Reno 911

Reno lies, flat and arid, at the end of a ninety mile meander through high desert pine. Surrounded by scrub-bald mountains, and a scorched skyline, it isn’t as ugly as I’d expected. Not a destination of choice, by any means, but that’s the Amazon-Groupon-LivingSocial curse – the ridiculous deals taunt you to press the “Purchase Now!” button and all-too-quickly you’re printing out your voucher and wondering what the hell you’re going to do for two days and two nights in downtown Reno.

I’d never been there before and had actually never even engaged a slot machine despite growing up a five hour’s drive from Las Vegas. But I have a weakness for high-rise hotels and their miniature bathroom condiments, complimentary pool towels, and well-stocked mini-fridges. It’s all so very different from the hum-drum of home. And there was $50 of surf-and-turf, $10 of watered-down casino drinks, and a knock-off Cirque de Soliel show thrown into the mix. My resistance officially broken, before you could say blackjack, I had a freshly-printed voucher in my hand.

Commanding several city blocks, the Grand Sierra Resort rises 27 stories into the empty sky and is the quintessential circus of excess, the mother of all casinos. Choose your poison: on-site there is the customary sea of neon-festooned coin-spitters with wonderfully literary names like Buffalo Moon and Pyramid of Kings (although my favorite is the one I spotted in the back corner by the restrooms: Rich Little Piggies) and when you tire of feeding these machines, there is a bowling alley, miniature golf, go-karts, indoor/outdoor golf, a kiddie arcade, a driving range, and a multiplex cinema, not to mention the Ultimate Rush Thrill Park and, of course, “The Beach.” As if the area around a child-infested overly-chlorinated swimming pool can be knighted a beach simply by throwing a few shovelfuls of sand among the chaise lounges.

The hotel reception resembles an airport counter with ropes cordoning off the multiple cut-backs of the waiting line and a long counter fronting a row of uniformed attendants tied to computers, ready to confirm our reservations. We’re upgraded to a suite, given a bulging envelope of coupons, and directed toward a bevy of elevators, past the Starbuck’s and the army of ATM machines.

Our room is a den of ragged luxury; 15^th floor pool view, cottage-cheese ceiling, sofa/loveseat corner, and a once-elegant mini-bar. We head straight down to the pool, collect our wristbands and claim our plastic loungers amid a frenzy of screaming water-winged youngsters. The adults lounge in the hot tub nursing multi-colored cocktails -- leaning back against the shimmering-blue metallic tiles and bobbing their chins to the Top-of-the-Pops 80’s tunes piped in from the 10-foot speakers ringing the beach. A fountain in the middle spits warm water into the bone dry, 100+ degree heat.

Later that evening we head down to Charlie Parker’s Steakhouse, gift voucher in hand. We’re treated as the filthy coupon-grubbers we are. The limb-stiff waiter takes our order with polite hostility; for fifty bucks we get a trio of Nouveau Cuisine-sized plates and a single glass of Beaujolais. Sunburnt casino dwellers with bermuda shorts and pasty midwest thighs saunter in and out of the dining room.

The next day we venture into downtown Reno to tour a few of the classic casinos (The Eldorado and Harrah’s) expecting at least a few giggles from the kitsch-value alone, and to take in the Hot Summer Nights Festival. We were warned of crowds and street closures for the vintage hot rod gathering. Instead the place is a ghost town, with weird meth-heads combing the deserted streets and angst-ridden teenagers loitering down by the civic lake celebrating summer’s last gasp before the start of school.

The casinos, dimly lit and hyper air-conditioned, are full of die-hard holy rollers oblivious to the afternoon heat. We barely make it through the cacophony of CircusCircus! with its carnival noise and teddy bear games. Hordes of children clutch plastic water-gun rifles and grip handfuls of darts.

We make a beeline back to the Grand Sierra and our nearly penthouse suite to rest up before the evening show: Cirque 84, Reno’s homegrown version of Cirque de Soleil. By 9pm a crowd had gathered outside the casino theater. We settle into our tableside seats, order a few drinks and when the lights go down and the first few chords of Night Ranger’s Sister Christian filter into the auditorium, the audience goes wild. High art it’s not, but what the show can’t deliver in talent it makes up for in earnest ebullience.

There are aerialists, trapeze artists, jugglers, and even a motorcycle segment with three two-wheelers flipping 360’s inside a giant geodesic dome. All of the theatrics set against a soundtrack straight from my Valley Girl adolescence. By the end of the show, the crowd is on their feet as the performers dance through the aisles and then line up outside the theater doors to bid everyone adieu.

I didn’t hit the jackpot or win the daily double, but Reno delivered in many small, unexpected ways, and I left feeling like I could easily stay another day, lounging by the pool and taking in another show. I’ll keep my eyes on Groupon.

A night out in the Mission

A night out in the Mission District.

We come up from the 16^th and Mission BART station and stop before the escalator to listen to a bearded guy picking a banjo, give him a dollar. We move through a sea of 9-5’ers, through the urban plaza and the Spanish-language signs and the slow-moving buses. A clear but biting-cold dusk along Valencia Street.

Duck into a local pub just to get warm.

Two shots of Cazadores Blanco, and we’re wrapped in the light-change and the easy banter of the bodies on all sides. The familiarity of the moment like a memory peeled back at the corners.

Reluctantly we head out onto the street again, pushing against the cruel wind as we make our way to the taqueria. Everyone’s talking about the cold. I haven’t felt anything like it in years – certainly not since we’ve been back home. It’s a vague echo of a time past, when I lived in this very city and wore layers and multiple pairs of socks.

The taqueria is bustling as usual. Urban families and tourists and street punks. A mariachi band. The warmth inside is like a drug making us move slowly, stalling our exit. We work our way through a plate of tacos and a basket of chips. Share a Dos Equis. Order another plate just to hold onto the moment, the ruddy interior, buzz of voices, windows fogged by heat.

Pulling our jackets close, collars up, we venture out again, blinded by the wind-pierce. Only five more blocks to the bar, a friend’s birthday celebration. A smiling bouncer at the door, perched on a stool, asking for ID’s. I reach for my shoulder purse, its usual position, strap draped cross my chest, pouch at the hip.

It’s not there.

No strap, no pouch, no purse. Wallet, phone, keys, gone. Left somewhere along our path.

Panic.

The bouncer smiles sympathetically, wishes us luck. Flag down a cab, spit out the address of the pub we ducked into at the beginning of the night. Leaving the cab at the corner, I race inside, the pub ten times busier now, lean across the bar and yell to be heard. Neither bartender is particularly interested, neither bartender pays much attention, neither bartender has seen a purse.

Race back to the cab, a few blocks on, take us to the taqueria. I’m imagining the next day, on the phone with credit card companies, a police report, purchasing another crappy TMobile phone. Obviously it’s gone, a hundred or so bucks in my wallet, no reason for anyone to be honest. Not in this time of cut-backs and down-sizing, foreclosures and lay offs. An easy wad of cash, maybe a credit card purchase or two, and then stash the purse in the nearest trash bin.

The brightly painted façade of the taqueria, I rush past the security guard at the door, up to the counter, a long line of patrons to my right. Woman at the cash register, annoyed that I’m cutting the line.

“A purse, I left a purse, did anyone turn in a purse?”

She continues to count out change, hands it over to the young man with a tray full of food, looks me in the eye. A moment of silence. She reaches behind the counter and pulls out the purse. Black leather pouch, hand-cut strap.

My knees go weak.

I grab at it, singing thanks, the room a blur. Run out into the cold and the dark and into the warmth of the cab. I’m done for the evening. Take us to the BART station.

I
 want to go home.

Waterworld

So it’s starting to get eerie, all this blue sky and sunlight. All through December, all through January and now we’re poised to enter March and just a handful of rainy days. My winter puffy is still languishing in the back of the closet and from the window above the computer screen I can see that single palm tree in the distance, the long skinny trunk stamped onto the Berkeley hills, and the emblematic palm fronds teasing a cloudless, 70 degree sky.

Not that I’m complaining; I’m a warm weather girl, born and raised in L.A. I’ve never known snow for more than a week at a time, on various childhood ski trips or the post-college journey backpacking through Europe that unexpectedly extended into snow banks and wintry wind.

I woke up to the radio this morning and a story about alpine chipmunks in Yosemite. Over the last few decades they’ve been forced to move into ever higher altitudes to find comfortably arctic climes. And the genetic diversity of the species has steeply declined leading to a drop in their collective immune systems. All because of mercury rising.

At the same time, a friend in Prague writes that she’s shivering in her apartment, one of the coldest winters on record. The irrational logic of her building grants either hot water or central heat, not both. So she has to choose as the thermometer reads minus degrees.

Tropical cyclones and middle latitudes and arctic oscillation – the language is almost poetic. And an article I came across today: a link found between global warming and the diminishing size of all mammals. It seems scientists have followed the evolution of horses from 56 million years ago and found that as temperatures went up, their size went down – at times as small as a medium-sized dog: picture a Jack Russell Terrier.

If all this keeps up, in a few million years we could find ourselves living in a world of wee people. That is, if the polar ice caps don’t all melt first and plunge us into an underwater nightmare akin to Waterworld.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll go for a walk in the sunshine.

Ramshackle moon

The moon is cookie-cutter

round tonight

larger than a barn

and the neighbor
claims an experience
out-of-body

Claims the sky split
lightening-style
and revealed a world
all wonder and zip-lock

Where the body accepts
the turbulence of this
particular flight plan
with cryptic obedience

like some divine cosmonaut
privy to the ramshackle state
of the instruments at hand:

Two luna-blistered moon boots
and a wind-worn oxygen pipe
affixed to the mothership

all blue-funk and sorrow

warbling this skin’s
sad, limited compass

Blue jewels

up ahead

past the patch of asters

and the double-nested pine

the body has its own designs

like a willful child

or a petulant bride

there is little room for prayer

the cartoon heart,

like a muscle,

so easily sprained

by simple truths

like the small lake

with its blue jewels

or the rainless sky,

not a cloud or a wing

or any glad distraction

with January's cobalt glare

razor-sharp and godly

such a tight-lipped,

peaceful terror