Caught in a trap in Vegas

Thelma and Louise, the ultimate role models? – hell yeah!
Of course we hope for a different ending but don’t we all dream of driving through the desert until we’re drinking margaritas by the sea mamacita?
We chose Las Vegas as our destination and, whilst we mastered the margaritas, our robust rental convertible probably had sufficient safety features to survive that cliff dive.
Nonetheless it was bucket-list bliss as we drove through the Nevada desert to make our pilgrimage to the home of synthetic sin.
Determined to pander to all stereotypes we shimmied to ‘Viva Las Vegas’ on the car stereo just as we hit the strip and finally opened the roof (7 hours in the desert is hot and dusty – park all notions of Grace Kelly scarves and the wind on your face).
Immediately I felt like the kid of newly divorced parents on my first overnight stay in ‘Dad’s place’.
Turns out Dad had been living a secret life as a cross-dressing show girl with a penchant for flashing lights and fluorescent lycra.
Better still Dad was proud to flaunt his latent recklessness and I was invited to his all-night party.
Vegas (you earn the right to drop the Las once you’ve been there) is just too prodigious to be scorned at - or to quickly form an orderly focused itinerary.
So we pounced on the only first priority that made sense – go see an Elvis impersonator.
All of my smug pre-conceptions were validated as I endured the unsavoury gyrations of a Gloria Estefan wannabe as the opening act. Was twerking even invented when the ‘rhythm was going to get you’ in the 80s?
But then there he was.
I was instantly oblivious to the sickly cocktails and ageless Barbie Doll waitresses.
I actually felt a ridiculous sympathy for all those bouffant 60s teenagers who only ever got to hyper-ventilate, scream and cry at this man on a TV screen.
I wanted to be nothing but his hound dog, step on his blue suede shoes and love him ever so tenderly.
I even wanted to lie on the steps of Graceland in the hope that Cher was right and really had seen his ghost walking down Union Avenue.
Did it matter when I discovered that ‘my’ Elvis did in fact hail from my hometown in Ireland?
Did it destroy the dream when his guttural Dublin accent contrasted horribly with the glittering rhinestones and the hypnotic performance?
Not for me.
Instead I learned three things…
Fake really can be fabulous.
Elvis never really left any building.
Everyone needs to earn the right to drop the Las from Vegas just once in their lives.