This town thrives on tourism. After 9/11, the whole darn city nearly went bankrupt. But they came back, those gambling happy tourists, driving in from Southern California, which constitutes 25% of our annual tourism. The road from LA to Vegas is jammed on Friday nights, and from a plane as you fly in, it looks like a long string of Christmas tree lights, white and red, BMWs braking all the way from Burbank.
Not too long ago, the Las Vegas Review Journal ran a story that claimed our town was the 4th most stressed out city in the country. We beat LA and New York.
After driving down the Strip today on my way to lunch at Commander's Palace, it hit me why this town is so stressed out. Tourists. We have to please them so they keep coming back. So the service in the casinos needs to be top notch. We have to keep serving great food, so restaurants come and go up and down Las Vegas Blvd., failing to keep up with the diverse and fickle people who come to our city. But that's only part of the reason why it's so stressful here. Ask any local and they will tell you the thing that gets them the most about this town is the drivers. And who do they blame? People from Southern California.
I had a minor nervous breakdown stalled on the Strip because the cars in the far right lane, (and I kid you not) all with California plates, had no intention of turning right, despite the fact that four different signs, strategically posted about 30 feet apart at each entrance to a parking lot or side street, read plainly: RIGHT LANE MUST TURN RIGHT.
The reason for this is that the right lane ends just before Harmon and LVB. Ignoring the "Turn Right" signs, the Californians stayed put where they were, crawling along, not wondering why the vehicle three cars ahead was forcing itself into the lane just to its left, or why this pattern continued with the car behind that one, and the one behind that one and so on.
One person from California, in an oversized SUV -- they were all oversized SUVs, except for the token BMW now and then -- decided that the way to get in front of our little car was to simply come on over. My husband broke fast and on she came, a petite lady with California plates who didn't so much as wave, nod, or even give us the finger. The road belonged to her. She's very important, probably. Maybe an agent -- oh wait, if she was that important she might have flown. No, she was just rude.
I didn't plan on having any wine at lunch, but both Roger and I sat down took one look at the waiter and said, "Cabernet, now please." We added the please because after all, we didn't want to be rude.
