C'mon and step right up

I've been to a lot of tourist destinations: Niagara Falls, Graceland, Cooperstown, both American Disney theme parks, Hollywood, Atlantic City. All of these places, as expected, have their share of kitschy attractions and kitschier souvenir shops. There is a reason that they stock their shelves with snow globes and giant pencils and magnets to adorn your refrigerator. Because people buy them. I don't know why, but tourists seem to love useless plastic tchotchkes that remind them of happier times. I'm okay with that, because these places aren't forcing you to buy.

My wife and I just returned from Las Vegas. As a tourist attraction, Las Vegas is a weird city. As a city, Las Vegas is a weird city. Sure, there are casinos and shows and buffets and lights and fountains and everything over the top. Of course, Las Vegas Boulevard — The Strip, as it is more popularly known — is lined with an array of the flashiest of souvenir stores offering more T-shirts, key rings and other "must-haves" emblazoned with the famous "Welcome to Las Vegas" in every conceivable configuration.

But, Las Vegas is also home to a phenomena that is unique among tourist spots. I have never seen more people shoving shit in your face anywhere in my life. You can't take two steps onto The Strip without being accosted by a horde of hands waving everything from CDs and ticket vouchers to coupons and perfume just inches from your nose. The already crowded sidewalks are unnecessarily jammed with loitering men and women cajoling travelers with promises of "free this" and "discounted that" and waving some tangible representation of that promise. The air is polluted by the cacaphonic calls of "Hey, where you from?" and "How long you folks in town?" and bunches of hands sticking every which way, each offering some guarantee of a better time than you are having now.

One evening, Mrs. Pincus and I set out on a one block trek for dinner at the Planet Hollywood resort. Within seconds, we were confronted by a thicket of hands brandishing tickets and flyers with offers to clean our glasses, shine our shoes and tour the Grand Canyon.

Most noticeable by first-time and veteran tourists alike is the overabundance of thumb-snapping distributors of "adult entertainment" cards. These ubiquitous staples of The Strip, whose vaguely described but obvious services are listed on colorful cards, are most likely the originators of the "in your face" practice of marketing that has become as well-known in Sin City as the casinos themselves. The current crop of Vegas street hustler owes quite a debt to these innovators.

I suppose that's an honor. I suppose.

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clink, clink, another drink

I've been to many restaurants and I'm sure you have, too. I am pretty familiar with the procedure. You enter. You are greeted by a host or hostess, who asks the number in your party and pretty soon, you are led to a table. You receive menus, or in the case of a buffet, you just head off in the direction of the food. A member of the wait staff will come to your table and introduce themselves, inquiring about your beverage order. The reason they are called "waiters" is that they wait on you. And conversely, you wait for them to come to you.

Or so I thought.

Last week, my wife and I found ourselves in yet another casino. This time, it was Paris in Las Vegas. We wandered the faux cobblestone that wound around the rear of the casino floor, passing a bakery and convenience store, each with meticulously themed façades, until we arrived at The Village Buffet. The buffet at Paris is not that different from other buffets we have visited, so the securing of a table followed roughly the same procedure. After being shown to a table, Mrs. P and I started off at the salad area, as per our usual routine. Upon returning to our table, a young man clad in the dark, formal uniform of the staff, introduced himself as "Melvin" and began pouring water into our glasses. He was asking for our proper drink order when a man appeared behind him. Melvin was startled, even more so when this man draped a lazy arm around Melvin's shoulders. The man, now using poor Melvin as a crutch, was dressed in dingy gray sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt tucked haphazardly into his waistband. He leaned in close to Melvin's ear and began to speak. Melvin recoiled, obviously affected by the man's alcohol-tinged breath.

"Can I get two Pepsis over at my table?," he slurred, pointing off in the distance, "Two Pepsis."

Dutifully, Melvin nodded and eked out a crookedly uncomfortable smile. The man took a more than adequate amount of time to remove his arm from Melvin's person and then staggered off in the direction of his point. Melvin resumed filling our water glasses and muttered something under his breath. He looked up and smiled at us.

"Two iced teas for you, right?," he said, "Be right back." He proceeded toward the beverage station, shaking his head.

The double Pepsi-craving man — inexplicably — left the restaurant and stumbled towards the casino.

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