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. Sunburned 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.