Sand Art

The road to Reno is mildly more interesting than the road to Salt Lake, given that passersby have taken to writing messages in rocks on the great salt plain. We spot a peace sign, a “James Loves Britt,” and the shape of a penis past mile marker 39. Nevada welcomes us with the glitz-free Montego Bay casino at the state line. A sign heralds a rest area, but I am disappointed to find a brown shack that resembles a prison cell, encasing a filthy hole in the ground. Thousands of miles of disgusting gas station bathrooms have taken their toll on me, and I start to protest. But when in Rome…

We arrive to gaudy Reno in the early evening and its inferiority complex reminds me of Atlantic City. Everywhere we see people just barely holding it together. We stay at the glitziest casino on the strip, El. Dorado, and even though our room costs only $45 a night and faces concrete, I feel embraced by luxury. George immediately loses $30 in poker and I fashion myself as a cultural anthropologist, observing how the spendthrift natives fall under the spell of the flashing lights and bleep bleeps. We grab a slice that’s only marginally better than frozen pizza and run into a skirmish on the way back. A young man with shaved head, tattoos and red suspenders is screaming in German at an older black man. The argument escalates, and George is pretty sure the young man is a skinhead. We hang around until he scampers off, but I no longer feel safe or comfortable in Reno. It resembles an aging stripper--clown makeup caked on a crumbling façade.