New Fun on Planet Vegas

There’s a photograph that won’t be appearing with this story.

I do wish I had the guts to show it to you, though. It might help illustrate an odd realization this trip evoked: that sometimes fun and blinding terror go hand in hand.

The photo, shot the night before, rides in my pocket as I enter Caesars Palace with my wife, Pam, our three children and (lest I have any doubts that the good old gonzo days are gone) my mother-in-law.

We’ve come to this purportedly penitent Sin City to investigate two new highly hyped “family attractions”--the Las Vegas Hilton’s Star Trek, the Experience, and the Race for Atlantis at Caesars Palace.

Rushing to beat the crowds for the latter, we march through Caesars casino and hike the length of the hotel’s Forum Shops complex.

Most malls make me twitch and wheeze. But this faux-classical space, with its high arched ceilings painted and lighted to suggest the pale blue of a Roman summer dusk, almost inspire an urge to shop. And while the stores, with their classical facades, are geared to upscale adults, our kids’ heads snap back and forth with interest.

We turn one bend, and a towering Trojan horse, at least the size of the legend, pokes into the mall from a multistory FAO Schwartz. The horse is mundane, however, compared to what awaits at the mall’s terminus, a domed rotunda with fresco-style murals of racing chariots above and Diesel, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Niketown at pedestrian level.

Here we merge with the line that has formed for Atlantis’ public premiere. As it happens, folks inside the attraction are still trying to work out a few kinks, and the line doesn’t budge until 45 minutes after the scheduled 10 a.m. opening.

Fortunately, just as boredom sets in, the fountain beside us goes postal. This thing was already pretty interesting, with columns and waterfalls set atop a massive, colorfully stocked aquarium. Now the columns descend. Fields of giant ice crystals arise, and mythic figures emerge from the steam and fog: Poseidon high on his throne, flanked by his son and daughter.

*

The son, you see, is fire; the daughter ice and the fountain’s narrative (Yes, these are peculiar times in which to discuss the ancient art of storytelling) has to do with the siblings’ squabble to inherit their daddy’s realm. Mouthing dialogue that’s one part Joseph Campbell and two parts Marvel Comics, Fire rages; Ice shouts. But the kingdom can’t be saved.

Thunder rumbles. Lightening flashes. Then Poseidon’s dark throne transforms into a monstrous beast-bird, with clacking beak and flapping wings.

Oh, and the waterfalls burst into apocalyptic flames. And that’s before one even glimpses the inside of the attraction proper.

Finally, though, the line moves, and we enter a fog-shrouded chamber where heaven and Earth meet. Here we’re told that the ride’s “pre-show” is on the fritz, and in a way, that’s good, because the managers wind up comping everyone in line, saving us the price of six tickets: $9.50 adults, $6.75 kids, $8.50 for seniors and $8 for students and Nevada residents.

What’s bad is that we have only a vague sense of what the ride’s about as we pull on electronic 3-D goggles, strap ourselves into what is supposed to be a giant chariot and meet a cartoon character named Pindar who is assigned to lead us on the race.

Then we’re off, dipping and diving on a 27-seat motion simulator that is digitally connected to the fantasy-scape unfolding on the surrounding 82-foot-high IMAX film dome.

The sensation, accentuated by an encompassing sound system, is that we’re pinballing through Atlantis’ crumbling cartoon realm; that we’re slamming into other chariots, under attack by the fire-breathing crypto-creature Ghastilus; and then, swooping along side by side with graceful animated dolphins.

As we stumble back into the mall, Pam dismisses our experience as “souped-up Captain Eo”--a reference to Disneyland’s now defunct 3-D attraction.

But the kids and I hold it in much higher regard. As does Grandma. Which brings me to another interesting phenomenon--and back to that photograph.

We left L.A. for Vegas on a Friday evening. By 8:30 we were hungry--for food and the trip’s promised thrills. So when we reached Buffalo Bill’s hotel and casino at the California-Nevada state line, we couldn’t resist.

The hotel is designed to look like one of those sheet metal-clad mining operations, where impossibly steep conveyors haul ore to frightening heights. Here, though, a roller-coaster track rises from the casino and cuts cold yellow slashes across the black sky.

Against my better judgment, I let our daughter Ashley, 13, talk me into the front car with her. Emily, 11, and Grandma, 70-something, sat a few cars back.

Our car ratcheted to its apex 209 feet above the desert floor, then paused above an endless vertical drop, with 5,000 feet of wrenching track visible in the darkness ahead.

I’m a roller-coaster aficionado. But at that moment I mumbled: “I don’t want to be here.”

I meant it.

When we finally wobbled off the ride, Ashley and Emily giggled wildly. My eyes met my white-faced mother-in-law’s, and we fell into each others’ arms, our laughter coming from an entirely different part of the soul.

Apparently, though, the lesson didn’t take. After a fine cheap dinner at the hotel’s Wagonmaster coffee shop, Ashley again lured me onto a ride.

The Turbo Drop lifted us straight up over the desert. With our feet dangling at acrophobia-inducing height, I spotted a camera sticking out at eye level. But vanity is no match for terror. I didn’t even make a stab at insouciance.

Have you ever dreamed that you were falling? Remember that sickening plunge? The jolt of panic that hits your chest? How you would sob and scream simultaneously if your body hadn’t locked up like bad brakes?

Well, the camera that caught my daughter with hair flying and a G-force-smeared grin on her face caught me in that nightmare.

Pam gawked at the picture we bought at the now-obligatory photo stand at ride’s end. “I can’t believe I married such a coward,” she said.

But her mother understood. And as the weekend progressed, Grandma discovered she wasn’t alone in her belated quest to test herself against mankind’s techno-mechanical terrors.

We’re on the elevator at the Excalibur hotel, for instance, and Grandma is drawn into conversation. “You been on any rides?” an older man in an Indiana seed company hat asks.

“I went on the Desperado,” Grandma says, grimacing. Suddenly the man and his white-haired wife are chattering excitedly, as Grandma joins in.

At Caesars we stand behind Beatrice and William Simpson, a retired couple from Rancho Palos Verdes who say they’re Las Vegas regulars.

“I don’t know how to gamble, and I don’t want to learn,” William says. What he wants, he says, is the rush of new rides.

*

And even at Las Vegas prices, the rides have got to pack a cheaper punch than gambling--which is not to say there’s no risk involved.

At Star Trek, the Experience, for instance, there is a ticket line ($9.95 a person regardless of age) and a line in which we wait for our turn to board the starship. By the time we get inside, after well over an hour’s wait, we’re too impatient to linger in the exhibit area, even though the masterfully made up “Trek” creatures are friendly.

The ride itself takes us along on a ripping space battle between our Trekkie protectors and them lousy Klingons. Again we’re stuck in the sort of buckin’ box motion simulator that is taking over the thrill rides scene, but the effect is less viscerally convincing than Atlantis.

Pseudo-space isn’t all that scary. What is is the ride’s climax, in which our imagined space probe cannonballs down the neon-lighted streets of Las Vegas.

Exiting the ride, we spill into the Hilton’s new Space Quest casino, which is where we waited in line. Once again the kids’ attention shifts back and forth from the meteors, moons and planets soaring by in huge overhead “windows,” to the gamblers who smoke, drink, swear and poke away at slot machines inches from our elbows.

*

Which brings us to what I see as a key Las Vegas problem.

With its pyramid, sphinx, pirate fights, and albino tigers, the place now looks like a fifth-graders’ brainstorming session gone gloriously haywire. It’s as if a brilliant 10-year-old’s imagination were magically loosed upon a town, so that hotels suddenly sprouted roller coasters and muscle-bound action figures overran the fountains.

In many ways, though, the town is better suited to adults’ “inner children” than to genuine crumb-snatchers.

A colleague tells me she hates Las Vegas now. Why? “Too many kids.”

I can’t say I blame her--or the soon-to-debut hotel our cabbie says will refuse admittance to anyone under 21.

As it is, kids are everywhere, and by and large they don’t fit in. Last May, in that state line town of Primm where we roller-coastered, a 7-year-old girl was murdered in an arcade while her father gambled. Even before that, though, Las Vegas reportedly was grappling with its newfound identity as a family destination.

It should.

Take the Excalibur, where we stayed, for instance. With its larger-than-life Arthurian spires and turrets, this castle-shaped hotel looks like every young child’s dream. But, like Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Castle, the facade doesn’t deliver on its promise. Robert, 8, got a kick out of the suits of armor on display, and of course there are arcades and shows.

But wallpaper made to look like stone blocks in the (typical in Vegas) so-so rooms doesn’t distract one from the obvious fact that gambling is what this and every hotel-casino really wants its guests to do.

Beyond that, the hotels themselves are so crowded that walking through them with kids is like herding cats through a flock of drunken poultry. And while new walkways link casinos, finding your way from one to the other is still like navigating a very long labyrinth.

The city is now jammed with rides for children and adolescents, but they’re spread the length of the four-mile Strip. On the first day of our ride-hopping spree, we opted to take cabs. Alas, Las Vegas is strict in limiting its taxis to five passengers. So the cost of our inter-hotel excursion doubled.

*

All that said, if someone had rigged our brains with digital funometers, they would have been flashing more fun than frustration. Where but Las Vegas can you eat breakfast at the Motown Cafe while Supremes impersonators--complete with sequined red gowns and elbow-length red gloves--belt out a dead-on “Stop in the Name of Love,” and then ride a yellow-checkered roller coaster as it corkscrews and loop-de-loops through a reconstructed New York skyline?

Now New York-New York’s roller coaster is fun. But the Vegas cognoscenti know it’s not the town’s pinnacle of thrills. So, before leaving town we muster our courage and ride the elevator to the Stratosphere Hotel’s space-needlesque summit, 1,149 feet high at the peak.

Once we’re up there, Stratosphere’s High Roller coaster reels the whole family around the tower top, but despite the height, it’s rather tame. The other tower-top ride, the Big Shot, a long, fast open-air trip up the pinnacle itself, is another matter.

Once again, Ashley and I climb into chairs that leave our feet dangling. This time, I calm myself with deep breathing exercises.

Down below, on a lower platform, I see a guy grinning and staring. I give him the thumbs up sign and he gives it back--brothers in courage, I figure. As it turns out, he buttonholed Pam a moment later: “You’ve got to see this,” he crowed. “Some guy’s up there hyperventilating!”

As he speaks, we rocket skyward as if blasted from a cannon, the whole conflicted city spreading out below.

Again a camera catches us as we plummet. And I don’t let Ashley buy the photo.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

GUIDEBOOK: Riding High in Vegas

Getting there: Nonstop service LAX to Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport on Southwest, United, America West, Reno Air, Delta and American. Fares begin at $76 round trip.

There’s really only one automobile route from Southern California: Interstate 15. Getting to I-15 is another matter. Some Angelenos avoid the inevitable Friday rush-hour freeway snarls on the Pacific side of the Cajon Pass by taking Angeles Crest Highway to Angeles Forest Highway to Lancaster and then heading east. But be prepared to contend with crazed Antelope Valley tailgating commuters.

Where to stay: Prices below are best weekend rates quoted recently by reservations clerks for a standard room, not including tax. Rates vary widely according to availability.

Excalibur Hotel & Casino, (800) 937-7777, $89; limited number of deluxe rooms with additional fold-out couch available at same rate. Kid stuff: Large pool, but the sections with water slides weren’t open on a recent weekend. Like most of the hotels now, there is an extensive arcade; King Arthur theme intrigues aspiring knights.

New York-New York Hotel & Casino, (800) 693-6763, $124; $134 for larger room. Kid stuff: With its attached roller coaster and Coney Island-style arcade, “the greatest city in Las Vegas” has plenty of appeal.

Circus Circus Hotel & Casino, (800) 444-2472, $79; one-bedroom suite, $178. Kid stuff: Trapeze artists perform over the casino, other circus acts entertain; hotel now sports its own indoor amusement park with roller coaster and other rides.

Luxor Hotel/Casino, (800) 288-1000, $99. Kid stuff: The pyramid and sphinx grab kids’ attention; there are several motion-simulator rides downstairs.

Treasure Island at the Mirage, tel. (800) 944-7444, $99. Kid stuff: Outdoor pirate battles are a kid magnet.

For more information: Nevada Commission on Tourism, Capitol Complex, 5151 S. Carson St., Carson City, NV 89710; tel. (800) 237-0774 or (702) 687-4322.

Las Vegas Hotel Visitors and Convention Bureau; tel. (800) 449-2876.