silent screaming at the check-in counter.
Having us spend too much time in their lobby while they pulled all the levers and twirled the dials that made our reservation come back to life really started showing some diminishing returns for the Hilton. By the time we heard, “Oh, that reservation!”, we had chewed several potted plants, licked the Art Deco windows, climbed the Art Deco railings, used the drink caddies as scooters, moved a lot of cool white rocks to alternative locations around the lobby and had conducted multiple flopping fits in the middle of the through-way.
Instead of adding my awesome male vibe to the already tense scene going down at check-in I ordered a big drink and had Kaety and Robin do some counter side chugging. And on a side note you know you are in Vegas when the bar tender asks if you want your giant mixed drink in a ‘to-go’ cup.
Eventually all was well and we made our way to the 18th floor to our bee hive of adjoining rooms. Everyone got their turf staked out and noticed the awesome swimming pool down below. It’s winter here at 73 degrees, which is basically summer swimming weather for Oregonians. We were the only ones in the pool.
