There was another distraction at check-in that contributed to me not paying enough attention to the brunette in pastel-green high heels: I got upgraded to a suite.
Thank you very, very much, Vanessa, check-in lady. She explained it was because I was only staying one night…I didn’t quite follow the logic but so be it.
Big enough to swing a number of cats in applied to the great expanse that met my eyes when I stumbled in with my holdall and rucksack.
After a shower, and with thoughts of the brunette in my mind, it felt like time to celebrate. I slipped a CD into the booming hi-fi system that came with the room, pulled from my holdall a bottle of tequila, and toasted the Flamingo Hotel.
But all good things must come to an end, as they say. A few hours later, out on the Strip, I was leaning against a road-side rail as Vegas life rushed by me while feeling in a bit of a daze (whether because of the tequila, a dodgy frozen margarita at dinner, hours accrued on the road, or a combination of all three, I’m not sure).
As I wandered around I found myself getting continually propositioned by attractive prostitutes of skin colors with more pigment than mine (it’s hard to know these days how to refer to those who aren’t white without offending someone in the language police).
It was a bit too much like being back in Addis Ababa. I could have done without it. I could have done with the brunette (or, I hasten to add, with a lady with more pigment in her skin than me who wasn’t trying to score a client).
As it was, and has often been the case, I returned to my hotel-bedroom-for-one…