Can't Blame Garmin Either

    Happy Halloween.  As my wife and I are huge fans of Tim Horton’s coffee, check out the yard display I concocted for this year.

   We missed our Tim Horton coffee on an extended jaunt out west this past month.  What was scarier than not having our favorite brew was a jeep tour we took near Moab in Utah.  Though I thought I was booking just a romantic sunset jeep ride, it turned out to be on a trail called “Hell’s Revenge.”  My wife Wendy would vouch for it being an appropriate name since she crippled her knee on the ride.

     But trooper that she is, she soldiered on since we still had over a week’s worth of itinerary to complete on this self-planned adventure.  Our last stop was Las Vegas and I literally dropped her right at the front door of the Bellagio so she wouldn’t have to hoof it from the parking lot.

     Good thing.

     After I self-parked in the covered multi-level structure, I looked for a way out.  I found one stairway that dead-ended at the bottom.  Went back up and saw a door that led outside, so I took it.  But it took me to a busy service drive with lots of vehicles speeding to and fro but few people.  I did spot a few folks heading towards a door to a large building across the service drive so I hurried over to join them.

     When we entered, I saw a couple people flash their identification badge.  Oh oh, could be an employee’s entrance.  Still, I figured my age and demeanor would get me past the security guard.    And I was right.  He didn’t challenge me.  But then all the people I followed in boarded an elevator.  Uh, this is where we part, I thought.

     So I wandered the back hallways of this building until I heard bells and loud voices.  The casino, yes!  All resort hotels in Las Vegas have one.  Almost there.  So I exited the employee area into the casino, then the resort and finally moved swiftly to find the front door where I’d left my wife.  I found the check-in area.  But no front door.  When I asked for help, I was directed to this underground drop-off zone where cabs and people with suitcases were darting about.  But this wasn’t where I’d dropped off Wendy.

     Again, I asked for assistance and was directed back the way I came.  Somebody pointed me to the check-in desk.  I saw people sitting near there but my wife was not among them.  I ascended some stairs and wandered around fruitlessly.  Back down the stairs, I went again to that underground parking garage.  Again, I asked for assistance.  This time a valet must have guessed what was wrong.

     “What hotel front desk are you looking for?”

     “The Bellagio,” I said.

     “This is the Cosmopolitan,” he responded, and he directed me to the Bellagio, which somehow took another block of walking to get to.  Thankfully my wife had found herself a place to sit and rest while I wandered aimlessly for close to an hour.

      And, as it turns out, had I turned the right way when I’d first parked my vehicle and exited my vehicle, it was a very short walk to where my wife was sitting.  In fact, it would have been a shorter walk from the parking structure (had I done it correctly) than it was from the front door where I’d dropped her off.

     After stressful events like that, I need another vacation.  This time at some place I know.