Day 4: Feelin' Hop Hop Hop

Today, we sleep in. Hallelujah.

That Thursday morning is mild and sunny, and we do not plan on having breakfast at the Paris today. Instead, we get into a taxi and tell the driver, “Please take us to IHOP.”

According to the cabbie's photo and name, I guess that he is Turkish. In thickly accented English, he says to us, “Which I hhhop?”

Geez. How many non-tourists take taxis off the Vegas strip? How are we supposed to know where we're going? “I don’t know, just take us to the closest one. This is your city.”

Not so under his breath, he mutters, "This is not my city," but starts driving anyway.

I have never been to the International House of Pancakes, and neither has Sandy. We’ve been teased by IHOP commercials for years, and decide that we too must partake in stacks of doughy, syrupy goodness.

“I do not see an I hhhop.”

Apparently, if there are any IHOPs in the greater Las Vegas area, they are unplottable to our driver. Instead of our luscious pancake breakfast, we spend the better part of 30 minutes in the taxi, listening to the cabbie blather endlessly in Turkish on his cell phone, “Bla bla bla bla bla bla I hhhop bla bla bla bla…”

We take the hint, and ask him instead to drop us off at the Fashion Show Mall. Oli, my Vegas connection, has told me that I just HAD to go to the Fashion Show Mall, and that’s exactly what Sandy and I did. For 15 minutes. The day was getting gorgeous; would you want to be stuck inside a mall?

Across the street from the Fashion Show Mall is the Wynn Las Vegas, the Strip’s newest innovation, and the most luxurious. The theme is, "Life Imitating Art," and the building itself is indeed a masterpiece. Inside it is chandeliers and dark wood paneling on soft fabric hues, and nothing but high-end boutiques: Cartier, Chanel, Manolo Blahnik. Outside there is a waterfall ending into a large pond, with nomadic statues rising from it.

Five-star charm. I’d seen a deal for the Wynn a few weeks before we’d booked our trip, a package with a beyond reasonable price tag for this deluxe resort. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, lucky in nature and not to be missed.

I did miss it, but didn’t feel so bad when at the Wynn that day, Sandy turned to me and said, “Cheech, I’m glad we didn’t stay here. It’s not a fun place.”

No arguments. Luxury is often at the sacrifice of ease, after all, how often does the Queen look relaxed when she’s eating an amuse bouche? The Wynn was upscale, it was stunning, but it was far from laid back or fun in the typical Me & Sandy way.

Not to say that we can’t have fun wherever we are, he and I. Denied both our Paris and IHOP breakfast we settled at “Sugar and Ice,” a gorgeous little café in the Wynn esplanade that overlooked the waterfall. We shared a latte, and two scoops of gelato. I chose the toasted coconut flavour, and Sandy picked lemon tart. Breakfast becomes littered with tart jokes.

More hotel hopping. Treasure Island was close by, so we headed there next. Yargh! Pirate ships, eye patches, gold doubloons. No Captain Jack Sparrow or Will Turner, though. Pity.

Beside the Treasure Island is the Mirage, your local oasis in this ocean of plenty. What it held inside was more than plenty, at least if you’re a Beatles fan. Cirque de Soleil’s Love had just opened, and the hotel was littered with Fab Four frenzy. The shops had all kinds of Beatles paraphernalia, including an original guitar signed by the entire band, and even a new Revolution bar. Sandy and I took pictures of each other next to its gigantic pink lights.

A couple of hours have passed since our ice cream and coffee, and dessert does not a stomach settle. Besides, we’re craving Mexican.