Las Vegas: Vegas with G

Late November. G and I flew to Vegas together for the first time since 2020. No conference. No event. No reason except we hadn't taken a trip that was just ours in a while, and Vegas was easy: direct flight from Miami, three hours, and the Palms Casino Resort had a rate that made sense.

The Palms for the third time now (2020, 2022, 2024), which at this point feels less like a hotel and more like a place we keep returning to. The Damien Hirst shark was still above the check-in desk. The art collection was still intact, which was the first thing I checked. We requested the same floor as my last solo trip. The west-facing rooms still do that dusty pink sunset thing over the Spring Mountains that doesn't photograph correctly no matter how good your phone is.

The difference between Vegas solo and Vegas with G is everything. Solo Vegas after a conference is decompression: pool, quiet meals, recharging. Vegas with G is dinners that last three hours, walking the Strip at midnight because neither of you is tired, splitting a bottle of wine at a bar and talking about everything that isn't work. We needed that. The back half of 2024 had been busy for both of us, conferences and clients and flights and late nights at laptops, and this was the first trip where neither of us had a schedule, a panel, a meeting, or a reason to set an alarm. The alarm clock in the room stayed unplugged for four days.

The first night we stayed at the hotel. Scotch 80 Prime, because you can't stay at the Palms and not. Same dark leather room, same whisky wall. I ordered the wagyu appetizer for the third time across three trips, because at this point it's tradition. It held up. G closed her eyes on the first bite, same as she did in 2020. I've learned that her closing her eyes means a dish has crossed a threshold that words don't cover. We split a bottle of something the sommelier picked, a Willamette Valley Pinot that was lighter than what I'd normally choose and better for it. Sat in the booth for two hours talking about the year. The good parts, the hard parts, the parts that were both. Those conversations happen easier at a steakhouse in Vegas than they do at home on a Tuesday. Neutral ground and good wine.

The next night we went downtown for dinner at Barry's Downtown Prime at Circa Resort, about a 15-minute Uber from the Palms. Barry's has done something most Vegas steakhouses don't manage: it's theatrical without being corny. Dark room, private booths, a cocktail program that's taken seriously, a raw bar along one wall. The wagyu tomahawk for two was absurd in the best way: enormous, perfectly seared, with a bone marrow butter that G ate directly off the bone with a spoon and zero regret. The Caesar salad was prepared tableside and the waiter turned it into a performance. G was entertained. I was hungry. Both needs were met.

After Barry's we walked Fremont Street, which is a completely different Vegas than the Strip. The overhead LED canopy runs five blocks with video displays set to music. Loud, weird, Olympic-level people-watching. Street performers, buskers, someone in a full Chewbacca costume collecting tips. We stood there for ten minutes and G said "this is the most American thing I've ever seen" with a mix of horror and affection that is the exact correct response to Fremont Street. We ducked into Oscar's Steakhouse at the Plaza Hotel for a drink because the second-floor bar overlooks Fremont and watching the chaos from above with a cocktail is better than being in the middle of it.

The middle days were pool, sleep, eat. One evening we walked the Strip itself, which we hadn't done in years. It's louder than I remembered. The new MSG Sphere is visible from almost everywhere now, a massive orb that displays video on its entire exterior surface. We stood outside it for a few minutes watching what appeared to be a giant eyeball rotating on the side of a building. Vegas keeps building things that shouldn't exist and then making them work through sheer force of will.

The Palms pool in late November is heated and mostly empty. We'd get down around 10, order from the pool bar by 11, and stay until the sun got low. One afternoon G fell asleep on the lounger for an hour while I read and drank a beer and didn't check my phone, which is a skill I'm actively developing. The pool has a view of the Spring Mountains over the low-rise west side of Vegas that doesn't look like anything you'd associate with a casino resort. Dry hills, open sky, a color palette that's entirely brown and blue.

One morning we drove out to Red Rock Canyon, about 25 minutes west. The 13-mile scenic loop winds through red sandstone formations that look carved on purpose. We pulled over at a few lookout points and did a short trail to a ridge. The silence out there, after days of casino noise and Strip energy, was almost physical. G took about 40 photos and kept saying "this doesn't look real." Everyone says that about Red Rock. Everyone is right.

On our last afternoon we sat at the pool with drinks and no plans and watched the desert sun drop behind the mountains. The sky went through its whole routine. G leaned over and said "we should do this more." She meant the trip. She meant the nothing. She meant the two of us without a calendar telling us where to be.

We should.