We went to Las Vegas this past weekend because Rob's niece, Jessica, was getting married and we'd never been to Vegas. Everyone in Southern California has been to Vegas and pretty much everyone we know loves going there as often as possible. Rob and I have never really been tempted by Sin City -- we don't gamble, we don't drink and we don't have any weird sexual fantasies (OK I can only speak for myself on that last one, but as far as I know ...)
We'd been invited to this wedding early in the summer and Rob really wanted to go and see Jessica and I wanted to see Vegas. I had not foreseen at the time we made this decision that I would be unable to walk. Even when I knew about the surgery, even when the doctor said I'd be facing a long recovery, it really never added up. Even when I DID know how bad being semi-disabled was, I figured that Vegas was all man-made and the ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) would require everything to be accessible.
I figured we'd rent a scooter, which is expensive but worth it, and called ahead for one and asked for a special room with a bathroom for people with disabilities, which included a special shower bench (I have one for home BTW). It all seemed good. Of course, it wasn't.
First when we got to our hotel -- the Sahara -- we had to wait for more than 30 minutes by the bell station to even get the attention of the only guy who seemed able to rent the scooters. If you're on crutches, putting all your weight on a leg with a knee that has been diagnosed as beyond repair, you can't teeter there for too long.
After we got to our room we decided to go cruise around the Sahara grounds, after all neither of us has ever been in a casino. We got an elevator and I maneuvered the scooter into it. As we went down one guy got on with us -- but at the next floor the guy wouldn't get on, even through there was plenty of room. "He's afraid the cripple will rub off," I said to Rob, much to the amusement of the other guy in the elevator.
As the weekend progressed, we learned that elevators are a danger zone for people with disabilities. There was more than one occasion when we would be waiting and an elevator would come and everyone would run to it and shut the doors. leaving us there. I got progressively more aggressive about just scooting by/at people -- after all a scooter is going to hurt if you run into it.
I would say the world is divided into three parts. About a third of the people are really helpful and would make every effort to help. The other two-thirds either try to ignore the scooter or are openly hostile -- cutting me off
or blocking me.
Rob and I wandered around the casino, but we've never gambled, so we were a bit intimidated. No casino staff made any effort to help us out, even when we hovered by the roulette tables. I wondered if it had something to do with the superstitious nature of gamblers, who could tell at a glance that I'm not someone with very good luck. I wasn't sure we were being ignored until I saw the dealer dudes be all friendly and welcoming to other people who stood at the edge of the table. I did manage to lose $10 on a slot machine -- I won a couple of spins, but eventually lost it all.
We did go to the buffet, and while I could pick out what I wanted, it was impossible to carry a plate. What most people don't realize is that people who can't use their legs tend to have to use their hands to get around. If I'm on crutches, I have to use my hands to hold on, if I'm in a scooter I need my hands to make it move and to steer. It really didn't matter where I positioned myself, some people would make a Big Point of rudely reaching past me, even if the same stuff was directly in front of them. Another impossibility is doors. Big double glass doors are everywhere in Vegas and only a very few have buttons or sensors to open for people with disabilities. You can't get through them unless someone holds them open. This requires a lot of waiting, but it's also somehow demeaning. I can't go through a door when I want to, I have to wait for someone else to be kind enough to let me through.
I was getting increasingly uncomfortable with all of the limitations and the rude reactions of so many people. And while I'm more than grateful with the kindness of so many others, I'm not much for being the object of someone else's pity, so it's uncomfortable. I'm not a person who likes a lot of attention when I'm in public, and being disabled makes you the center of everyone's attention -- even if it's only for the freaky curiosity factor.
Rob and I found out that we would have to wait for a special taxi for the handicapped so we got ready to go over the the Mandalay Bay early and went down to the valet station at the Sahara. We ended up waiting about 45 minutes before a cab could be found that could take the scooter. I almost wiped out getting out because I had to back it down a ramp and I was having one of those Moments when I just couldn't figure out what I was doing. It was hysterical because I got more and more flustered and was about to kill myself by falling off the sides. I would go back and then jerk the steering. I'm not sure why. It was just a moment. Rob finally said DON'T move your arms, DON'T steer and I made it off.
We arrived in plenty of time for the wedding, which was really sweet. Jessica looked beautiful and is obviously in love. It was great to catch up with people we hadn't seen since her last wedding, especially for Rob who has a lot of history with everyone, this being his side of the family and all.
Then we went to the restaurant. We had reservations for 8 p.m. The restaurant is Mix, which is an Alain Ducasse restaurant and is really a lovely upscale place (see the picture above). We were waiting and waiting when I found out that the reason we were waiting was because the meal was going to be served in a small room at the top of a sweeping staircase in the middle of the restaurant. Jessica and her husband Daniel had begged and pleaded with restaurant staff to move us so I could just roll on in, but the restaurant staff was implacable. We were stuck with the room up the staircase. Screw ADA, screw even just being nice to cripples.
If there's one thing I really can't handle on crutches, it's stairs. It's a complicated balancing act that tends to propel me dangerously off-balance. A "sweeping staircase" was a nightmare for me. Rob just wanted to leave, but I didn't want to cause a scene and be rude to Jessica and Daniel. Of course going up the stairs, one torturous step at a time with people in front of me and behind me, right in the middle of the restaurant caused more than a scene. It was one of the most uncomfortable and humiliating experiences of my life. By the time I got to my place -- to much hand clapping *cringe* I was in tears. Of course it hit me then that I really needed to go to the bathroom. Sometimes life really sucks and not in a funny way.
Jessica and Daniel were mortified on my behalf and were hugely apologetic. But it wasn't their fault. The meal was amazing. The food was incredible and the service was professional, with an Alec Baldwin lookalike sommalier and the kind of waiters who fold your napkin if you leave the table. Unfortunately I was so upset that it took me a while before I was even able to eat. Fortunately I sat next to my son-in-law Ryan who is an eating machine -- one of those tall skinny guys who can just eat and eat and it doesn't seem to go anywhere. I was able to pass the food I couldn't eat to him much to his delight.
Part of my problem was the idea of facing the stairs going down. It's really really hard to go downstairs on crutches because you have to plant the crutches and bounce on one leg downward putting all your weight on your armpits. This action propels you forward and you don't really have much control. I really didn't want to be the floor show again, plus I was just plain terrified of being hurt again.
The setting was amazing with thousands of hand-blown glass balls of various sizes with mercury balls interspersed with lights in them. It was a beautiful, if strangely sterile and unwelcoming, place. It made me ever more sad to know that if I were walking normally, this would have been a delightful evening for us. After all, it's not every day you can go to a world-class restaurant on someone else's dime.
Rob, Ryan and I all had the beef tenderloin, which was served with amazing mashed potatoes, and some spinach-y, kale-y green. Lindsay had the salmon, which was also impressive, although I like my salmon a little rarer. The dessert was a candy bar mix, but the "candy bars" were little chocolate cakes with gold leaf and peanuts and a mound of sorbet, which was a lovely tart counterpoint to the rich chocolate. Lindsay, ever the rebel, had the baked Alaska, which had strawberries and was light and delightful.
The time came to go down the stairs and I was getting more and more worried with each passing moment. It was just as hard as I imagined, and my knew hurt worse than I imagined. By this time Mix, the nightclub, was hopping and packed with beautiful young people. Ryan and Lindsay had to run interference so I could get out. Then at the elevator people kept cutting me off when I tried to get on. I finally ended up yelling at a guy to get out of my way and ran over someone's foot.
We had to wait another half hour for a special taxi, but it was actually kind of fun because it was Halloween weekend and we got to watch all kinds of people in weird costumes. The Big Hit of the night was the slutty costume. Apparently slutty nurse, slutty babydoll or slutty slut are the de rigeur costumes for the many lovely young things who inhabit the Vegas night scene.
We finally got back to the hotel and to our room. Before we went to sleep, we looked at each other and vowed that as soon as we awoke, we were leaving. The morning after, we did just that. Leaving Las Vegas was never so sweet.
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