I am also tired and thirsty. The water taps in the hotel bathrooms provide only short-term relief; after a few minutes back in the heat, I am again as thirsty as before. I feel myself as being the human version of the Dead Sea in Israel: water there flows in from the Jordan River and nothing flows out since water evaporates by the heat, so still the water level reduces constantly. This seems to be a normal biological process for a lake in the middle of the desert, but for a human it feels pretty uncomfortable. I refill my two-liter drinking bottle about four times, which means that I have drunk about six to eight liters of water already. The highest temperature that day reaches 110°F.
After about fifty rejections, I decide to change my approach—sometimes I talk to them with more humor and sometimes try being more reserved—but there’s still no sale. My motivation to persevere comes from the thought of having to spend another night in Elyssa’s bunk bed; unsurprisingly, I would much rather watch movies in a cozy hotel room than sleep next to a smelly litter box. Hot, thirsty, but undeterred, I continue on my mission.
The casino hotels in Las Vegas belong to three big resort companies. Naturally, a floor manager cannot decide whether someone can stay overnight for free without consulting the head office first, and since it’s Saturday, it’s impossible because no one will be available before Monday. I remember the film Casino with Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci. The plot is built around the Las Vegas of the sixties and seventies, when the biggest hotels belonged to the Mafia. At the end of the film, De Niro, playing Sam “Ace” Rothstein, is the only one to survive the Mafia war and the police. He describes how Las Vegas will change by the end of the seventies and that the resort companies will take over the role of the Mafia and they will manage the hotels. Had the Mafia not been so greedy, a Robert De Niro look-alike may have been sitting in a hotel office, serving as the boss, wearing a silk suit and with a cigar stuck in his mouth. He probably would willingly offer me the presidential suite and the only catch would be that I’d be in the Mafia’s debt for the rest of my life: Sure, you can stay in the best suite. Your life just belongs to us now. After eight hours of fruitlessly searching, I seriously consider accepting such a deal if it was offered to me at this moment in time; I just want to go to sleep.
Another reason why it’s impossible for me to find a free room is that there’s The biggest f ***ing shoe fair ever, going on that weekend. All the shoe wholesalers have filled up all the hotels. I could understand if the biggest shoe fair took place in Boulder, Colorado or somewhere in the Canadian woods where one certainly needs a lot of shoes for trekking, but why here and why now in the desert of Nevada with temperatures of 110°F? Here, one needs many things, but shoes certainly can’t be at the top of the list.
Despite all the obstacles, at around four-thirty in the afternoon I come to a classic West Coast motel from a much earlier time. The twenty-six-foot neon sign reading TOD Motor Motel has certainly seen better days, but the furniture in the reception area is rather stylish . . . for 1968. I speak to Fred, who is the manager of the motel. Without any hesitation, he says that I can have a room for a few days simply because he finds my story interesting.
This would have had a happy ending were it not for Tod. There is a Tod and this is his motor hotel. Fred introduces me to Tod and explains to him that I don’t have any money. Tod, aghast, asks me if I’m going to be staying there. When I nod, he gets going: “Now this is a f***ing story. You never travel without money!”
Tod is really pissed off. I tell him quickly and nervously about my whole trip. Tod asks, though it feels more like an interrogation, specific questions for every last detail. I rattle off everything in bits and pieces: working on the container ship, Montreal and space cookies, a hundred-dollar bill and a bicycle from the Amish, being homeless in Albuquerque . . . am I forgetting anything?
Tod looks taken aback, as if he isn’t expecting such a response made up of all these unusual facts in thirty seconds. Still, he persists, claiming that I’m “a f***ing scam” and asks why Fred can’t see that. Fred stays relaxed and asks me to continue with my story. I pause for a moment when Dan, with his sugar mamas who finance his life, comes to my mind. I narrate in detail the story about him and the Mustang Fastback and how I drove it on Route 66, sparing no adjective in describing the magic and power of the vehicle.
Tod smiles now for the first time. He likes this story much better than that of the homeless or the Amish. “Okay, it could be true,” he snarls. “But you only stay here if we make a deal first!” He offers me several nights’ stay in the motel if, in exchange, I make an advertisement video for his hotel. I accept gladly and finally get to lie down on a real bed.
For the next few days I survive solely on the pancakes offered by the motel. Normally, I drink tap water, but owing to the high chlorine content, it tastes horrible here, so I find a new source of hydration. With a plastic cup from McDonald’s in hand, I walk the Vegas Strip refilling my drink at soda machines in the various McDonald’s branches. No one really checks to see who refills the cups, so it goes rather smoothly. I am growing more and more innovative by the day!
After three days at the TOD Motor Motel, Tod thanks me for the small advertising video and politely suggests that I continue on with my journey since he needs the room for paying guests. I still haven’t found any way of traveling further and haven’t made any preemptive arrangements, but I have to find another place to stay.
The Rodeway Inn agrees to take me in for the nights to come. The manager, David, responds to the tale of my trip with “Oh, that’s kind of cool!” And I also find it kind of cool when he promises me a three-night stay with breakfast included. This hotel also has a pool and offers higher-standard rooms compared to TOD Motor Motel: cable TV, good air-conditioning, and two double beds. For breakfast, they offer hot cereal, cornflakes, and a variety of cakes. Even though cakes are not the healthiest choice, I manage to fill myself up with so much food that it keeps me full until well into the afternoon.
David also wants a favor in exchange for this three-night stay. He hasn’t a clue as to how or when or where he will use this video, but he wants me to do a thorough interview about him using both of my cameras. Naturally, I can and will do this for him. On that same day, I set up both the cameras at the entrance of the Rodeway Inn: one camera will be on the tripod and the other, with a super wide-angle lens and a microphone attached to it, will be held by hand. I even see to it that the microphone also has one of those fluffy windsocks on it so that everything looks professional.
The interview lasts about thirty minutes and David speaks about his career as the manager of the inn, starting from when he first arrived from the East Coast and applied for the manager position. He adds that since then, the Rodeway Inn has expanded with so many rooms, but that the pool is still the same as it was eleven years ago. I ask him about the guests. He tells me that many are very young, often college students, but that there are also older guests who come in the fall to visit the numerous fairs. This is then followed by the story of the new paved roads in front of the hotel; he muses that it must have been unbelievably hot for the road workers while tarring in the desert heat.
We also talk about the many drunken tourists in the city, who are not at all that bad. I ask him about his favorite city, his greatest desires in life, and also how it feels to live in a desert. He answers that there are many beautiful cities in the world, including New York and San Francisco, but that European cities are also very beautiful.
We then talk about his expectations: for example, a salary raise, or a certain type of guest. He informs me that the desert around Las Vegas is not at all that bad, and apart from the months of June to August, the climate is excellent. I again think of the film Casino and the countless wise guys buried in the desert. David then talks about bowling: a wonderful sport. Twice a week he meets his friends for bowling, but lately many of them have been quite irregular in their training.
After the interview, David and I shake hands with respect, having co
mpleted a fair deal in which both of us have gained something. David is satisfied with his interview and I with the hotel for three nights. The following day I start planning the rest of my trip; after all, I do want to reach Antarctica at some point. In this 110°F heat, it is a destination that seems too far away. Now that I know hitchhiking doesn’t really work here, I have to somehow earn some money for my journey ahead. As I stand in front of the Bellagio, one of the biggest hotels in the city, I can’t help but be distracted by the spectacular water show that takes place every hour between the hotel and the street.
This seems to be the perfect place for introducing the human sofa. Since there are a lot of tourists here and it’s really hot, no one is really walking . . . it’s more like crawling. I ingeniously find my niche market: I will offer the overheated and tired tourist a place to take a seat and rest. I stand with a large cardboard sign in front of a water fountain: AHUMAN SOFA FOR ONE DOLLAR! ANYONE CAN SIT AND RELAX ON MY BACK FOR JUST ONE DOLLAR.
At first none of the tourists understand what I am offering because they don’t see a sofa anywhere, so I decide to make my human sofa concept more apparent by going down on all fours. I put a white pillow on my back to offer a bit more comfort. My cardboard sign hangs from my neck and dangles above the pavement. The passersby now understand my offer and they laugh, chuckle, and even cheer for the human sofa. Just when my first customer takes a seat on me, the security guards of the Bellagio interfere in my business and indicate that the pavement also happens to be the property of the hotel and I must get off it.
I move further away, nearer to the bus stop, and kneel down on all fours posing as a human sofa again. Business is getting busier as families all want to take turns and relax on my back. There is hustle and bustle all around me; people distributing flyers or selling concert tickets. I decide that I need to look for a new spot for the human sofa, far away from the security guards and the street hawkers, so I enter St. Mark’s Square, which is modeled after the one in Italy; it even has a replica of Campanile von San Marco in its center.
Raising money as the “human sofa” in Las Vegas.
The church tower here is the entrance to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Hordes of people come in through the tower on the moving walkways. The perfect spot for the human sofa! I kneel down again and this time it draws in even more people who see me from afar. I call out again and again, “Human sofa, take a seat for just one dollar! Special price! Just one dollar for the human sofa!” People are enthusiastic and a few actually take a seat. A group of extremely drunk college students comes along. One of the guys feels like he must (and wants to) help me, so he starts shouting over the moving walkways: “Haaaave a seat on thiiiiis huuuuuuuman sooooofa!” The people feel rather intimidated now, thinking that the drunken guy is with me; nobody dares to take a seat. I call it a day and count my earnings. In total, only seven dollars, but I am still proud.
With this loot I go to Circus Circus, which is one of the casino hotels on the Strip that attracts people with its neon signs, roller coasters, and extremely loud music. I exchange five of my seven dollars for a chip. There is a free introductory course here for blackjack, so I attend. Actually, blackjack is very easy if one knows the game—the aim is to get as close to twenty-one points as possible with the cards, without going bust. If one does not go above twenty-one points and has more points than the dealer, then he wins a round and doubles his money.
I decide to let it all ride on my five-dollar chip. Both of my cards tally up to eleven points, so I draw one more card. It’s a seven—safe! A total of eighteen points, not bad. The dealer draws a card and shows his hand: nineteen points. My money is gone.
Feeling quite frustrated, I spot a big old man sitting at one of the poker tables with heaps of chips in front of him (which must equal to around $3,000, at least). With his XXL T-shirt, shorts, and old gym shoes, he doesn’t appear to be very wealthy. Within a few minutes, his heap of chip halves. Intrigued, I go talk to him, and he introduces himself as Sam. But Sam doesn’t want to talk about himself or his passion for gambling; he finds my trip without money more interesting. He calls his buddy over, a fellow named Roy Cooke, and briefly shares my story with him, then invites me to his house, which turns out to be in one of the gated communities.
Roy is a stout man, around fifty years old, with a mustache that makes him look like a snuggly teddy bear. He tells me that he has worked as a professional gambler for fifteen years, which has made him quite rich. He doesn’t want to mention exact numbers, but I’m sure he has certainly made over five million dollars. I am excited to learn that one can be a professional gambler by trade and actually win money (in direct contrast to my awkward attempt today). Roy tells me that in his earlier days, he had been a misfit in school, a guy who was teased by everyone. His father was a professional chess player and introduced him to the game quite early on. During college, he noticed that he could make a lot of money with it. He quickly progressed and became a famous poker player personality in Las Vegas. Eventually, he married a beautiful woman and started a family. I am touched by this story’s lovely development.
I ask Roy whether money has made him happy. He replies quite differently from Dan or Joseph: “Yes, money has made me a much happier person!” Thanks to his riches, he has now become someone with whom one would like to be photographed with in Las Vegas. He says he is gifted, or something of an exceptional talent; someone who is extremely good at something. In his case, it’s gambling. Five years ago, he decided to start a new career as a real estate agent. At first, everything went well and he was on the way to doubling his five million with his lands and houses, but then came the economic crisis, and now 90 percent of his assets are gone; he faces total ruin.
I am shocked that this unbelievable story doesn’t end with the typical Hollywood ending. He became rich through gambling, and lost almost everything by working. How Roy can sit there, totally relaxed and without bitterness, continues to bewilder me to this day. Before I leave, he gives me a useful tip for the rest of my journey: “Shut up and deal!” He grins and closes the door.
The next morning I stand at the exit ramp of Freeway 15 with two dollars in my pocket and a big cardboard sign with the letters “LA” on it. I assume that almost every semiliterate adult all over the world can interpret these two letters as an abbreviation for one of the greatest metropolitan cities in the United States; however, a middle-aged woman stops. No, she doesn’t want to take me along, but instead is only curious to know what the two letters on the signboard are supposed to mean. She doesn’t see “LA” as “L” and “A,” but instead as the word “la,” and asks me what my sign is trying to say. I am, for one of the only times I can recall, speechless.
7
EVERYBODY HAS
A DREAM
Wayne, a retired builder in his pickup truck from Las Vegas, who finally takes pity on me on the Las Vegas roads, drops me off on the outskirts of Los Angeles. I feel lucky because soon afterward, I get to know Fred at the nearest gas station and he offers to take me along. “I just need to do something quickly,” he tells me. So I watch him as he drives his huge pickup truck to the parking lot by the gas station and meets a young woman there. They kiss and there is continuous hugging, again and again. In this vein, the short meeting becomes a two-hour affair of them making out and giggling—all in front of the gas station and next to busy truckers filling up. I occasionally glance over at them as I attempt to amuse myself with my thoughts. Finally, my patience pays off when Fred (who is in a really good mood) offers to take me along to Santa Monica, where I have received an invitation from a couch surfer named James.
Fred is in his mid-forties and could easily work as a Danny DeVito look-alike. As we drive through the endless sea of houses in Los Angeles, he tells me about the details of his relationship and that for the first time in his life he is ready to move away from the coast for a woman. They have already made plans for their future together.
“She is the most wonderful woman in
the world,” he keeps repeating. “This is the real thing. Do you know what I mean? The real thing.” I am impressed with his strong love and ask how long they have known each other.
“Eight days, man. Today was our second date.”
In Santa Monica, James receives me in an elegant apartment near the beach. He truly appears to be the Los Angeles cliché: he is thirty-four years old, very good-looking, and has three jobs—all of which are somehow connected to Hollywood. His main job and source of income is as a masseuse for Hollywood celebrities. Every now and then, he tells me, a good-looking masseuse gets on with famous Hollywood actresses, sometimes offering a little extra relaxation. He recently completed a course in Thai massage and says that by adding a few Thai words here and there during a massage, he can heighten the overall experience and bump up business.
His second job is as a scriptwriter for various television shows and films. I conclude that James is probably the typical “Starbucks writer”—a writer without much success who sits in front of his MacBook every day (any other laptop would be completely unacceptable), writing the next big blockbuster. The Oscar for Best Poser in Screenwriting will certainly 100 percent go to him—emphasis being on the poser bit.
The third job is obvious: he is, unfailingly, an actor.
James also talks about some minor jobs: he works as a DJ at a small bar, and also regularly sends out his modeling photos. With a moderate record of success, he doesn’t give up. At some point in time, he will live the all-American dream and make it big in Hollywood—or at least he hopes so.
On the first night, James tells me a lot about his life: about how he left the countryside in order to make a career here in Hollywood, about how he believes in himself and that anything is possible, and about how cool it is to be part of the glamorous Hollywood life. During our one-sided conversation (James is more of a talker than a listener) he keeps glancing at the large mirror in the living room and moves his hand through his hair. He asks me whether he is good-looking. Naturally I say yes, and for a flourish, add, “You look like the Swiss singer Patrick Nuo. He is known for his good looks.”
How to Travel the World for Free Page 5
