Travel Journal: Entry #6
30 May, 2000:
Viva Las Vegas, my arse.
This is the most vile, gaudy, tacky cesspit of a tourist trap I've ever seen before in my life, and Remus will never convince me those damned slot machines aren't charmed with some variation on a Siren Spell.
There is no peace here; it's all bright lights and bustling activity at all hours of the day and night. If I still suffered from my former insomnia, this might well be mecca, but as it is, the high energy of the place grates on my nerves, especially since I'm already tired from day after day of fast-paced travel. I want to go back to New Orleans, which is more quiet and restful and the very air doesn't feel like a jolt of adrenaline with every breath. I had far rather be in the desert I saw below us as we arrived; at least out there, I could escape the incessant clink of coins in metal trays, punctuated by the tinny alert that sounds every time a slot machine pays off. Surely the coyotes would be less predatory than the blank-faced zombies who shuffle from machine to machine or the human vultures who circle the tables in hopes of a winning streak.
Cymbeline loves looking at all the lights, however; Remus is standing at the window even now, holding her up and letting her see the gaudy glitter from our vantage point in our room. Thankfully, we will be leaving in the morning, heading to the west coast. At that point, we will have crossed from coast to coast with so much missed in-between. Still, on a whirlwind business trip like this, it's to be expected. Perhaps one day, when Cymbeline is older, we can return and travel at our own pace.
Speaking of travel, I read one of the Rice books, the one about the vampire, while Remus read the one about the witches on the flight to Las Vegas. Mine wasn't as wretched as it could have been, but Remus sniggered his way through his book, and he read a few passages aloud. Obviously, the woman is a complete Muggle with no understanding or knowledge of what real witchcraft and wizardry are about, not to mention she has a rather loose editorial hand in comparison to the book I read. To call her prose "purple" isn't quite lurid enough, and I told Remus if he ever began to write in such a hackneyed, over-blown style such as that, I would divorce him.
He pointed out that I can't divorce him, since we aren't legally married, but he'd heard our next destination had wedding chapels in abundance. Perhaps we could be married by an Elvis Presley impersonator, he suggested. I'd no idea who Elvis Presley is, but the mischief in his eyes made it clear it wasn't an idea I ought to agree to. He warmed to the subject, saying I could be the bride, since I looked so lovely in a corset, and if I didn't think I could wear white with a straight face, then perhaps we could find a red or even a black wedding dress for me.
I asked why he ought not be the bride, given his past as a member of a cross-dressing revue. His credentials were better than mine where drag was concerned, I said, but he insisted that he wanted to see me walk down the aisle, knowing my long legs were encased in garters and stockings and showcased by high heels. I refused, although it was on the grounds that I'd no intention of marrying him in a tacky tourist wedding chapel far from home rather than because I had qualms about appearing in public wearing a wedding dress of any color.
We share a home, a daughter and a mating bond, and we wear each other's rings. A ceremony with all the ritualistic trappings cannot make us more committed or more bonded than we already are, and I have no desire to make any public declarations of committment in front of friends, considering I don't have any. Well, considering I don't have many. Most who attended would be doing so for Remus' sake, not mine, and some of them would no doubt be thinking he had made a poor choice of partner anyway, thus I don't see the point.
That does not mean, however, that I'm not entertaining the notion of surprising Remus by dressing up in bridal regalia for him one night after Cymbeline is asleep and we have the house to ourselves.
At any rate, we both shoved the Rice books in the pockets on the back of the seats in front of us and conveniently forgot them when we disembarked.
Now Remus is being a cheeky bastard and asking if I want to go back to the casinos and try to lose some more money at the slot machines. He says if I play the nickel slots this time, I'll lose it more slowly, thus I can play longer. He also says I'm "adorable" when I pout, which is the only reason I haven't hexed him into the middle of next week yet.
That, and he's giving me the wolf eyes, asking if I'll massage his hand again. His fingers are aching, cramping up after another lengthy session of signing hundreds of inscriptions. I remembered to include a soothing oil in my bag of potions, one that will heat and heal on contact, and this won't be the first time I've used it during this trip. He's gone off to put Cymbeline to bed, which gives me a few minutes to wrap up this entry, fetch some hot water and mix in the oil so he can soak his hand before I massage it.
He says this trip is far better than any of the previous book signing tours he's been on, because I'm with him. He says it's because he has someone to share the experience with, but I think having someone to massage his fingers is part of it as well.
Viva Las Vegas, my arse.
This is the most vile, gaudy, tacky cesspit of a tourist trap I've ever seen before in my life, and Remus will never convince me those damned slot machines aren't charmed with some variation on a Siren Spell.
There is no peace here; it's all bright lights and bustling activity at all hours of the day and night. If I still suffered from my former insomnia, this might well be mecca, but as it is, the high energy of the place grates on my nerves, especially since I'm already tired from day after day of fast-paced travel. I want to go back to New Orleans, which is more quiet and restful and the very air doesn't feel like a jolt of adrenaline with every breath. I had far rather be in the desert I saw below us as we arrived; at least out there, I could escape the incessant clink of coins in metal trays, punctuated by the tinny alert that sounds every time a slot machine pays off. Surely the coyotes would be less predatory than the blank-faced zombies who shuffle from machine to machine or the human vultures who circle the tables in hopes of a winning streak.
Cymbeline loves looking at all the lights, however; Remus is standing at the window even now, holding her up and letting her see the gaudy glitter from our vantage point in our room. Thankfully, we will be leaving in the morning, heading to the west coast. At that point, we will have crossed from coast to coast with so much missed in-between. Still, on a whirlwind business trip like this, it's to be expected. Perhaps one day, when Cymbeline is older, we can return and travel at our own pace.
Speaking of travel, I read one of the Rice books, the one about the vampire, while Remus read the one about the witches on the flight to Las Vegas. Mine wasn't as wretched as it could have been, but Remus sniggered his way through his book, and he read a few passages aloud. Obviously, the woman is a complete Muggle with no understanding or knowledge of what real witchcraft and wizardry are about, not to mention she has a rather loose editorial hand in comparison to the book I read. To call her prose "purple" isn't quite lurid enough, and I told Remus if he ever began to write in such a hackneyed, over-blown style such as that, I would divorce him.
He pointed out that I can't divorce him, since we aren't legally married, but he'd heard our next destination had wedding chapels in abundance. Perhaps we could be married by an Elvis Presley impersonator, he suggested. I'd no idea who Elvis Presley is, but the mischief in his eyes made it clear it wasn't an idea I ought to agree to. He warmed to the subject, saying I could be the bride, since I looked so lovely in a corset, and if I didn't think I could wear white with a straight face, then perhaps we could find a red or even a black wedding dress for me.
I asked why he ought not be the bride, given his past as a member of a cross-dressing revue. His credentials were better than mine where drag was concerned, I said, but he insisted that he wanted to see me walk down the aisle, knowing my long legs were encased in garters and stockings and showcased by high heels. I refused, although it was on the grounds that I'd no intention of marrying him in a tacky tourist wedding chapel far from home rather than because I had qualms about appearing in public wearing a wedding dress of any color.
We share a home, a daughter and a mating bond, and we wear each other's rings. A ceremony with all the ritualistic trappings cannot make us more committed or more bonded than we already are, and I have no desire to make any public declarations of committment in front of friends, considering I don't have any. Well, considering I don't have many. Most who attended would be doing so for Remus' sake, not mine, and some of them would no doubt be thinking he had made a poor choice of partner anyway, thus I don't see the point.
That does not mean, however, that I'm not entertaining the notion of surprising Remus by dressing up in bridal regalia for him one night after Cymbeline is asleep and we have the house to ourselves.
At any rate, we both shoved the Rice books in the pockets on the back of the seats in front of us and conveniently forgot them when we disembarked.
Now Remus is being a cheeky bastard and asking if I want to go back to the casinos and try to lose some more money at the slot machines. He says if I play the nickel slots this time, I'll lose it more slowly, thus I can play longer. He also says I'm "adorable" when I pout, which is the only reason I haven't hexed him into the middle of next week yet.
That, and he's giving me the wolf eyes, asking if I'll massage his hand again. His fingers are aching, cramping up after another lengthy session of signing hundreds of inscriptions. I remembered to include a soothing oil in my bag of potions, one that will heat and heal on contact, and this won't be the first time I've used it during this trip. He's gone off to put Cymbeline to bed, which gives me a few minutes to wrap up this entry, fetch some hot water and mix in the oil so he can soak his hand before I massage it.
He says this trip is far better than any of the previous book signing tours he's been on, because I'm with him. He says it's because he has someone to share the experience with, but I think having someone to massage his fingers is part of it as well.