I'm in Vegas today for a conference. I got in last night after that airline I talked about in my last post challenged Boyfriend and I to do a four minute mile to get our connecting flight. On my flight that got canceled two weeks ago, they said we weren't able to take the plane because the flight attendant jump seat was broken. Amazingly, they said this flight also couldn't take off because of this reason.
But this time, instead of throwing us on another flight, they had a mechanic board the plane, break the jumpseat to the point where it was completly disabled, and then taped it to the wall with duct tape. Then they asked for a volunteer to get off the plane and gave a first class seat to the flight attendant. It was pretty awesome, but the delay caused us to land after our next flight was supposed to take off. We had already booked ourselves on a later back-up flight, but when we touched down the flight attendant told us if we ran, they would hold our next flight for ten minutes. Having our priorties in order, we decided Boyfriend would buy sandwiches, while I ran full speed (in heels) through three concourses to check us in.
It totally worked, and despite the two holes in my feet from running in sandals, we got on the plane with delicious sandwiches right before they closed the door. I just feel really bad for the guy who had to sit next to the two sweaty kids devouring sandwiches that held up the flight. And I feel even worse for him if he tried to watch the movie we brought with us- The Manchurian Candidate. Gah, that was a horrible film. No one is hot and Meryl Streep will probably give me nightmares all week. Never see this, unless you want to get in the mood to jump out of your own skin.
In other movie reviews, I decided to watch all of the Superman films again. I've made it through Superman III by now. I highly recommend this project to everyone. Though there is a lack of hotness across the board, the nostaglia-enjoyment level is high. Also, Clark Kent eats dog food in one movie.
Anyway, after we landed, we decided to walk thorugh our stupidly large hotel so we could get ten miles in before finding the gift shop. We got hungry, and decided to stop at one of the million restaurants owned by famous chefs that probably never even have been there. We both wanted fish, so we stopped at a restaurant made by that chef that's become a ridiculous caricature of himself and yells "Bam!" alot. I really don't like that guy or his TV show that's on all the time or his million products at the grocery store. But at the same time, we were pretty sure the food would be good.
And it really was. The service was impeccable- starting with one server introducing the "team" that would be assisting us. One person to take drink orders, one person to take food orders, and one person for bread delivery and water service. The appetizer was fantastic, and the cocktails were perfect. But you couldn't quite forget you were in Vegas...The soup course came, complete with two servers to simultaneously pour our soup into bowls from little tiny cauldrons. We started to eat our soup, when a VERY heavily made up woman stopped by to offer to take our picture "for a souvenir." From dinner? Seriously? Like we're supposed to frame it and show people that we ate soup once? It's not like super chef was going to come pose with us or that there would be anything else in the picture besides other tourists eating. It would just be the two of us eating soup. We eat soup all the time, it's delicious. But never once have I wanted to capture the moment with photography. And certainly not for twenty dollars. That's more than the cost of both soups.
But when I went to the bathroom immediatly outside the restaurant, the photography woman was in there. She was opening a wall case right next to the feminine product wall case. The case held the photo developing chamber and all the film supplies. I almost felt bad- if someone is willing to set up office in the bathroom of a casino, maybe I should make use of these services. But I also thought that was insane, so I just spent money predicting what number on a wheel a ball would fall into. |
