Las Vegas wants to cater to you.
Not to say the place is indiscriminate. It’s just that no matter your social circle, be it personal helipad or public transit, everyone’s covered. The late Hunter S. Thompson declared Las Vegas the very emblem of the American dream, and who would dare contradict him? There is something about the place which takes all that is brash and hungry and concentrates into a sizzling sink-hole in the desert…
There’s a radio station that pumps its signal through almost every car, bodega and liquor store in South Beach, its playlists dotted with celebrity-laden station IDs proclaiming Miami to be “The Sexiest Place on Earth.” While one is inclined to believe the likes of Lil Wayne and Trick Daddy when they say as much, it’s still a lofty claim. In fact, for those accustomed to cooler climates — particularly those of us who are built for comfort rather than speed — sexiness can feel like something of an elusive pursuit, particularly in the persistent heat of a South Miami summer.
Our plan was simple. My wife came to the marriage with two sons, so it made sense to get married on Mother’s Day. All of the suppliers were booked and hold-the-date invites were sent to our guests. And then the century-old venue we had selected called to say that they had made a booking error, having forgotten about their 120 year tradition of serving a double luncheon for their members on Mother’s Day.
That is how my wife and I came to be making the two-and-a-half hour drive from Toronto to Owen Sound to celebrate our first wedding anniversary the weekend before Mother’s Day.
En route to Los Cabos International Airport, high above the swollen cactus plants and dusty palms of coastal Mexico, it occurs to me that my understanding of the country below is founded mostly on works of film and literature; try as I might, I can summon only a hazy blend of Malcolm Lowry’s boozy Under The Volcano, John Steinbeck’s travelogues, the American soundstages of The Three Amigos, and La Bamba—the Tijuana part.
Where I’m headed, however, is definitely not Tijuana—not even close. Los Cabos (literally, ‘The Capes’) is about 1600 kilometres south of that bustling metropolis, and a world away in spirit. This territory, which includes the small cities of San José del Cabo and Cabo San Lucas as well as the resort-lined corridor that stretches between them, sits at the furthest reaches of Mexico’s Baja California Peninsula and is separated from the mainland by the Sea of Cortez. In other words, it’s the perfect setting for a luxury resort.
The challenge of the long-weekend vacation getaway: you need three or four days to relax, recharge and refresh, but in the week running up to your departure, you must plan your vacation, pack, make sure your work duties will be covered, double check that pets, children and parents will be well cared-for in your absence, and guarantee that your house won’t burn down — whew. Okay. Deep breaths. And by the time you are ready to leave, you have twice the stress as usual to alleviate.
Fortunately, if you’re based in Eastern Canada, the Bahamas offer a great opportunity for a short vacation to another world. A direct flight from Toronto or Montreal to Nassau takes only about three hours, and there is no time change involved. Nassau, on New Providence island, has everything most people require for a vacation: sun, sand, and plenty of rum. This most populous island in the Bahamas archipelago features a bustling tourist-friendly city boasting many large brand-name resorts not far from the airport, including the recently renovated Sheraton Cable Beach which has a relaxed stylishness to the decor, plenty of pools and beach territory to enjoy, and a mature vibe that will suit anyone not thrilled by the battle cry “Spring Break.”
Nassau, though, is a quintessential tourist town, besieged daily by an armada of cruise ships. Because it is so near the US — New Providence island is only a few hundred kilometres east of southern Florida — a short-stay visitor might be forgiven for feeling like he has landed in an extension of the Sunshine State, a colony of South Beach. That feeling is exactly what some vacationers need to unwind, a place where a hard day of tanning can be topped off with a little but of bottle service and Beyonce — and if you prefer your bottle of Cristal to arrive with sparklers, head straight for Aura, the hedonistic Vegas-style nightspot at the famous Atlantis hotel and casino on Nassau-adjacent Paradise Island.
For those who need a slower-paced getaway, the lesser-known and less-frequented Bahamian islands offer everything one needs to forget the meaning of the word “stress.”
Upon landing in Nassau, a short wait in the town’s unassuming airport, followed by a 45-minute flight on a 10- or 20-seat propeller airplane can take you to an idyllic place like Long Island. The Beechcraft that took our group featured interior styles reminiscent of a well-preserved 1980 Lincoln Town Car, and in a plane that size every seat is both a window and an aisle seat, every passenger can enjoy a peaceful view puffy pink clouds hanging over a necklace of green islands in the turquoise sea.
Long Island is one of the “home islands” — the more southerly Bahamian islands that mark the border between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea. It is an 80-odd kilomtre long strip of land with a single main road dotted by settlements and coves. Somewhere around the middle sits the Stella Maris resort, a venerable family-run collection of single-storey accomodations clustered around a few pools, a place where the doors have no locks, because none are needed. (They do have a safe for valuables at the front desk, which one senses is there more for peace of mind than security).
Upon arrival at the resort, shoulder knots start to untie themselves, as the salty ocean scents drift through the palms, and the conch fritters, the rum punch and gentle guitar music at the pre-dinner social gathering at the Stella Maris club house work their magic. Any stubborn remaining tension will be shown the door by the next morning’s excursion to Cape Sanata Maria at the end of Long Island, home of a long and lithe stretch of beach, ranked among the best in the world — which, nonetheless we had to ourselves, bar a couple of figures strolling far far away along the sands. Snorkelling above the nearby reef, gazing lazily at the irridescent fish in their shimmering schools will have you forget exactly what that whole concept of “stress” was ever about.
Dubai, 10.00am of a Sunday. The corporate headquarters of the Emirates Group becomes the latest in a long line of visited buildings that are truly impressive to behold. Glassed, girdered and decidedly open-air, it’s a wonderful “junior” complement to Emirates’ spectacular Terminal 3, just on the other side of the highway. (“Junior” is no denigration; in matters of size, there are airports and then there is everything else.)
In fact, one of Emirates’ senior V.P.’s, Richard Vaughan, explains that so busy has Terminal 3 proven in the half-year since its opening, flights are already spilling over into Terminal 2. Nice work, if you can get it.
Dubai, 9.00am of a Saturday. To market, to market, to market: the morning agenda involves textiles, spices and jewellery. If the construction of the souks themselves looks just a little too rigid, too clean, too straight to be authentic (or at least old), the kiosks at least have hints of individuality.
Finally, though: throngs! I never thought I’d miss people at their most swarming, and these markets are definitely abuzz. Such a welcome change from the comparably deserted super-malls.
Dubai, 11.00am of a Friday. I find myself wondering if the second-largest city in the United Arab Emirates isn’t also the…emptiest? Later in the day, our tour guide runs the numbers for us (incidentally, he’s a Sri Lankan stat machine non pareil, who, we joke among ourselves, could probably address us in binary): 3,900 square km, and 300 people per square km.
Sure, those numbers mean as little to you as they do to me, but regardless of the population density, this much is true: I am staying in the hub of Dubai — the cutting-edge of “new,” here — yet wherever I turn, there is nothing but elbow room. Arguably too much of it. Read More
Dubai, second-largest city in the United Arab Emirates and home of countless exquisite waterfalls, 6.00pm of a Thursday. I arrive very well-rested. So well-rested that I am feeling a vague mental peace as my group exits the capacious airport, which makes departure-hub Toronto’s own Terminal 1 seem a comparative Greyhound depot.
The relaxed feeling is no doubt to do with the fact that the flight, on the Emirates airline, was beyond pleasant: business class to one of the world’s most opulent destinations, as one might imagine, leaves little to be desired that cannot be fulfilled at the press of a button. Whether the service solution involves a beverage-bearing attendant or a self-activated massage or full-bed function for the multi-position recliner, every contingent need is considered.
Still, it’s only as I am exiting the airport that I realize why I feel particularly comfortable: it’s the breathing room. My earlier comparison to Toronto Terminal 1 is apt, because both of these buildings are engineered to emphasize space, ambience. Dubai’s is bigger, of course, but surely this is the city’s raison d’être. I will soon see if bigger means better.
