life on mars
My last trip to Vegas was miserable, because my narrative about it was “Introvert in Introvert Hell,” which, while true, was not useful. This time I have decided to try “Introvert Who Is Capable Of Perkiness In A Higher Cause, Or For Work,” and in pursuit of this I am determinedly pretending that Vegas is a poorly-terraformed Mars (as Jeremy points out, they did it in the fifties, with nukes; these days they wouldn’t be allowed.)
The Martians (Vegans?) have been making me laugh. I had a particularly good cab driver:
“In town for a conference?”
“Yep.”
“IT?”
“Yep. I have the look, do I?”
“Yep.”
I’m sure he meant that I look exactly like he imagines Lisbeth Salander: see attached.
The woman who checked me in was also a hoot:
“What brings you to Las Vegas?”
“Work.”
“Oh! No pleasure at all?”
“Not really. I live in San Francisco.”
“Oh! I see!”
Big smiles all round. She was very sweet, and my life support pod is modern and comfortable and immaculate and surprisingly easy on the eye. I hung all my Calvin Klein dresses and power suits on coathangers, and I am hardened for two days of meetings. Yes! I can totally do this! Only 58 hours till I get back to San Francisco!
