Sunday was a low key day, devoted to resting, naps, and eating. G had said that the day following the after party should be ‘reserved for vomiting,’ but things never went that far. In contrast, Monday was filled with activity. It was our last full day in Las Vegas and we had booked one of those bus trips to the Grand Canyon, including tickets for the Skywalk. You probably know all about the Skywalk and might even have taken a stroll on it yourselves. In brief, it is a U-shaped platform made of thick glass imported from Germany that juts 70 feet out from the canyon wall, offering glorious views of the huge expanse below it, some 4,000 feet down to the Colorado River. After lining up, placing all of your valuables in a locker, and pulling fluffy slippers over your shoes, you walk on this glass floor, or jump on it while laughing as G did, much to my chagrin. More about that shortly. So we dragged our sorry, hung over asses out of bed at about 5:30 am to be taken to the canyon by a loquacious driver named Frosty. Frosty was literally brimming with information that he could not wait to share with us. Unfortunately, he knew little about the Hoover Dam or Grand Canyon, and instead spoke at length about his granddaughter, a 13-year-old belly dancer, his childhood in Ohio, and the Las Vegas laws against washing your car in the driveway. He did so in such an annoying manner that even the agreeable—though ultimately wretched; I won’t bore you with the details—Australian family seated behind us on the bus began to seethe in unwhispered voices ‘Shut up Frosty.’

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