We attempt to breathe fresh air by the pools, but the woman handing out towels laughs at the fact that we’re even outside. The outdoor cabanas are emptied of their tan bodies and one lone dude swims laps in the heated pool. His show of physical stamina makes me violent.
Fried chicken, shrimp, sushi, sliders, prime rib, slab bacon, kimchi. At the Wynn buffet you can travel from the dirty South to Korea and back again. For an extra $15, your drinks become bottomless, too. Afterwards, I’d pay triple that for someone to just carry me to my room.
I check out my sallow complexion in one of the many splendid mirrors lining the walkways. But is this really a mirror…or a window? Is Steve himself behind the glass? Paranoia is the first step of accepting my fate here.
Hours 52 to ?
Gamble. Win! Then lose. Then win. Repeat this cycle for 40 years and you’ll get an idea of the guy sitting to my left.
Steve Wynn paid $33.7 million for the giant Jeff Koons “Tulips” sculpture that he then planted in the middle of the esplanade between the Wynn and the Encore. If you want to drop a little coin of your own, you can walk ten feet and buy a riding cape at Hermés, a $15,000 mirror at the Wynn home store or a swimsuit cover-up at Chanel.
If a person journeys to Las Vegas but doesn’t visit a club, do they ever really travel there at all? Cue the requisite trip to XS. Inside blasts ”Wonderwall” by Oasis. Katy Perry. Then…Bon Jovi?! Where’s all the untz-untz and sticky floors? One man, twice as old as everyone else, gyrates in his Ferrari bomber jacket and sunglasses. He’s the truest example of Las Vegas I’ve seen yet—unbridled enthusiasm colored with a complete lack of shame.
Nightclub number two, Surrender, has succumbed to the holiday spirit with snowflakes dangling above poles encircled by women who look like they should ask Santa for some more clothes for Christmas.
Hours 62 through 66
Back to Tableau for brunch. The duck hash and Spanish omelette are so good we almost stay for a second round. But that would be…excessive.
Three days are up, and the outside world awaits. By my count I toured Morocco, Turkey, Italy and Japan—not to mention Picasso’s trippy psyche. But the postcard I mail at reception depicts only a familiar skyline and one simple phrase: Las Vegas.