Finding Las Vegas on Fremont Street

When I was 16 years old, I wanted to be Joan Didion. I still want to be Joan Didion. She was such a brilliant writer she even made migraines seem glamorous.

I was especially enthralled with everything she wrote about California, from the iconic long-form piece on Haight-Ashbury to the essays on Patty Hearst and John Wayne and the Los Angeles freeway. The image of Los Angeles I gleaned from her books was of a sleek, modern, fast-moving, decadent utopia. LA seemed to want to shed the past as quickly as possible.

Yet as I stand here for the first time in Las Vegas,  I realize that it, not LA, is the true land of the eternal present. History is everywhere in Los Angeles, if you pay attention, but in Vegas, even the Tropicana is going to be torn down to be replaced by a baseball stadium. The Strip is not the place for sentimentality. 

In the movies — and most Gen-Xers grew up on Mob movies, which meant growing up on Vegas movies — it always looks as if James Caan bops out of one casino and into another one like he’s moving from room to room in the same big house. Before I stayed in Vegas, I thought you could jaunt down the Strip, popping in and out of casinos like so many candy stores, stopping for a big steak and lobster dinner whenever you felt like it.

Yet Las Vegas isn’t like that at all. Each hotel/casino on the Strip is a small city of its own and is designed to keep you inside as long as possible. Well into the fourth day of the trip, I was still exiting the hotel monorail hoping to cross the street for a cup of coffee like in a normal city. I never did figure out what the monorail was for, because I would emerge from it into another two-mile hike past souvenir shops, down passageways, and through casino after casino after exhibit after casino.

This must be what the eternal present feels like: neon lights flashing and bells ringing, and those golden 3-D coins billowing out at you from the slot machine screen as Vanna White congratulates you for a good spin. I am happy to admit that I had a blast, but confess I expected more Dean Martin and less AC/DC. The music is loud, it is relentless, and you will eventually succumb to the allure  of a city that has no time for anything other than keeping your money flowing into that subterranean river of cash.

The crucial exception to this is the Fremont Historic District, which is the main reason I’m writing this post. I found the Fremont Historic District by accident, as a friendly cab driver pointed it out while he was taking me to the Mob Museum (which is within 4 blocks).

The Fremont Historic District does not bombard you with nostalgia, but you will find a few plaques and signs tucked away that will remind you of the older Vegas many of us see in our dreams. You will also find some of the mid-century modern casinos that are uniquely Vegas, in contrast to the gleaming, global towers of The Strip.

People seem more relaxed here. Street vendors and over-stuffed souvenir shops display unique objects in the midst of the usual kitsch. When I visited, one youngish clerk who had served in Afghanistan spent forty leisurely minutes explaining why I should try psychedelic mushrooms, as customers swirled around the shop trying in vain to buy something. Everyone is still hustling, but the pace and scale are more human. 

So, if you visit Vegas, maybe take at least one late afternoon to stroll through here. You will get some great pictures and a respite from the eternal present. And if you eat at The Triple George Grill, don’t be surprised if you hear the tinkly laugh of Marilyn Monroe as Dean Martin turns on the charm in one of the private booths behind you. This is just an illusion, of course. But it’s a good one.