Walk Home Together

I was tagging along with my husband to Las Vegas for a work trip. We’ve been there many times and have stayed in several different hotels. This time we chose the Paris simply because we were feeling nostalgic, as we had stayed there almost 20 years ago celebrating my 30th (!) birthday. 

Upon arrival we noticed that since we were there last, the old girl has got some visible age on her (meaning the hotel, but also me) but it still had the same faux-Parisian (see what I did there) feel with the pretend cobblestones, bathrooms labeled “madames” and “messieurs”, and of course the Eiffel Tower basically squatting over the casino. 

In line at check-in were some lovely young ladies excited for their Vegas vacation. They were dressed nearly identically in short SHORT shorts and extremely tall platform shoes. Lots of skin. Boobies and booties kinda popping out here and there, but hey, it’s Vegas and oh to be young with all that smooth unblemished skin and collagen!! You go girls!! 

My opinion was not shared with the woman in line in front of them, inexplicably wearing the largest golf visor that I have ever seen. Like the size of a medium pizza, for real. She stared at the girls with the judgement of a thousand Karens. She could not stop looking at them and making various disgusted and disapproving facial expressions and I couldn’t stop looking at her looking at them. 

Anyway, that has nothing to do with my review but was entertaining nonetheless. 

Heather, the desk agent, was a cheerful, engaging employee whose very intricate manicure was positively flying across the keys as she checked us in. A gem!

Ok, so. First of all it’s cold in the Paris. Colder than in the actual Paris in February. For real. I realize this is to keep everybody alert at the gaming tables but holy meatlocker Batman. Even my worst perimenopausal hot flashes were no match for the AC in this place. 

On to the room itself. It’s pretty long in the teeth. It’s seen some things. It’s been through the wars. It looked like someone took a hatchet to the baseboards. The yellow upholstered ottoman looked like it might have been left out in the rain, if it ever rains in Vegas. Maybe it wasn’t even originally yellow. The knob on the dresser fell off in my hand. 

And the bathroom. Oh my lanta. The bathroom. 

It had nonsensically placed light switches; you had to actually enter the darkness and feel along the walls in order to locate one and when I did, I was treated to the type of sickly flickering lighting that recalls the 90s horror movie Seven. Remember that?  It was just like that. The Nausea Filter. 

I will say that the water pressure was excellent! My pressure preference is not so much that of a shower, but more of an actual power wash, like the kind used to scour concrete driveways. Also I like the temperature to be slightly warmer than molten lava. The Paris delivered on both counts! 

Additionally, the bathroom had a bidet, because let’s not forget we’re in fake France. Will loves a bidet but I have always been skeptical of these things because I don’t quite understand how to use them. You have to shuffle over to it? With your underoos around your ankles? And this is a hovering situation? I’m not into it. But, I did turn on one of the taps just for fun and a thunderous geyser shot straight up, hit me square in the face (omg) and soaked the ceiling. Did I mention the incredible water pressure in this place?

On to the pool experience. We took the elevator to the pool deck with great expectations of relaxing under an umbrella or strategically placed tree, reading our respective paperbacks, perhaps enjoying a refreshing cocktail. 

Twas not to be. 

There was NO SHADE. No umbrellas. No trees. Just people cooking under the desert sun like desiccated hot dogs under a heat lamp at a gas station. The only option for shade appeared to be the cabanas one could rent for approximately $739424993 dollars. But let me remind you who I’m married to:

William Russell Rice III. And that man figures it OUT. Where there’s a WILL there is a WAY. 

My bearded bowlegged beloved found us the only patch of shade in the whole place behind a wall and we not very discreetly dragged lounge chairs over to it. Was it scenic? No. Were there random electrical cords everywhere? Yes. Did it smell like stale beer and old cigarettes. You betcha. 

I went to the bar to procure two margaritas. They cost 39.95. EACH. Plus tip. I was actually speechless. That is literally offensive. OFFENSIVE I SAY!! 

But for the price of a deluxe mani-pedi these drinks better be spectacular. Made with artisanal tequila filtered through butterfly wings and organic grass fed limes squeezed by specially trained monkeys wearing little sombreros. 

Nope. Neon green liquid Jolly Ranchers. Horrendous. Diabetes in a plastic cup. Wilford Brimley would be horrified. 

The remainder of the trip was fairly uneventful except for the delightful Elvis impersonator we saw cruising down the sidewalk on his mobility scooter whilst smoking a cigarette (I think) and drinking a 40oz Miller High Life yelling at the tourists trying to take his picture. Have some CLASS people! That man is an ARTIST! 

I am now fully recovered from our adventure and assuming I didn’t bring any bedbugs home with me, what happened at the Vegas Paris stayed there. Yay! 

Breakdown of review: 

Heather: 5/5 stars 

A/C: 32 stars not in a good way 

Golf visor fashion: 5/5 stars

Lighting: 2/5 stars 

Pool deck shade: 0/5 stars

Water pressure: 5/5 stars

Margaritas: I am filing a police report bc I was robbed