Yesterday, instead of heading down the strip on the monorail, we took the Deuce north to Downtown Las Vegas.
If anyone ever asks me for advice about going to Las Vegas, one of the things I'm going to say to them is, "GET OFF THE STRIP AND GO DOWNTOWN." Which is, actually, the exact opposite advice I'd gotten from most people before we came. I was told it was old and gross and that I'd definitely be mugged on every single street corner (maybe it's different at night; I don't know).
But then a couple of people, who've actually been there very recently, told me I haaaaad to go. Apparently, my fear of being mugged is less than my fear of missing out (there's an abbreviation for that, I think), so. The Deuce.
It was a great decision. Downtown Las Vegas is sweet. We went to East Fremont, where, apparently, little hipster city elves have been hard at work on a few-block chunk of Fremont Street (the original Sin City strip).
We didn't make it to the Neon Museum (Sully is too young) but we did hit up Container Park, which is basically a mall and play structure made entirely out of c-cans. It was guarded by a 150:1 replica of a praying mantis with a 4,000 watt sound system, who also came equipped with flame throwers, of course, which shoot fire 6 stories into the sky. Because Vegas just can't help itself. If the mantis was in, say, Saskatchewan, it would be enough that it was a big mantis. But Vegas is like, well, that's fine but can it shoot fire?
Apparently the artist gave it to his wife as an anniversary present or something. Cute.
Anyway, it was all very trendy but still very vintage Vegas in all the right ways. I wanted to eat at every restaurant and visit every candy store, but all Sully cared about was the giant tree house in the courtyard.
Sully and Vegas: ridiculously predictable, both.