When in Reno

I recently spent a little bit of time in casinos near Reno, Nevada, and I think it's safe to say that no one should ever spend time in casinos in Reno. If ever you wanted to stir up some populist rage about poor folk scamming the system; you should probably take a trip to Reno. Reno, the biggest little city in the world. My new motto would be: Reno, the place where old white people come to play slots with their oxygen tank.

There is something decidedly strange about a casino at 5 A.M. that is not accidental. When I arrived in Reno at 1 A.M. (four A.M. EST) I got on a bus to my hotel and chatted with the driver.

Driver: You're from DC huh?

M: Yep.

Driver: I've tried to go to the Washington Monument a couple of times, but I never could make it up. Of course, I shouldn't be surprised, they can't get anything done in that town anyway.

Welcome back to Reno/Northern CA where the liberals are scarce and the topography is beautiful. The driver and I kicked back some ideas about things to do in Washington, though he seemed intent upon telling me about his misadventures with the Washington Monument.

On the drive up to the cabin I watched fractured sunlight fall on snow capped peaks. As we all know, the mountain air smells a bit cleaner as a result of being, well cleaner.

When I checked in to the casino/hotel that night I walked around the bottom floor for a while, trying to find the check-in. I avoided asking the short-skirted steely eyed waitresses carrying trays of drinks through the smoke filled rooms to geriatrics plugging away at quarter slots, women, who looked like if they'd been given a chance would as soon knife you as give you a drink. (Later on in the weekend we actually saw a good looking casino drink lady and had a spirited discussion about her ages. The guesses ranged from 28 to about 37, which should give you a clue about the amount of make-up that is pretty much the standard in South Lake. And, in part due to good judgement, we didn't put money on her age and ask her outright as I suggested on at least two occasions. Even in Reno, some things are still considered uncouth).

The casino is designed to disorient you. It took me at least ten minutes to figure out which way to go. The lady at the counter listened to my tale of hardship and woe with the sort of smile I hadn't expected to see.

L: Oh, that sounds terrible. It's four A.M. for you. We'll get you right up to bed.

I almost asked her if she wanted to be my mother but I think our ages were too close. Behind me a blond guy, red enough in the face to be at least partially drunk and his sweating girlfriend waited impatiently for Lord only knows what. In my room, I came across two queen-sized beds, perfect for a person sleeping alone. I walked into the bathroom and palmed the shampoo and conditioner. (Upon my arrival home I proudly announced my theft to my spouse, who informed me that such "theft" is not in fact theft, but a perk of staying in the hotel room. My childhood did not involve a lot of vacations or fancy Reno hotel rooms, so the concept of free shampoo and conditioner still eludes me).

I was too tired to put the do not disturb sign on the door or maybe timid. I have a habit of strange timidity when it comes to things like that. I regretted this decision when at 9 A.M. the next morning a woman with a Spanish accent asked if anyone was in the room, and I made what I hoped were convincing just being awoken noises. I believe I may have said something like "What?" in the sort of parched voice that most people associate with the morning after benders to connote the degree to which I was confused about the intrusion. I've no earthly clue what it's like to work at a job where you routinely walk into a room where other people are sleeping. Sleeping, it would seem to me, is deeply private, which is why it's so interesting to watch people sleep on a plane, watch their faces go slack and drool, and regardless of the degree of the attractiveness of the person sleeping they tend to look sort of foolish, probably due to the whole sitting up without leg room. The exception to the rule is obviously babies or very small children, who have a tendency to look angelic even in the strict confines of a plane. I've put the age at which a child ceases to be cute sleeping on a plane somewhere between seven and 10.