Day 4 1/2: To DIE For

Oli has been to Vegas 9 times. That’s right, 9 times. Naturally, before Sandy and I even set foot on the plane to come here, I asked her all sorts of advice on where to go, what to do, and where to eat.

She was happy to comply, even getting me the latest issue of Vegas magazine, and highlighting any points of interest. She wrote comments all over the margins, too.

There was this one restaurant in the Venetian she put a bunch of stars beside, it was called Taqueria Canonita, and apparently this place had the most AMAZING sangria, and guacamole to DIE for. That’s how Oli talks when something excites her.

So Sandy and I venture back to the Venetian and to Taqueria Canonita, where the hostess gives us two of the best seats in the house, beside the fake canal. The Venetian gondoliers are talented singers too, and every few minutes we take in some free opera.

When our waitress brings over some menus, the first thing on my mind is sangria. The first time I ever tried the stuff I was 15, and in Varadero, Cuba. Sun, sand, surf, sangria… as you can imagine, we’ve been great friends ever since. I scan the restaurant menu, figuring that a pitcher between the two of us is a good bet. Until…

“Ace?”

“Yeah Cheech?”

“When was the last time you saw a pitcher of sangria cost $30?”

“Never! At home, aren’t they around the…”

“… $16, $18 mark?”

“Uh, yeah!”

Not to whine, but geez, these Vegas prices are killing us. Can you justify paying that much for a pitcher of juice and wine? I get a glass of sangria that Sandy and I share, and he gets something called a Michelada, which we also share: a beer poured over ice and lime juice, on a salt rimmed glass.

For lunch, he gets the soft taco platter, and I get the chicken enchiladas. Not bad at all. We also have the tortillas and guacamole to start, but the guac didn’t make me want to roll over and die. In fact, I think mine tastes better.

Or I could just be a snob that way.

We head back to Caesar’s after lunch, only because I am on the prowl for new sunglasses. Actually, I’m on the prowl for interesting, decently priced stuff, period. While I have no sunglass luck, I deposit Sandy at the moving statues, and totally strike it lucky with a cute l’il white pea coat from Anthropologie. It’s one of my favourite stores that we don’t have at home, so I always make sure to check it out.

We putz around the Forum shops, and also go back to F.A.O. Schwartz and buy little paper airplanes that fly circles around you. Not exactly a frivolous purchase, but a fun one all the same.

Guess where we go after that? Back to the Venetian! My wonderful boyfriend knows I really want sunglasses, and tells me to check the boutique there one last time.

I’d looked at a nice tortoiseshell pair by Salt Optics during our first visit at the Venetian, right before having oxygen tubes shoved up our noses, but the salesman had ticked me off so much, I didn’t buy them. When he’d put them on me (they fit like a glove) then boasted how he’d been fitting glasses for 23 years, he walked right up to the cash and started ringing me up, without even asking.

How pompous, though. I told him I was still shopping around; just gotten to Vegas, after all. He looked at me point blank and said, “Girl, there is no shopping around. This is it.” And since I’m not keen on being bullied into purchases or being called Girl, I left the store without them.

A real shame, because these were the kind of sunglasses to absolutely DIE for, if you get my drift.

Well, I hadn’t seen a nice pair since, and if there’s one thing I hate more than being called Girl, it’s admitting a pushy salesperson is right. Luckily Mr. Thang wasn’t there, and the nice lady with the long red hair benefited from my commission.

We shop a little more, some souvenirs for our respective familias, and spend our last night in Vegas getting down and dirty in the hotel room, wowzers!

Actually, we walked. We walked, we talked, we took in the Vegas lights, and lots of pictures of them. We held hands, we kissed, we saw the Mirage fires, and a close-up of the Bellagio fountains as they danced out more Elvis tunes.

And, seeing as it had been hours since Taqueria Canonita, we did another repeat for that evening: a buffet, only at the Paris this time. It was 10:30, we were starving, nothing else serving edibles within decent walking distance was open, and we gave into our cravings.

Just like the day before we were good for the most part; proper servings of meats, fruits and vegetables. We would even have been proper for the dessert portion, if the divine Paris buffet didn’t have that delectable chocolate raspberry mouse, darling little petit fours, or those unbelievable little crème brules that we fed each other, giggling all the while.

Now that crème brule and associated experience, that was just to DIE for. And, as for what went on later in the privacy of room 2894, well, we’ll just have to keep that our little secret.

But that too, that was just to.... well, you know what I mean.