We scramble up to Calico Tanks, one of David's favorite respites ― and a unique juxtaposition. Standing among 150-million-year-old rock, touching the earth in its purest form, I can see, looking at a distant Emerald City, the exact antithesis: a 6-mile stretch of nothing but stuff, spanning from the Stratosphere to Mandalay Bay.
We're back by noon and head straight for Salt Lick for real-deal Texas barbecue: jalapeño-stuffed shrimp wrapped in applewood bacon and tender smoked brisket. Trying our best to save room for dinner, we hold back on the berry cobbler.
And then we hit the pool, the hotel's 3-acre centerpiece encircled by private cabanas and umbrella-shaded chaises. The scene is tamer than I'd imagined, with more gray-haired folks than bikini-clad 20-somethings. Next, I treat my desert-dehydrated skin to the "Crystal Caviar" facial. After an indulgent sequence of exfoliation, creams, masks, and wraps, I emerge glowing ― and ready for our next splurge, Robuchon.
Dining at Joël Robuchon's restaurant, for us, is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, with the full tasting menu priced at $360. So we savor each of the 16 courses, every sip of wine, and every pampered moment of the three-hour dinner. We treasure the over-the-top touches, from the dizzying choice of 14 kinds of fresh-baked levain to the truffled langoustine ravioli to the purple ribbon?tied napkin that appears upon return from each trip to the ladies' room. Only in Vegas.
Après dinner, we head over to the Mirage for Love, Las Vegas's latest Cirque du Soleil production. An acrobatic show unfolds, set to a remix of the Beatles' greatest hits. We silently sing along, awestruck by the tumbles and trapeze ― and then I, uh, nod off. Just briefly. It was late ... We had all that wine ― Raina nudges me. By the heartening "Love Is All You Need" finale, I'm revived.
Downstairs, we see a snaking line by a velvet rope. It's Jet, the hottest club on the Strip ― or so we'd heard. Enough with the good-night sleeps. We're in Vegas! The music is hypnotizing, as is the people-watching. We make it through two of the three sound rooms in the laser grid-lit space. But we can only handle so much. Around 3 a.m., we call it a night.
We wake way too late for the sunrise horseback ride we'd planned. "This must be how people normally do Vegas," I grumble, as we wander aimlessly around the MGM Grand. I slap five bucks down on the Wheel of Fortune ― and win five more! This is kinda fun, but I'm no fool and quit while I'm ahead.
And we rally. We leave the Strip for a drive through Lake Mead National Recreation Area to Valley of Fire State Park. An endless stretch of mind-boggling boulders erupts from the creosote bush. The red rock looks superimposed against the stormy sky. Terra-cotta sand seeps into our sneakers along the White Domes Trail. Eventually, we tear ourselves away.
Four days and 100 hours later, it's all over.
"Checking out just for the morning?" the valet asks, opening the car door. He sees my suitcase. "Or checking out forever?" he smiles.
I pause, unsure at first how to respond. "Actually. No. Not forever," I reply, laughing. "I'll be back."