Proximity City

Scenes from a place that grew on me unexpectedly.

Wherever you live, you probably have a nearby city you’re familiar with. You find yourself there—let’s call it the proximity city—a fair amount, usually for something you don’t have where you live: the shopping, the airport, a friend, a beloved cafe, the beach, that one hair salon that gets it right. You go when you don’t have enough time for a full-blown vacation, but you need to get away.

It’s not home, but you can navigate your proximity city without Google Maps. You probably recognize some faces, and they might recognize you. You’ve made memories there. You know how the air smells and where the skaters hang out. In your proximity city, you’re not a tourist, but not exactly a local either. Something in between. An honorary member? A family friend? A frequent flyer?

As a college kid in Auburn, Atlanta was my proximity city, mostly for the airport but also for the occasional swanky dinner I couldn’t afford to impress a date (I cringe a bit thinking about dropping off my ‘96 GM Sonoma with valet parking). When I lived in Mobile, my proximity city was New Orleans. I can spell beignets without looking it up.

During my abroad years, I never owned a car, so buses and trains got me to and from my proximity cities. The TCDD high-speed rail got me from Ankara Tren Garı to downtown Istanbul in four hours. In Bonn, the proximity city was Cologne without question. A bike path along the Rhine connects the two. Barranquilla generously gave me two proximity cities: Cartagena and Santa Marta. It cost the equivalent of about 7 bucks to ride a Berlinas mini-van to either one.

The latest

I moved to Cedar City, Utah, three and a half years ago, which means Las Vegas is my newest proximity city.

I didn’t like Vegas much in the beginning. Too many slot machines everywhere—the airport, gas stations, diners… I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw one next to a urinal. The place seemed like a shameless monument to our hyper-consumption and instincts ill-advised. Tacky, overpriced, and over-touristed.

When I flew in for the first time, I picked up my rental car, and after devouring a burrito at Cafe Rio, found I-15 and headed north out of town, shaking my head at the grotesquely large LED billboards peddling glossy handbags and another washed up pop queen’s residency.

But I’ve had a change of heart. It came on gradually between trips to the airport and escapes from mountain winters. Each time, I grew a little fonder of this city, like warming up to that neighbor you think is a degenerate but who’s actually well-read and has opinions that surprise you in a good way once you fold up your bias and have a conversation.

Turns out I have more in common with Las Vegans that I originally thought. We abhor the Strip and roll our eyes at the masses who waste their time and cash there. We don’t mind the heat. In fact, we prefer it, such that we wear a jacket if it gets down to 65 degrees. Our Spanish isn’t perfect, but we would appreciate it if you didn’t correct us. We don’t mind walking or taking a bus even if ol’ Erv in his oversized parka stands in the isle and goes on an offensive but mostly incoherent rant. Chances are we have our headphones on anyway, enjoying something produced south of the border.

They may seem no nonsense, but Las Vegans care more than you think. They’re just not loud about it. A bus driver let me ride even though I hadn’t loaded up my bus ticket properly. The lady at the front desk of the Marriott waived my parking fee after she learned we had travelled back from a funeral. A waitress brought out a bowl of water for Toby without us having to ask and scratched behind his ears so well I was afraid he’d want to swap parents. The guy at the carwash called me “boss.”

Another thing we have in common? We know where to eat.

If you’re standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, do a 180, cross the boulevard, and keep going. Don’t stop until the lights of that god-forsaken tourist trap have disappeared and you smell the aroma of seared beef, steamed potstickers, fresh ginger, and Sichuan chili oil. You’re in Chinatown and you’re about to eat so, so well, my friend.

It’s not just Chinese, mind you. Stop in any of the many noodle shops, Korean BBQs, Sushi lines, or Pho houses and you’re bound to be dining around a lot of people not speaking English. This is a good sign.

Old friends, new Chinatown

Back in our Turkey days, our friends Matt and Nuran took us to a restaurant run by Uyghurs. It was the only place to get authentic Chinese in Ankara. We’d order the whole menu and drip chili sauce from our chopsticks as we reached over one another for a dish on the far side of the table. So of course, when they came to Las Vegas for a visit, a pass through Chinatown was in order.

I pulled up to the Tropicana and our friends climbed into the back seat of my Subaru. Nuran asked if it was a new car and I told her it was used. Then she said something in Turkish. I hadn’t learned much Turkish during our year there, to my shame, so I had to ask for a translation. “May you drive it happily.” Matt explained that it’s something Turks say to congratulate a friend on their new car.

We went for dumplings and black fungi at a joint called Yummy Rice. Our waitress was not a native English speaker, and Matt had to intervene when she couldn’t quite make out Nuran’s accent. The waitress walked off to kitchen, and Nuran told us about ordering breakfast at a restaurant in California. Unaccustomed to pancakes or French toast, she requested boiled eggs instead. The waitress looked confused, so Nuran repeated herself. Quizzically, the waiter replied saying she wasn’t sure they served that.

“Am I asking for something unusual? Just boil the water and drop the egg in!”

The food arrived and we deployed our chopsticks. We burned our mouths on piping-hot potstickers, laughed, and told a few more stories.

Matt told us how his father had handed him $100 for their trip. He instructed him to bet it on blackjack or roulette. “He’s Republican. He can’t just give you the money,” he said.

That night, Vegas felt like Ankara. Our waitress came by and poured us more wonderful green tea.

Don’t judge a restaurant by its infantile name.

La fuga y el baile

August 2022 was an exceptionally rainy month in Cedar. Every day at 1:00 p.m. it started up and continued, off an on, until the wee hours of the morning. Not the volume needed to flood streets, but enough to make my wife, a Colombiana raised under the equatorial sun, feel chained inside our townhome. We made for Vegas.

Clear skies and the pool at the Fairfield Inn greeted us. It was over 100 degrees. Our skin burned, and our spirits were saved.

We spent two nights there, one of which we decided to go to La Jolla, a Latin nightclub. Our Lyft driver was Hawaiian and drove a minivan. It was a good thing we buckled in immediately because he peeled out of the driveway into traffic that was approaching faster than he had anticipated. “See ya, suckers!” he said as he gunned it.

The bouncer at La Jolla asked for our IDs. Brenda handed over hers first. He eyed it curiously.

“Colombiana?”

“Si,” Brenda replied.

“We don’t get many here. Bienvenida!” And he meant it.

I stepped up next and presented my Utah driver’s license. He waved me through without a word.

We sat at a table near the bar next to the railing. It overlooked the dance floor. The music scewed Mexican—lots of norteña. But the DJ mixed in salsa, bachata, and even some merengue. It was loud, and the waiter leaned halfway over as we shouted our orders into his ear.

Once on the dance floor, I shook the rust from my shoulders, hips, and knees. Brenda pulled me close. Her momentum steered me back into familiar rhythms. My confidence returned, and with it, my steps.

I got a few inquisitive looks from the other patrons. Here was a gringo who clearly had some experience, but had been schooled in a different style. I rarely, if ever, gave Brenda a twirl. Instead of long strides back and forth, our steps were tighter and more side to side. They must have correctly asserted that I hadn’t learned in Mexico. Could they trace the Caribbeanness?

British DJ

The only gambling I’ve ever done was when Geoff came for a visit. He wanted to play poker, so we hit the tables at the MGM Grand. He won a hand, and I won two, and we still crashed out in under 40 minutes.

Bonobo was in town, Geoff informed me, and tickets were cheap.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“He’s like a cross between electronic and jazz,” Geoff said.

We grabbed some tacos and hopped in line. The venue was outdoor and standing-only behind Omega Mart at Area 15. A couple hundred Las Vegans entered wearing steel-toed boots, fishnets, ripped jeans, bandanas, postal hats, gold chain necklaces, oversized Ts, and unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts. Several art displays were set up on the back perimeter of the venue. While perusing the art, we heard the synthesizer and violin make waves, so we meandered toward the crowd forming before the stage.

The British DJ’s music sounded like thoughts, an inner voice, rain, and the forest. I heard African languages and Native American chants in his mixes. There were beats, of course, but they were steady, not overpowering. Every sound was discernible.

The night peaked when he played Kerala. People closed their eyes, a few lifted their arms, and everyone rocked gently in sync. The vocals repeated a refrain framed by a syncopated bass drum and a stringed instrument with an old sound, all the while the synthesizer glided between parts. It was one of those moments where the music finds its way into your spine and massages your whole nervous system.

After what felt like a mere five minutes, the crowd flashers illuminated, and the set was over. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Thank you for coming!” and everyone cheered. I left with an itch to explore more electronic music.

The next morning, I took Geoff to the only place you can get a hearty breakfast for under $8: Ikea. The view of the desert mountains is quite something from the windows of their cafeteria.

After a quick stop by Hofbräuhaus, one of only six in the US and the only one west of the Mississippi, we drove onto I-15 headed for Cedar. I played Bonobo’s album Black Sands on the way.

Trivia

I waited in line with a hand on my luggage. The bartender handed me a glass of brown beer. Inside was full, so I stepped out on the front patio. The night air was chilly for Vegas. Cars slowed down on Main Street scanning for parking. Someone in a gray ball cap stepped out for a smoke. A transplant from Colorado. We had a quick but pleasant chat.

A voice on the microphone announced, “Trivia begins in two minutes. Last call to get your sheets and enter your group.”

I didn’t have a group, so I continued nursing my beer. The table behind me was occupied by three men, two young and one old. The old man doubled as the doorman, so he frequently left the conversation to check IDs. He told a gaggle of British lads they had to come back with a passport or something with their DOB on it.

I eavesdropped on the three men. They noticed and didn’t care. Once in a while, one looked over his shoulder. “Any ideas?”

“I think that was the Goo Goo Dolls” I said. It was the music round. The old man shined when 70’s one-hit wonders came up. We did all right that round.

The topic changed.

“Which childhood actor starred along Bryan Cranston in Malcolm in the Middle?” asked the voice from the speaker. The men groaned because they could picture the face but couldn’t quite remember the name. Neither could I.

“Something McGuire?”

“No, that was Spider-man.”

“Was it Freddy something?”

“YES!”

“No, Frankie.”

“YES! Frankie!”

“Frankie McGuire?”

“No.”

“I’m sure it was an Irish last name.”

“McIntyre? McMillan?”

“God, I can’t remember.”

“I’m telling you, it’s McGuire.”

There were a few more questions. Then the men finalized their answers and turned in their sheet. Minutes later, the bartender came back on and read the answers.

“Frankie Muniz.”

“Frankie MUNIZ!” They cried in tandem and slapped the table. The glasses bounced.

Three hours until my flight departed. I ran across the street and hoovered up four slices of New York style pizza at the counter. The cashier wiped a rag across the marble, refilled my water, and glanced at my suitcase. “Where are you headed?”

“Colombia.”

“Nice. A friend went to Cartagena. She said it was wonderful.”

He pronounced the the g correctly. Las Vegans know.

“Ever been to Cartagena?”

I laughed on the inside. “Oh yeah,” I affirmed, and I thought about my old proximity city from my new one.

Where you can find me

There’s a gondola at the Venician. Every casino resort has an enormous pool, it seems, some with movie theater sized screens, all boasting huge parties. There are pink flamingos at the… well, you can guess. I hear Circ du Solei is quite a show. But I wouldn’t know about all of that. When I’m in Vegas, I’m not usually at the obvious places.

Instead, you’re more likely to see me at the dog park in Spring Valley, chatting it up with a Filipino who wants me to try Jollibee while two little Ethiopian girls play with Toby.

If it’s payday, I’ll probably be at Nalsso, fretting over when to turn the marinated octopus on the grill in the middle of my table, looking over at the Korean family next to me wondering how they fit so many steaks at once. Otherwise, I’ll be having pupusas way out on Cheyenne Avenue or getting street tacos at my favorite Mexican spot, and no, I’m afraid I won’t be sharing the name or location.

Pupusas for the uninitiated.

You might find me walking down the sidewalk in Henderson at sunset, stopping at a Terrible’s gas station, dropping a few taquitos into a brown paper bag to go, pretending like I live here.

Las Vegas took me a little time. I didn’t feel the immediate infatuation like with Cartagena, or respect and admiration Istanbul commanded from the first hour. We spent some time eyeing each other. I had to get off my high horse, stop seeing it as only mega casinos, and turn over a few stones.

Now? I almost feel a little protective.

Keep thinking of it as the three miles between Tropicana Ave and Sahara. You can have it. Everything else is my proximity city.