Thirty-something years old and I’ve never been to Las Vegas for what people traditionally go to Vegas for. But let me tell you why:

I spent a significant time as a child living in Las Vegas. I went to elementary school there, I experienced the 9/11 tragedy there, and ate at countless buffets resulting in a fluffier-than-previous school photo. I was never allowed to walk near the slots, was warned of the detrimental effects of gambling, and I begged to be left at the nasty children’s play area at the Station Casinos. We called it the “cage” and I loved it. Texas Station was the default choice, Santa Fe if we were feeling classy. I have many dear memories spent in Vegas that remind me of family reunions, bowling alley birthday parties, walking my pseudo-dogs; Brandy, Sununu, and Chief at different times of their life, and placing a piece of gum on a palm tree just to see how far it would grow in a certain span of time. I remember my neighbor Charlie and his brother, Alex, and playing in the street with them: putting rollerblades on and connecting myself to a sprinting chocolate lab, resulting in a mangled, bloody mess. I remember my friends: Tiffany with the cool hair and Jorge to name a couple. I hope they’re well. When I left Vegas, I moved to California but would go back often, until the unfortunate circumstance of someone very close to me losing a war against cancer. I was 15 and I remember logging onto AIM to message my first boyfriend what had happened: I held hands with someone so dear until their soul left to reside in the sky.

I moved a few times before the age of nine, resulting in not a lot of people who I have in my life now knowing who I was at a young age or what I experienced during that time. But since then, I rarely returned to Las Vegas. Maybe a few times for a dance convention, a wedding, or a baby shower, but while my friends in college were celebrating their birthdays at XS or Tao nightclub, wearing heels at a pool, who knows where I was. Probably pushing my two-wheel drive Jeep Compass a little too far into a sand dune or battling acne.

But this is a happy story. I recently stayed at the Wynn in Las Vegas with my best friend. We saw a comedy show, played blackjack, and even went to a nightclub with people that were way younger than us (and way less cool). This hotel is something I very clearly remember getting built from a distance and twenty short years later, here I was, a tourist at a Vegas Resort, not driving into the canyons to stay with my family.

Las Vegas is a place we can easily drive to from our hometown: so we opted for a little roadtrip and that flew by with some music and conversation. We packed a cooler of snackies and drinks that we enjoyed: no need to be limited to hotel selection. After a quick beverage in the lobby, we were beckoned for an early check-in. There was time for spa, salon, a nap, and antics until we got ready for the Nate Bargatze show. Boy, did we get through a good portion of that handle of Tito’s: in the classiest way possible. With a few moments to spare prior to doors opening, I’m thankful to the woman who gave us the confidence to try our hand at some blackjack. “What do you need from me in order for me to play this?” I asked. “Cash,” she replied. Including the debit card fee of $9.99, I walked away from the exhilarating experience $20 up. What a rush. A celebration was in order. Feeling hot, I quickly lost it at a slot machine whose game objective and big red button I couldn’t quite understand. Instant hatred.

More about the Wynn and Encore. Two big buildings connected by a little shopping esplanade. After a while of losing inhibition and focus, which is the point of a vacation, I couldn’t tell which side was which, but with a little signage, you’d eventually stumble upon your destination. We paused at an empty table to play “pai gow poker”. Thanks to Miloş, Kelli walked away with some stacks, and I unfortunately lost after one round, disappointed by his empty promise of a long game of “push and pull”. While Kelli kept pushing, I drifted into space, wondering if I should buy that Ayrton Senna tee shirt at the McLaren store, and yes, we were just in time for the show.

After some laughs despite my fuzzy contact lenses, hunger pangs settled in, leading us to eat way too fast at Wazuzu after not finding a seat at Casa Playa. It was truly so fire and I was so happy to have leftovers for the next day. Earlier in the day, I put our name on the list for XS and the promoter sent me the details. Free for two women. In this case, the patriarchy and I are buds. We went up to our room to take a breather after dinner and decide if we were really going to do this. After touching up our makeup, adjusting our outfits, me hating how I looked, and asking what the point was, we made it downstairs for a Black Russian and a sprite. I weaseled my way to the front of the stage, which surprisingly felt like the safest and most approachable place to be in a sea of youthful Amazon techies. After headbanging to a few of the centuries greatest hits, we bid the venue a fond adieu, I picked up a gelato from the 24-hour cafe, and we headed back up for a really good slumber.

I woke up for a fantastic breakfast at Jardin, opting for a personally unusual choice of mocha latte, steak, eggs, hashbrowns, and a superfood smoothie. The lack of photography shows how in the moment 24-hours in Vegas truly can be.