P and I decided to spend our Valentine’s weekend in a rather unorthodox place: Las Vegas. Well perhaps “unorthodox” doesn’t really apply since brides and grooms-to-be littered the Strip so maybe the word I’m looking for is different — seeing as how we normally spend our romantic dates over Greek food in Willow Glenn instead of wandering from casino to casino at card game tables hoping to win it big.
(Ironic may also be a bit fitting term since we decided to jet away to the proclaimed city of sin mere hours after Ash Wednesday ended…)
Usually, my trips to Las Vegas consist of a no-boys-allowed-party-til-dawn attitude, so approaching it this time around with my boyfriend was not the typical fare of 20-something female debauchery. I never really considered Vegas anything other than the party capital of the United States and definitely not some sort of Shangri-La to escape to when feeling the urge to rekindle the flame in a four-year-old relationship, but in what seems like a growing trend when I travel, I was wrong. Of course I knew there were other things that you could do in Vegas, I just never considered them since the sole intent of all of my trips there have been to give birthday girls a good time. It never really crossed my mind that Vegas could be a place d’amour, in the realest sense of the phrase.
Between eating my weight in crab legs and seafood at Wicked Spoon, the decadent buffet at the trendy Cosmopolitan, grabbing yard-long margaritas at Fat Tuesday, which can be found all over the Strip, and browsing through shops at Miracle Mile in Planet Hollywood, Vegas became a welcome blend of fun and affection. And while it wasn’t romance in the Bahamas or Hawaii and I can’t guarantee that my next trip to the city will be filled with as much mush and gush as this visit, my Valentine’s in Vegas was one for the books.