My eyes are bloodshot, and my clothes stained martini red. The walls twirl like a baton before I ascertain that I am in fact, horizontal. It is the morning after the night before, and it feels like I’ve awoken in a scene from The Hangover, the blockbuster movie about a wild Las Vegas bachelor party. This city packs them all in: hustlers, retirees, workers, college kids, families, foodies, foreigners, brides, grooms and the revellers that precede them – the stags and stagettes.
My group of guys is just one of many stalking the Strip, excusing our excesses, celebrating the end of one stage of life and the beginning of another. In Vegas, this life transition is usually ushered in with neon lights, naughty shows, thumping clubs, bars and pool cabanas. Much of it, inevitably, soaked in alcohol.
From the start, we knew our hotel selection is key. We wanted to be on the Strip, but blend some of that old-school Vegas glitz with its modern city flash. This led us to The Tropicana. First opened in 1957, it is featured in The Godfather: Part II, and is where 007 stayed in Diamonds Are Forever. Since The Tropicana has recently undergone a $180-million refurbishment, it a hotel for Vegas past and present. Moreover, the hotel’s Paradise Tower penthouse, with a huge hot tub in the centre, screams for epic room parties, served by a one-of-a-kind automated bartender. Invented in Vegas, the Smart Bar mixes 750 perfect pour cocktails and martinis at the push of a button. A robot bartender never judges a late night story, and you don’t have to tip him either.
Las Vegas puts on some of the biggest shows on the planet, which provide a welcome break between dinner and the mayhem that follows. Just about every casino presents a Cirque du Soleil show because it appears French Canadian theatrics in the desert are as natural a mix as gin and tonic. Dressed in the loudest garb we could find under $10 at the Value Village back home, we headed off to Zumanity at New York, New York. Cirque’s most sexualized show is surprisingly ribald, as a cast of topless and scantily clad contortionists, acrobats, singers and dancers entertain an enthusiastic audience.
Absinthe, a limited-run show at Caesars Palace, takes R-rated cabaret to the next level. In the intimate Spiegeltent, a ringmaster and his potty-mouthed sidekick mock the audience as they introduce jaw-dropping acrobatic acts. A phenomenal roller-skating act just about decapitates those unlucky enough to sit in the front row. Absinthe even pokes fun at Cirque du Soleil, with a satirical act that defies belief. Bachelor parties are no place for Celine Dion and The Osmonds, so it’s good to know there are options.
With the thermometer cracking 42 C, chilling out in the afternoon is a physical necessity. But this doesn’t mean the party has to stop. Our group takes a scorching stroll over to Caesars Palace’s Garden of the Gods, where we sprawl around the pool like models in some decadent Roman-era mosaic. We grab ourselves a cabana, with a bottle of vodka and fresh punch, served in containers of solid ice. Our server is dressed in a white string bikini, and vaguely resembles Britney Spears. The Garden of the Gods lets us cool down and flirt harmlessly with beautiful young women who, for some reason, all seem to come from Toronto.
Our next stop is the much-heralded Marquee Day Club in the new Cosmopolitan. Disappointingly, bouncers with heavy attitude greet us. We want a pool bar, not airport security. So we cab over to the Tropicana Pool, relax under the shade of palm trees, and enjoy some quiet before the storm. Oh wait, someone just ordered another round of shooters.
