by John Meadows
Las Vegas is an exciting, vibrant city which has become the entertainment capital of the world. However, my abiding memory of Las Vegas will always be one of disappointment and regret. If I really did have a time machine, I would travel back to rectify a big mistake in my life. I had the chance to see Elvis Presley live at the Hilton and, stupidly, I didn’t take it. When I got home to England the first thing my dad asked about my time in America was, “Did you manage to see Elvis?” The incredulous look he gave me when I shook my head still haunts me to this day.
Let me explain. Las Vegas in 1972 wasn’t the tourist-friendly city that it is today in the 21st Century. It was quite a dangerous place and we had been warned several times on our travels to keep our wits about us.
Richard and I had arrived mid-morning, and we left our bags in left-luggage at the bus station. We strolled around town to get our bearings and decided what to do that night before catching a 2am Greyhound to avoid hotel bills. We were intrigued and amused by many of the signs advertising an array of attractions and services. There were a bewildering number of chapels offering instant marriage ceremonies. It was all so casual and matter-of-fact, with signs on car parks instructing: ‘Marriages Park on the Left, Divorces on the Right’. The funniest was outside a bar in flashing neon: ‘Liquor at the front, Poker in the rear’.
We bought some food at a local supermarket, and spent the afternoon in a shady local park. Shady in more ways than one, but, unshaven and dusty, Richard and I were bedraggled enough to blend in with the park’s local inhabitants. At dusk we made our way back to the bus station to get changed for a night out in Las Vegas. I was part-way through a shave when the washroom door burst open and in walked an armed police officer. Richard and I were initially startled but then felt reassured that the local police were keeping an eye on things. Then it slowly dawned on us that it was us that he was checking on.
“So where are you guys heading?” he asked, night-stick (truncheon) in hand.
“We are going to try our luck in a couple of casinos,” I answered trying to act nonchalantly while continuing to shave. Then came the inevitable.
“Hey, you’re from England?”
The officer seemed to soften his stance as we explained that we had been working at a summer camp and we were travelling by Greyhound bus around America. He asked to see our bus tickets to confirm our story.
“Okay, that’s fine.”
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“No, it’s just that you guys seemed to be spending a lot of time hanging out near the bus station, so I decided to check you out. Have a nice day.”
Our next visitors were three local characters who I guessed were in their twenties. They asked us what the police had wanted, and after ‘Hey, you guys are from England?’ they engaged us in conversation. We told them that we were going to play roulette in a couple of casinos, while again stressing that we were impecunious students. They told us that they had been to see Elvis in concert the previous evening and, if we were interested, they would be able to get us in. Apparently, one of them worked at the Hilton Hotel and could use his contacts, but I must have looked slightly dubious as I continued shaving. I clenched my fist instinctively as he put his hand inside his jacket, but was relieved when he took out the ticket-stub from the show. I was willing to trust them but unfortunately Richard was less enthusiastic, not being a fan of Elvis (a character trait I could never understand). Furthermore, we felt that we couldn’t spend a night in Las Vegas without experiencing the casinos. For us to split-up for the evening was certainly not a safe option, so I allowed myself to be persuaded. We had a great night and actually won some money, but in hindsight it was of little consolation. Looking back I probably thought that I would always be able to return at some time or other and finally get to see Elvis. How was I to know that he was going to die five years later? I remember hearing the news on the radio in August 1977 as I was going out to work; I was a teacher in Sydney (Australia that is, as opposed to Sydney, Montana).
Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has levitated the Building
I think I had better give my capacitor a good flux and re-join my school trip. In the 1970s even the thought of taking a school trip to Las Vegas would have been insane, but what a transformation thirty years later. No longer did anyone say ‘Hey, you’re from England?’; British accents could be heard everywhere.
I finally got to see Elvis Presley, even if by then he was a ghost. He was hovering in the air while wearing a rhinestone-encrusted white ‘onesie’. Was I hallucinating? Was my subconscious mind compensating me after all those years of disappointment over not seeing Elvis live in concert? Actually no... I was witnessing a wedding. It was at the Graceland Wedding Chapel, complete with a drive-thru altar. A young couple in a pink Cadillac were being married by Elvis, who was floating above them as an angel while conducting the service (I assure you I am not making this up). He had white tissue-paper wings which looked as though they had been borrowed from a Primary School Nativity play. It was so fascinating that we couldn’t help but gravitate towards them. Elvis just levitated. Then Elvis left the building... ascending vertically.
The marriage was perfectly legal and above board (even the dashboard). The wedding business is the second biggest industry in Las Vegas after, of course, gambling. There are over 300 weddings per day. Actually, it is an urban myth that you can just meet someone in Las Vegas, turn up at a chapel, and get married there and then. You need a marriage licence from Clark County Court House, which just happens to be open every day and will issue a licence on the spot. So there we have it. At least Las Vegas is trying to maintain some sense of tradition and decorum!
It seems ridiculous to refer to the Fremont Street area as the ‘old town’ but, in effect, that is what it has become. The area went into decline as the ‘Strip’ was developed, but fortunately it was revitalized while retaining its character. My old friend, the Cowboy at the Horseshoe, was still there, waving his arm as if to welcome me back. These days he is overlooking a pedestrian mall which is covered by a vast canopy roof of 12 million LED crystal lights. Spectacular sound and light shows are now a regular attraction.
There is a genre of 18th Century Italian painting called ‘Capriccio’. These comprised composite views of buildings, most real, some imaginary, to create a romantic, idealised fantasy scene. Buildings were moved around, often from different cities and countries. A notable example is the 1795 painting by William Marlow of London’s ‘St. Paul’s Cathedral set on the Grand Canal in Venice’. Las Vegas today is a real-life Capriccio. The Eiffel Tower shares a city-scape with the Statue of Liberty. This is not quite as incongruous as it sounds since the real Eiffel Tower in Paris is near to a replica of the Statue of Liberty. As we walked along Las Vegas Boulevard South (to give ‘The Strip’ its correct name), I couldn’t help regretting all the time and money that I had wasted travelling to see many of the world’s greatest historical places like Tutankhamun’s Tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, Pagodas in China, Statues in Rome or the Doge’s Palace in Venice. I should have just gone to Las Vegas instead and got them all on one photograph!
The popularity of Las Vegas is such that it has many of the largest hotels in the world, and more than twice as many hotel rooms as New York. It is the undisputed entertainment capital of the world, and it has now out-stripped New York’s Madison Square Garden as boxing’s premiere venue. The character of Las Vegas is exemplified by the Rat Pack: Sammy Davis Jnr, Dean Martin, with Frank Sinatra as ‘chairman of the board’. Elvis Presley is the epitome of the city, even though Liberace’s dress-sense and showmanship made Elvis seem subtle and understated.
Gambling remains far and away the number one attraction. Here is an interesting thought as we leave Las Vegas: All the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666, ‘the number of the beast’ as identified in the Book of Revelations. It is the number that Damian had tattooed on his scalp in ‘The Om
en’. Moreover, Nevada became a U.S. State in 1964... on Halloween. ‘Viva Las Vegas’ has been adopted almost as a city anthem. Perhaps it should be changed instead to another Elvis song: ‘(You’re the) Devil in Disguise’.
About thirty miles southeast of Las Vegas is the colossal Hoover Dam, a massive curved concrete wall which has created Lake Mead on the Colorado River. Las Vegas would not exist in its present form without the Hoover Dam, which generates the hydro-electric power for the famous lights. In 1972, Richard and I crossed the dam on the Greyhound bus, but thirty years later on our school trip commercial vehicles were banned because of the threat of terrorism. That’s how far the human race has progressed.
Friends in Low Places
Flagstaff gets its name, literally, from a flagpole. On July 4th 1876, the centenary of the Declaration of Independence, a scouting party stopped at a tiny desert settlement. They decided to commemorate this historic event by cutting down one of the local Ponderosa pine trees to make a flagstaff, followed by a flag-raising ceremony. Apart from being mentioned in the lyrics of the famous song ‘Route 66’, another claim to fame is that the dwarf planet Pluto was discovered from the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff.
Richard and I took a bus to the south rim and bought some overnight provisions at a small supermarket. We set off down the Bright Angel Trail to Indian Garden, where we would sleep overnight under the stars. There are some breath-taking sights to behold around the world, but none more awe-inspiring than the view across the Grand Canyon. It is 270 miles long, up to 18 miles wide and 1 mile deep, and yet, surprisingly, it is not the longest, widest or deepest on earth. It is impossible to compile a definitive list because they vary depending on whose measurements you read. Peru claims the deepest, Australia the widest, and either Namibia or China the biggest, but there can be no doubt as to which is the greatest. The Grand Canyon combines all the dimensions to create the unbelievable view which Richard and I gazed at open-mouthed. Even though it is one of the world’s greatest natural creations, familiar to us from magazines and television programmes, it still comes as a heart-thumping, eye-rubbing shock which almost defies description. So, goodness knows how Spaniard Garcia Lopez de Cardenas felt when he arrived at the canyon in 1540. There has been human occupation in the area for 12,000 years, and he is recorded as the first European to arrive there. I wonder how he described it when he went back home to Spain? No doubt there would have been a few guffaws and disbelieving smirks as he attempted to describe something beyond European experience. The gigantic gash in the Earth that we call the Grand Canyon has been carved over a period of six million years by the Colorado River, wind erosion, and flash floods cascading down. The layers of limestone, sandstone and shale provide us with a stunningly beautiful two billion-year time-line of geological history which is almost half the age of the Earth itself. The colour spectrum could not be more harmonious if it had been designed by an artist. The colours, hues and shades change with the light of the rising or setting sun, like the stained glass windows of a cathedral. In the Grand Canyon, the reds, oranges, ochres and umbers at sunset almost glow as if looking through stained glass.
By the time Richard and I had hiked to the bottom of the Canyon, we were barely able to stay awake. We lay on top of our sleeping bags and had something to eat, and, even though it was only about six o’clock, we both fell asleep as suddenly as if we had been drugged. The next thing I knew was that I was awakened, mainly by the cold, but also by a feeling of scurrying on my chest. I thought I was having heart palpitations and, through a semi-conscious haze, I even experienced blurred visions of Minichello stalking me with some evil pet. Whatever it was ran away as I stirred. I turned onto my side to see Richard still in a deep sleep, but it was like a scene from a Disney cartoon; a chipmunk was sitting on his head with three others sitting along his legs and body. I shooed them away and they ran playfully into the scrub. Neither of us became fully awake as we wearily climbed into our sleeping bags. We must have slept for a full twelve hours, only to be woken up by the brightness of the sun. We had breakfast and laughed about our night visitors and it was only then that we thought about other creatures such as rattlesnakes, coyotes, and spiders. We hadn’t checked about the indigenous fauna. Perhaps it was better not to know.
Papillon
As we sat there I looked up at the dome of uninterrupted blue sky, only for our tranquillity to be shattered by a helicopter flying through the canyon. I wondered who was aboard and what a fantastic experience it must be. Then I realized that it was me. My flux capacitor had transported me once again into the 21st Century. As part of the school trip we had booked flights with Papillon Grand Canyon Helicopters. It was incredible having such a close view of the Canyon walls, and, for a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of two familiar-looking hikers sitting on sleeping bags below us.
I read somewhere that the Grand Canyon gets deeper every year by a couple of millimetres. A rough calculation would make a difference of about ten centimetres between visits, but I have to be honest, after careful scrutiny, I couldn’t tell. We have seen some memorable sights on our school trips around the world: Madrid, Paris, Amsterdam, the Great Wall of China, Red Square in Moscow, or St. Mark’s Square in Venice. None has caused such a loud gasp of amazement from the children on the coach as our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon.
Once everyone had finished their helicopter flights, one of our ‘Pretty Woman’ girls, Lindsey, showed her entrepreneurial skills at the heliport. Everyone had had photos taken by the resident photographer. It is the kind of thing they do when passengers are embarking on a cruise or when screaming on a theme park log-flume. The pictures were on display in the foyer, presented alongside a souvenir certificate. However, the prices were exorbitant, aimed at the affluent American tourist rather than English students on a budget-price school holiday. The photographer seemed somewhat taken aback when everybody in our party declined to buy one, and he even started to follow us to the coach, haggling like an Egyptian street-trader. He looked increasingly desperate as we boarded our bus, and Lindsey turned around and went back to speak to him. She boarded the bus and asked if we could just wait a couple of minutes. The four girls then did a quick survey of all the children and staff of how much we would be willing to pay for a souvenir photo and certificate. The answer was of course a fraction of the price. She went back to the heliport and we were fascinated watching the body language through the plate glass front window. There was much gesticulating of arms, shaking of heads, and shrugging of shoulders. It was only when Lindsey started to walk away and then turned as she was called back by the photographer that we felt that the negotiations were coming to an end. Finally, they shook hands and Lindsey walked proudly towards us, smiling broadly clutching a pile of photographs. She then distributed them to everyone, including the staff, who gave her a spontaneous round of applause. Of course, she added on a percentage profit for herself. She had told him her price and would not budge. The photos were of no use to anyone else. He either sold them to her or was left with nothing. Not bad for a 16 year old schoolgirl. She was a very bright girl who went on to study medicine at University. She will have been working as a doctor for a few years by now, and I keep expecting to hear that she has been put in charge of the NHS budget.
Driving through Arizona, the traditional arts, crafts and cultures of the Apache and Navajo seemed to be everywhere. There were lots of small road-side markets, but we were on our way to Sedona, which our driver assured us had an extensive range of shops and galleries. Our guide gave us interesting background information. He told us that a famous Apache leader called Cochise had led constant raiding parties, and the Mexicans had tried in vain to capture or defeat him. He was a formidable, large muscular warrior who died in 1874. He had a younger contemporary named Goyaale, who we remember today as Geronimo. He was given this name by the Mexicans after Saint Jerome because it was often the last words of dying Mexicans killed by Goyaale. Troops charging into battle would ofte
n shout Geronimo as an expression of courage. This is why parachutists shout ‘Geronimo’ when jumping out of an aeroplane (more of which in the next chapter).
A Fist Full of Dollars
The approach to Sedona was like travelling through a real-life landscape of a ‘Road Runner’ cartoon with giant cacti everywhere. It was as if we were on the set of a Clint Eastwood ‘Spaghetti’ Western. Incidentally, this description is a misnomer since those movies weren’t actually made in Italy, but Spain. Perhaps they should be called ‘Paella’ Westerns, or, since we were on a trip from Wigan, ‘Pie-ella’ Westerns.
The Arizona temperature was searingly hot, which blasted us similar to opening the pottery kiln door in the art room at the end of an overnight firing. In Sedona there were numerous gift shops which offered the sanctuary of air-conditioning, and we wandered into one at the edge of a small modern mall, which was built to replicate the adobe structures of the Navajo. Janette and I were accompanied by a group of our year ten art students and everyone let out an audible sigh of pleasure as we walked into the ecstatic relief of the cool air. We gravitated towards the ultimate cool spot like ghost hunters in a haunted house, and we gathered in a huddled group competing for the optimum place to stand. I looked over towards the sales counter and noticed that we were being observed with some amusement by the proprietor. He had a face the colour and complexion of beaten copper, with wrinkles reminiscent of the pattern and texture of a dried-up Arizona River. He had long grey hair hanging like a curtain from under his straw cowboy hat, a substantial drooping moustache speckled with grey and matching tangled eyebrows. His facial hair was completed by a narrow vertical strip of grey from the centre of his bottom lip to the dimple in his chin. It wasn’t so much a beard, more a Brazilian. He had beads around his hat, neck and wrists, and he wore an embroidered waistcoat over a printed tunic. His blue jeans were held up by a carved leather belt which had a silver buckle, about the size of a manhole cover, which took the form of a Navajo chief wearing a full head-dress of feathers. The storekeeper’s ensemble was completed by a pair of carved-leather cowboy boots, worn outside his jeans. It was difficult to guess his age, which could have been anything from fifty up to being old enough to have been an original member of ‘Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show’. The creases on his face radiated from his eyes, which indicated a lifetime of laughter, and the twinkle in his brown eyes added to this initial impression.