So why not a travel blog? This qualifies as work. But what to blog about? I called the Wynn PR department, no spa reviews on such short notice, I was notified. Too bad because I could have used a day at the spa to go along with not writing. Of course I jest! Somewhere around Barstow, James decided we’d be staying at Palazzo. And I’ve never written about this still new hotel…UNTIL NOW!

Now my regular readers know that the style of my writing varies upon my mood, the full moon, cash or lack there of, and on and on….Admittedly, I’m in peculiar mood today, so let’s call this, yet another innovation to the craft of writing, my fast and loose style. Frankly, this could be dangerous to anyone or anything that falls or in this case, past tense, fell into my bull’s eye…So watch out Palazzo!

Actually, I’ve strolled through the Palazzo a few times since it first opened and to be fair, I held off writing about the new addition to The Venetian because it opened its retail in phases and in general I garnered that it opened a bit sooner than optimum—and in a terrible economy. But there’s been plenty of time to get it together so…

Next Day—Tired In A Good Way From Vegas

I liked the Palazzo. I’m not going to do a complete analysis at this point as I was just there overnight to keep James company in some meetings, but here are some highlights: check in was easy. The room was the identical layout as the rooms I’ve stayed in at The Venetian many times—and I like this mini-suite layout, in this case the view was also great. I can’t be sure if it was just the change of scenery or the lighter color scheme and different furniture, but I think I like the Palazzo room more than I like The Venetian room. However, some of my best times in Vegas have happened in The Venetian rooms, if you catch my drift, so no disrespect intended.

Tao at the Palazzo / Venetian remains one of my favorite spots for both dinner and nightlife. The club wasn’t open Wednesday night, but the restaurant was, and dinner was as good or better than the last twenty times I’ve dined there—they’ve never had an off night and our waiter this particular night was a Rock Star. After dinner I chose to smoke a cigar with my old buddy Fat Andy at the bar in the middle of the Palazzo casino floor. The crowd was light, welcome to the recession, but the spot itself has a good open vibe—cute waitresses always help. It would be better if they dimmed the lights…This is not as easy as it sound because the Palazzo is a light and airy casino floor with very high ceilings, but it could be done and it would be transformative—a new place to hangout would emerge in the middle of the casino.

Bellagio still has market cornered when it comes to holiday decorations, but Palazzo’s Thanksgiving decorations are spectacular in both of the large atrium areas. Because Palazzo by design is a little on the austere side the decorations warm it up—having a greater impact than they would at most hotels. On this, my advice is to keep up the good work. Palazzo would be well served to be decorated for every season / occasion throughout the year.

As can happen in Vegas, my gamble of tagging along with James led to a meeting of my own the next day. This was an early lunch at First café in a section of The Venetian that I had not strolled previously. I’ll save the review for later, but the café’s windows provide for a very enjoyable view of the strip. Sometimes it’s great to not feel like you’re inside of a casino—this place does the trick. Oh, and that chef with the ponytail and orange Crocs was sitting two tables over, a sign that the food would be good. It was…Make sure you start with the pretzels! Good company, good atmosphere, good food—GOOD TRIP.

As we rolled down the highway back to Los Angeles I thought about my long and most enjoyable history with Las Vegas. I also thought about the effects of the recession on Sin City and in some ways what’s gone on in Vegas is a sin. The “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” era of success made Sin City lazy—not in terms of construction, but in terms of marketing and customer service. As things went bad the attitude changed some and the customer experience factor went up, but not enough—yet. Because my beloved Sin City is oh so much about making money, I’m betting that my brothers and sisters there will see the neon light soon. IT’S ABOUT GIVING GUESTS A BETTER TIME THAN THEY COULD POSSIBLY HAVE ANYWHERE ELSE…AND FOR LESS MONEY.

You know now that I’ve committed these thoughts to writing, I have one more—I think I’ll head back to Vegas next week and stay the weekend. If you feel like hanging out and getting into trouble I’ll let you know my plans in a few days. Trouble Baby…

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

“Paul “Plunger” Greenstein, that’s her,” I thought to myself as I examined her picture on facebook. “It’s been thirty-five years old-friend, I wonder what you’ve been doing. And how did you come to live in Montana?” I decided that I would do some writing in the morning at City Brew in Kalispell and then continue up 93 to Whitefish.

Perhaps a reader of this arranged assortment of letters is wondering why I could so easily make a plan to find Paula Greenstein? And this very question is a testament to inspired human thought. Because the human mind intrinsically knows that all of life is a story. Even creation is a story in which God used the power of letters, to make words, which in someway beyond human comprehension caused matter to continuously congeal into the world as we know it.

Three Days Earlier

Subsequent to taking in the beauty of Flathead Lake from my balcony vantage point I ventured down the staircase. The sound of rustling dogs reminded me of my valiant protectors, who apparently feeling profoundly guilty about the mountain lion incident, would not budge from my side unless locked up—in this case in the laundry room. So I freed Thing One and Thing Two, as I call them, since I did not and still do not know their given names. Happy, as only a dog can be at the sight of a master, we strolled across the lawn to the lake and sat. And this, after eight hours of sleep, would be the end of my seclusion. Leaving the dogs to guard the cabin I fired up the Black Beast (Suburban) and made a right onto 93 for Lakeside and then Kalispell.

Kalispell, a nice little town at its center, is the home of several well-run establishments. Norm’s News is a must first stop for all travelers through this town—my father’s name was Norm (a sign). The hundred-year-old building features a soda fountain counter manned by two adorable teenagers who are the kind of kids I hope my daughters might be one day, if I ever have children. And, although the residents of Kalispell are not aware of it, the ancient “Los Angeles style” bar behind their soda fountain counter holds mystical powers. The wood, carved in Italy two centuries ago, had originally been part of Xerxes the King of Persia’s traveling throne. And because it has traveled so many lands its hand carved maidens have seen much. To the surprise of my young ice cream purveyors I inquired as to whether I could see the old opera house upstairs.

“There’s an opera house upstairs?” they asked in unison. This building holds many secrets my dear friends.

“There is, and I’d like to see it.”

“I’ll take you up there,” said the woman, who seemingly appeared from nowhere, clearly in charge of what goes on at Norm’s. Now my reason’s for sitting in front of the bar carved from the wood of Xerxe’s throne and wanting to see the forgotten opera house upstairs are for another story, but suffice it to say that it was the woman who showed me this place who suggested I go to Whitefish.

“You need to see Whitefish,” she said—exactly.

“What’s Whitefish?” I asked.

“It’s a small town up the road at the base of Big Mountain,” she answered, a tone of satisfaction ringing in her voice, no doubt because she had for a moment traveled on the Road To Nowhere with me.

I thanked her and the girls for their hospitality and headed back to Lakeside…

The following day I traveled to Whitefish—and took a good look around. I made a mental note of all that was there and then I sat at the Montana Coffee Traders thinking that a girl that worked at this coffee house, named Amy, might have something to tell me, something, which I needed to hear—the name of Mike’s wife is Amy. But this beautiful, hard working young lady seemed disconcerted by my presence…Also a story for another time. And I headed back to Lakeside, thumbed through my email, and read the message from Tilly, which begs the question, “Why the first trip?” but as I read the message I put this vexing thought out of my mind and resolved to drive back…

IN SEARCH OF PAULA GREENSTEIN

I stopped to write “Road To Nowhere” part something at City Brew on the south end of Kalispell. City Brew is a small Montana chain trying to emulate Starbucks—and in several ways doing Starbucks better than Starbucks. However, I can write anywhere and I am more than familiar with Starbucks and every variation thereof. No, I chose City Brew for a completely different reason…

The sign stated that Wasabi opened at 5:00 for dinner, it was 4:30—next door was a tea house and although past high tea I entered…After ordering, I inquired of the young tea maker, “Does a woman named Paula own the restaurant next door?”

“Yeah, Paula owns Wasabi.”

“Does she own this place too?”

“No, this is a different owner…But Paula owns the building, she’s our landlord.”

“I haven’t seen her in…” I told her the story until she interrupted me with, “That’s Paula.” She pointed at a woman who looked exactly as I would have expected Paula to look thirty-five years later. “Thank you,” said I, to the tea maker.

Ignoring the fact that Paula was there to join some friends for their daughter’s sweet- sixteen-birthday party I turned to stand in front of her. “Paula “Plunger” from Camp JCA?”

Stunned, she nodded and whispered, “yes.”

“Stan Lerner,” I continued, “Camp JCA 1972 to 1975, Eric Abrams was my counselor. I’ve come here to see you and find out what you’ve been doing with your life…”

She nodded again. “Okay…” we spoke for a few minutes. “Can you stay and have dinner? I own the restaurant next door…And I own the Haymoon Ranch Resort, I’d like to show it to you.”

“I’m on the Road To Nowhere,” I said, then explained the concept to her. “I can stay as long or as little as you like…I have nothing to do and no place to be—I’m all yours.”

I spent much of the next twenty-four hours with Paula roaming around Whitefish. A perfect snapshot of the experience being my time, magically spent, at the Tuesday farmer’s market. There was a girl there named Heather who grew flowers from seeds on the Purple Frog Farm—I could not take my eyes off of her as her beauty and that of the flowers had somehow melded together in a way most commonly described in fairy tails involving love in the enchanted forest. I wanted to touch her and see if she was real, but I refrained. An Amish man named Steve sold me some Kettle Corn; his business is masonry, but Kettle Corn is a family tradition that he enjoys involving his three young daughters in. And then there was Dora, who lured me to her table with homemade granola—Dora’s Granola. I could have just stayed there with Dora until the sun went down or my stomach burst, whichever came first…I kind of miss Dora right now…Strange since we’ve only spoken a few dozen words to each other.

Later that night I sat across from Mike on the Woodsmith made alligator couch, the best couch in the world, and I said, “Take me to the airport tomorrow, I need to go back to LA and take care of some things.”

“Why?” asked my old-friend.

“I know what I have to do now,” I answered.

“And the Road To Nowhere?” he asked, after assessing my entire state of being for a moment.

“We’re back on the Road To Nowhere in three weeks.”

The corners of Mike’s mouth tightened and moved upward into a smile and he nodded. “I like what you’re becoming…”

The End…For Now…

As I pulled my jacket snug around me, Driggs Idaho gets chilly at night, I fought fiercely the desire to withdraw my trusty MacBook Pro and begin penning this part of the tale, but something about this felt wrong—very wrong. It seemed the Road To Nowhere needed to pause for me there, in the dirt driveway of the defunct Bergmeyer furniture factory, next to the expansive field growing something. I reclined in the front passenger seat and thought about why this might be. “Simple,” I thought. “There must be at least one mourner for what had once been.” And then terrified I contemplated my reason for existence. “I write about life. I want to write about life…Have I become a eulogist? Please let not my reason for breathing be to tell the story of a dying land…” And as stated previously I drifted off with these thoughts in the belly of the black beast, ironically called a Suburban, in the driveway of a place once called industrial—now a wilderness at the edge of a field…

A few hours passed and before the sun came up I relieved myself in the field, picked up a stick, and gave the sleeping bag heap a good whack. “Get up little girl it’s time to go.”

There was a moan then some rustling. “Why are you always lashing out? It’s your own fault that you don’t have a wife and kids…”

“Maybe so,” I said getting into the beast and closing the door. “Maybe so,” I said to myself before Mike opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.

The drive from Driggs Idaho to Missoula Montana is as beautiful as one could possibly ask for. Missoula, a scenic little wonderland, is the home of five valleys and seemingly as many rivers. The University of Montana elevates this isolated city of thirty thousand or so people above normal small town status…And thankfully it is not plagued with Hollywood’s elite coming to express their California buying power—as they have done in other parts of the state. In all, Missoula can best be described as Santa Monica Beach California, at the base of some truly beautiful mountains.

As I traversed Main Street, which in Missoula is a street named Higgins, towards a coffee house known as Break Espresso I could feel the metaphorical waters of economic disaster nipping at my ankles. The prices of everything in the large, empty, state of Montana, particularly Missoula, are stratospherically high. It is troubling to see such a nice place, with such nice people, and know that the tsunami that came ashore in California, passed through Nevada, Arizona, and Utah is on its way to the high country—there’s a lot of property for sale. And the industry of Montana is what? Timber and beef do not make for four hundred thousand dollar homes in the middle of town. So white flighters beware!

With the black beast in the shop for reshoeing, and yes I’m aware that there is no such word, and a new plug for the trailer—Mike secured us a quaint cabin on ten acres of mountainside up in one of the Valleys. I prefer the Suburban to the Motel 6 or cabin hideaway, but a hot shower and some of the world’s best hiking trails are consolation enough.

It is pertinent to mention here, that humans seeking the great outdoors are not the only creatures that appreciate the loveliness of Montana. On contraire, wolves, mountain lions, and the mighty grizzly bear all frolic in nature’s playground. In fact, on average, four people a year are mauled to death by ursus arctos horribillis (Grizzly Bears) in Montana. A male grizzly bear can easily reach a height of nine feet when it stands erect on two legs and a weight of eight hundred to a thousand pounds. The grizzly’s claws are longer than other bears, such as the black bear, and they usually swipe at humans horizontally causing painful, life ending disembowelment—in the worst instances of encounter. Because death at the claws of a grizzly bear or any other type of wild animal does not appeal to me, I chose to venture out with two highly trained dogs—again supplied by Mike. Now while the dogs would stand little chance in the event of an attack, they would supply the distraction necessary for a safe getaway—basically they’re meant to be bait.

The good news, after such and ominous foreshadowing, is that I did not come across a single grizzly bear in the thick woods of Montana my first afternoon on foot. The bad news is, I did encounter an extremely voracious mountain lion of seemingly prehistoric size. And while I’d like to report an easy escape or being saved by man’s best friend—neither transpired. And so now I must digress and state a few sad facts for those who might have some recollection of the Stan of the past. Twenty-something-year-old Stan that stood six-foot-one and carried two hundred and fifty-seven pounds of mean muscle mass capable of bench-pressing four hundred and fifty pounds and squatting a thousand no longer exists…Or more simply put, I ain’t what used to be.

Now how or why the lion missed my fearless lead dog I have no explanation for, frankly I never saw it coming, but I felt a thud that literally launched a galaxy of stars before my very eyes, which luckily cleared about halfway down the steep embankment the mountain lion and I found ourselves tumbling down—over and over we rolled…As a youth I enjoyed fighting, never lost a fight, the FBI would not think of arresting me without a S.W.A.T team and even as an out of shape middle-aged-man I fear nobody, but my maker. However, a mountain lion trying to eat me had never even entered my thoughts as a reasonable possibility, and had it, I might have had some further contemplation as to what on this earth gives me pause.

For my readers who appreciate a good MMA fight, say of the UFC variety, you haven’t seen anything, trust me, until you’ve seen someone go at it to the death with a wild animal—like a mountain lion! Forget about ground and pound, like a mongoose, a man’s only hope against such a predator is to get its back and go for a choke. I can tell you from experience, now, that they don’t choke out like a human because they have incredibly strong muscles in their necks and a nasty set of rear hind claws that they rip at your legs in an attempt to sever your femoral artery. And even when the coveted artery alludes them, they leave nice long gashed in your quads that require hundreds of stitches. Oh, they also roar terribly and try to get their jaws around your choking arm in attempt to bite it off. If, as in my case, you suffer from a ripped left pectoral major, they will sense this weakness and use their front claws to mercilessly tear at your weakened left arm.

So I stood, bleeding profusely, and looked down at the dead cat and then looked over at the barking dogs, “What the f*ck?” I said out loud. “Now you bark!” They continued barking, but my mind was already on the long walk back to the cabin. Mike, having spent most of his life in the military, would be able to stitch me up, no doctors allowed on the Road To Nowhere, I just had to hope that I didn’t bleed out before I got there. I gave Mr. Mountain Lion one last disgusted look, “Wrong hiker…C’mon dogs.”

Two Hours Later

“What happened to you?” Mike asked, looking me up and down.

I smiled. “You should see the other guy!” And then I blacked out for twenty-four hours. Sorry for missing a couple days of blogging, but I’m feeling much better now and I will be finding a nice place in Montana to rest for a few more days—maybe Flat Head Lake.

To be continued…

The rock formations in the land somewhere between the states of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah, for those who have not traveled the 15 past Las Vegas, are mind tingling beautiful—cliffs, valleys, streams, escarpments of every kind. And there is no doubt to the thinking man who sets eyes upon this terrain that the Earth itself has a soul. These massive protrusions are not monuments, but a quest by the Earth to reach out and be close to God. The struggle is so similar to our own; the Earth like the body of man anchors the soul so desiring transcendence from the physical realm back to the spiritual reality of all creation. I cry at the sight of these mighty boulders stretched by such an epic struggle…And I feel sorry for myself because of the futility of my own struggle…Surely if the soul of the mighty Earth, which can shift tectonic plates and create mountains can’t…

A stop for lunch in Cedar City, a nice little town with an abundance of Mexican food, a University, and a Wal-Mart—and up the road we continued. From Cedar City to Sandy the topography is that of an enormous, green valley, the surrounding mountains of which, are green as well, seemingly more content with their lot than those encountered earlier—there is a tranquility about them…Even the grazing cattle is happy. Yes, these cows that graze the natural grass are happy not mad.

And the conversation that transpired originating a few miles before St. George and lasting to a click past Beaver went something like this:

“I almost built a factory over there,” Mike nodded the direction of Colorado City. “But when they told me I’d have to meet with the elders I decided not to.”

I looked out the direction of the now well-known polygamist city and said nothing.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think about what?” I responded.

“Would you have done business with those people?”

“Of course I would have,” answered I, with out hesitation. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they’re polygamist,” Mike explained, as if this fact should mean something to me.

“Oh. Well so were most of my favorite forefathers of biblical times. I don’t see anything wrong with polygamy, so I would definitely not have a problem doing business with polygamists.”

“But they marry their daughters off when they’re fourteen,” Mike erupted. He has two daughters.

“I don’t think they all get married that young. But who cares, my grandmother married my grandfather when she was thirteen and they were very happy.”

“That was a different time. If you had a daughter would you let here get married at fourteen?”

“Yeah, if I liked the man that she was marrying. You realize that half the fourteen-year-olds in this country are sexually active anyway—I’d rather have mine sleeping with her husband than a bunch of horny boys that are just using her up. I don’t like tattoos either by the way.”

“But they’re isolated…”

“So? You think they should all move to LA, dress like hookers and start smoking crack?”

“No, but I think they should all be getting an education.”

“And you don’t think that it’s up to parents to decide how their children should be educated? Because schools in America are doing such a great job educating children. Under the premise of this being a free country I think parents should be allowed to decide what’s best for their own kids…You know the two best presidents in this country’s history didn’t attend any kind of formal school for more than a few months.”

“So you would just leave them alone and let them keep doing they’re thing?”

“I would offer them any kind of help that I could. Ronald Reagan called this constructive engagement. But yes, I would let our brother and sister Americans be free to live as they see fit. If not, maybe it’s your door the government is knocking on next, telling you that you don’t live close enough to school for your children to be adequately socialized…I wouldn’t go for that either.”

Mike thought about all of this and more that I did not write.

“I could have constructively engaged with them,” he concluded.

Exit 9000 was where I recalled Richard Zinman, Richard, Turd, Zinman, RZ, living off of. And it should be noted that since the day that Ilene Rossoff  introduced us on the big red fire engine at Camp Monticqa / Montebello Park some forty years ago Richard and I have been the best of friends. Or more simply put, I’ve been hanging out with Rich since I was four-years-old.

“Hey I’m in Utah with Munoz, let’s meet up for dinner.”

“Where do you want to eat?” he inquired. After forty years he’s grown quite used to me dropping in—the wife would probably prefer a little more notice, but she tolerates my spontaneity reasonably well.

And there I sat having very good Indian food in Sandy Utah with two of my best friends—28 and 40 years respectively. I hadn’t considered that Mike and Richard hadn’t seen each other in twenty-seven years—I’m glad that the Road To Nowhere crossed for these two, as they are both exceptional human beings.

It’s always difficult to say goodbye to Rich, however he has a wife, four kids, and a real job so there was no point in asking him to saddle up…But the Road To Nowhere is for everyone even if only traveling along in spirit.

California, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah in a day, it was time for some sleep in Salt Lake City—really one of my favorite cities.

“Motel Six?” asked Mike.

We both rarely sleep more than four hours a night and our purpose is to be on the road so the Motel Six would do. Funny though, the light at this particular location was burnt out—if you know what I mean.

“Hey, I need to pick up some heavy equipment in Driggs Idaho if you don’t mind?” which is Mike’s way of suggesting our next stop.

“I’ve never been to Driggs…”

“It’s on the back side of the Grand Tetons.”

I nodded my approval. “We can be there in time for lunch.”

“We can be there in time for breakfast,” insisted my friend, clueless to what I had planned for him.

“You can’t come to Salt Lake and not have breakfast at Ruth’s Diner, my boy. We’ll be in Driggs for lunch.”

To be continued…