Dragons in front of Mandalay Bay

The entrance to the Luxor

Mr. and Mrs. Tesmer, who moved to Vegas to retire, aren't gamblers; they are, however, splendid hosts. Sunday morning, in addition to feeding us a delicious breakfast (Scott's Dad enthusiastically shared with us his new creation: egg and cheese sandwiches on flatbread), they regaled us with stories of their experiences in the area, and discussed the optimal route for our tour of the strip.

Scott's Mom suggested some of the more noteworthy casinos' displays, though she admitted that the one eventually ceases to be awed by the most commonly used techniques. After about the fourth ceiling painted to look like the sky, she said, you start comparing and contrasting: "This one has nicer looking clouds, but the orange in the sunset isn't quite as vivid..."

Scott's Dad, who enjoys the region for its deserts, fossils, and ghost towns, told us about some of his excursions (he carries a large walking stick with him, to bat away rattlesnakes that cross his path). He also gave Patrick and me each an Apache Tear, and a whole bunch of other cool rocks later in our stay (a crystal point, rose quartz, a fossilized plant, petrified wood, and more).

Begrudgingly, Scott then took us on a tour of Vegas.

The doubly accurate Frontier marquee

We started by visiting Mandalay Bay, where I pointed out to Patrick any windows we encountered. (In previous conversations, he had explained at length - as Patrick is prone to do - about the complete absence of windows in casinos, so as to prevent patrons from noticing that it's time to go home and stop losing money.) Right next door was the Luxor, where Scott adopted some kind of rude pose (I think he was picking his nose?) when I tried to photograph him and Patrick in front of the Egyptian decor. Unfortunately, low light conditions made for a long exposure, and his hand turned out merely as a blur.

On our way out, we drove past the guardian-like statues of creatures in front of Mandalay Bay, thereby allowing us to observe conclusively that they are indeed much more dragon-like (as I had argued) than pegasus-like (as Scott had argued).

Next, we drove down the strip to the far end, if a bit slowly due to traffic. It gave me a chance, though, to scoot back and forth across the back seat, viewing and photographing the extravagance. Patrick also enjoyed the spectacle, when he wasn't busy commiserating with Scott about how awful it must be, to live in a city with so many unclothed (or virtually unclothed) women.

At the Hilton, our next stop, we wandered the casino for a bit, admiring various Federation and Klingon star ships, and pausing at the Borg cubby to recharge. Or to do pike holds. We then enjoyed a light repast at Quark's, where we ordered the three non-alcoholic drinks on the menu: Phaser Fire, Frozen Hirogen, and Data's Day. For our appetizer, we shared an order of the Holy Rings of Betazed. The thematic name apparently caused Patrick some angst, since he commented later that it's a bad idea to associate onion rings with sex.

Somehow, I didn't have that problem. My tribble was also very tasty, by the way.

Patrick photographs starships at the Hilton

Patrick tries to incite the Gorn captain

Other highlights of our dining experience included Patrick's attempt to capture in a single photo all of the star ships hanging from the ceiling above us (which required him to sprawl on the floor beside our table), and our chipper waiter who regaled us with all his scientific knowledge. After answering my question about the billing for the "4-D" Borg show, he carefully explained to me that the real fourth dimension is time. Then he offered a succinct but unsatisfying explanation of how a warp drive works.

After dinner, Patrick tried to pick a fight with the Gorn captain on our way out (who, fortunately for Patrick, was inanimate). Then we headed back to the central part of the strip, taking the scenic route (i.e., at one point, we accidentally ended up on a highway).

From the roof of the Bellagio parking garage, we took in the spectacle of Vegas at night, while Scott went on a rant about how infuriating it is that everyone who visits wants to be shown around the casinos. We think he was joking.

After touring the displays inside the Bellagio, we snagged a prime spot from which to watch the dancing fountains out front. We stayed for three songs: "My Heart Will Go On," "Your Song," and a lovely classical piece. Appropriately, the quality of the performance improved with each successive song.

Our walking tour then continued through Caesar's Palace, the Venetian, and Paris. By now, it was well into the evening, so many of the performance-type stuff and little shops were closed. Finally, we returned to the car and drove to the actual downtown Vegas (of which the strip is not a part). There, Scott merely dropped Patrick and me off at one end, so we could walk through and meet him at the other side.

At this point, Scott and Patrick claimed exhaustion, though Patrick might just have been eager to leave before he finally cracked and ruined his streak of not gambling, which he'd maintained all day and began touting as soon as we headed back to the Tesmers.

There, we ended the day by playing a video game for a few hours which involved fighter planes. It was rather different from anything on the Atari systems (the only video games I've ever played more than once or twice), and I never did manage to shoot down anyone else's plane. I did, however, figure out how to do a variety of aerial acrobatic maneuvers, making it nearly as hard for anyone else to shoot me down as it was for me to figure out how to shoot them.

Left: Caesar's Palace fountain and faux sky
Above: Patrick's triumph: being able to pass this sign of his own volition
Right: Only in Vegas

After doing our best to polish off another fantastic Tesmer breakfast, Scott, Patrick and I spent the day throwing dice and betting . . . on the abundance of various natural resources in the land of Catan, that is. Yes, like most great social gatherings, this one included many hours of board gaming. Particularly entertaining were the poisonous glances and muttered threats that Scott directed toward Patrick, interspersed between his loud assurances that of course he wasn't holding a grudge from when Patrick had put the thief on one of Scott's largest producers.

As the afternoon waned, it came time to finish off that whole "road trip to California" thing, so Patrick and I bid farewell to the Tesmer clan and set off for the last leg of our journey. When we crossed into California, we concluded the trip much as we'd started it: by failing to capture on memory card the state's welcome sign. To be fair, though, it wasn't quite as dramatic as the Iowa deficiency. Low light conditions do make it harder to get the digital camera to behave, and Patrick, in addition to focusing, did take a picture, as well. The welcome sign just didn't happen to quite make it into the frame.

Welcome to California

Not long after entering California, as we drove through long stretches of uninhabited desert, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to fill up the gas tank. Although the needle was still a few millimeters above the red zone, I figured it would be better to play it safe.

Awhile later, when we finally saw a sign for an exit with the little gas logo, we got off there. As we neared the end of the exit ramp, I asked, "So which way is the gas station?"

"It used to be right there," Patrick said, pointing at the abandoned canopy, looking all the more forlorn in the fading twilight, with not another building in sight.

As we got back onto the highway, I recalled hearing about how a few years back, California passed some exceeding stringent laws governing the underground storage tanks for gas stations. The requirements were so strict that only large chains could afford to make the changes; smaller, locally owned stations wouldn't be able to meet the new standard. So on the day the law took effect, all of the non-corporate gas stations in the state shut down, leaving hundreds of abandoned gas stations and long stretches of highway without anywhere to refuel.

We didn't have to panic yet, though. After all, we weren't that low on gas, and the purple car's warning light goes on, there's still another gallon left in the tank (meaning at least 30 miles, bare minimum, before the purple car stops running). I wasn't entirely reassured.

After nearly another hour of driving through gas station-free desert (and passing an exit that used to have some kind of services, but now sports only an empty sign), the gas light went on . . . right after we sighted an exit ahead that looked marginally inhabited. And where there are fast food places, there ought to be gas stations, right?

Fortunately, there were.

With the purple car's needle back up near the F, we continued on I-15 until it hits 210, which we took to the Hill Avenue exit. A few block south on Hill, we turned right onto Del Mar Boulevard, then made a left at the large sign reading "California Institute of Technology."