Glowing Like Neon Lights; Spotlights of the City Nights

I love Las Vegas, for many reasons.  I love that it exists, I love that it celebrates excess in the tackiest way possible, I love that, unless you've gone in with the silly idea that you're actually going to win money, it's a place where low expectations keep spirits high.

And I love Siegfried and Roy's Secret Garden, located behind the Mirage Hotel and Casino, just a line of trees away from the "adult" (read: naked!) pool and lounge. 

 

The German illusionists don't perform at the Mirage anymore (obviously), but their legacy remains in the form of this wildlife conservation center.  When the act closed after 13 straight years of performance, the animals from the show, used to life at the Mirage and around people, are now part of a public animal display.  In addition to the famous white tigers and lions, there are big cats of a more usual color, black panthers, a jaguar cub (complete with attentive keeper) and, curiously, a little herd of alpacas.   

(Rumor has it that somewhere on the premises is that tiger from "the incident."  But it's not like there's a sign nearby that says "AND THIS IS THE ONE THAT ATE ROY," and the keeper in the jaguar cage doesn't seem inclined to answer that kind of question, so that's a rumor that will have to remain unsubstantiated.)

"These cats are male," a keeper warns us as we enter the garden.  "You might not want to get too close to the cages.  You never know when they're going to spray."  She's dead serious, but we laugh when she says it.  We stand as close to the cages as the guard rails will let us, and so does everyone else who's come to animal watch.  Or we do, until one of the elderly orange tigers limps out of his pool, turns his back on the gathering audience, and lifts his tail.  The crowd takes a collective step backwards.  Mothers lift their slow-moving children out of the way while the able-bodied elbow each other in the fight to be the one standing the furthest from the bars.  All while the stale sulfur smell of cat urine settles in the air like an old raincoat on a coat rack. 

But the best thing about the Secret Garden, the pièce de résistance in my humble opinion, has nothing to do with the animals.  It's the large, scenic woodcut fixed to the back of the gift shop - blond wood carved and painted to depict a be-robed Siegfried and Roy leading a host of exotic animals, two by two, into the belly of a resplendent ark.  The placard on the wall beside it explains that it was crafted and donated by a group of Romanian nuns, one of them being Siegfried's own sister, a gift of thanks to the entertainers for the help given towards building the nuns a new orphanage.  The sentiment is very heartfelt but the product very... I think it might be most polite to call it "European."  The end result is so deliciously Las Vegas that it is simply not to be missed.    

I must have zoo on the brain this week.  

I haven't been to the Cincinnati Zoo in over a year, but all of my favorite Zoo Facts are about this particular zoo, so here we are.

The Cincinnati Zoo is the second oldest zoo in America, opening just 14 months after the Philadelphia Zoo, in 1875.  (If you were curious, the oldest zoo in the world is the Teirgarten Schönbrunn of Vienna, built in 1752.)  What is now the Reptile House, but was built to be the Cat House, is the oldest zoo building still standing, the last remaining building from it's opening year.  This building, along with the architectural significance of  the onion-domed elephant house, marked the Cincy Zoo for the national historic registry.  There's even a plaque nestled in the bushes outside the old building, listing it's proud achievement.

(Of course, the reason the Cincinnati Zoo became the important zoo it is today is because it was one of the first, if not THE first, zoos to do away with the confining and claustrophobic animal houses and menagerie-type exhibits in favor of the more naturally spacious "habitat" enclosures. Better for the animals, and a little bit thrilling for visitors to see them "in the wild.)   

And if you go to Cincinnati, be sure to visit Martha.  Martha, named for Martha Washington, was a passenger pigeon, the last surviving Passenger Pigeon in the world, and she died in her hut in 1914 at the ripe old age of 29.  Her home has since been transformed into a memorial aviary, complete with the history of America's brutal slaughtering of every wild Passenger Pigeon in the country.  But don't feel squeamish - Martha's not there.  Her body was immediately sent to the Smithsonian.  I understand she's no longer on display, and is in an archive...somewhere.

There are birds on display, however.  There's Incus, the last of the Carolina Parakeets, who died in this same aviary a mere four years after Martha's passing.  There are also three stuffed Passenger Pigeons, including "Buttons," the last wild pigeon, shot by an Ohio farm boy  protecting his corn.

I Went to the Animal Fair; The Birds and Beasts Were There

Hey, remember when I said I went to the zoo, ages and ages ago?  What ever happened to that?

I'd been to the Columbus Zoo before, but there's a polar bear exhibit there now that wasn't there before.  So we brush past Jack Hannah's face on posters and follow the big footprints up the hill to the place where white giants roam.

The remarkable thing about this exhibit is that it used to be a church.  And though they've trussed up the outside of the building with wood panels and "arctic supplies," once you've seen what it was, it can't be unseen.  Look closer - you can even tell where they would have hung the cross.

The congregation is still there, they've just moved to a lot closer to the street.  If you stand at the highest point of the exhibit and look towards the entrance, you can see the new church, one lonely little building sandwiched in between parking lots and animal signs.

Don't be too sad about it, though.  The zoo and that church have a long, happily entwined relationship.  It's Mr. Hannah's home church, after all, and the zoo used to let the church have their Easter Sunday sunrise service in the park.  I'm sure the church enjoys the new home.  And perhaps the polar bears are comforted to know they're walking on blessed grounds.    

If you follow the signs to the mine shaft, you'll end up below the exhibit, at the underwater viewing area.  For a brief moment, when we first walk into the glass bubble, a big, white, polar bear butt brushes across the ceiling before it disappears.  We wait for him to come back, but he's long gone, off to seek shady refuge for an afternoon nap.  All that's left behind are the fish, swimming through the clouds like Atmospheric Beasts. 

That's the Song I Sing...

Cooooooca-Cola.

Call the Cheese Brigade, folks.  It might get a little maudlin in here.

The truth is, my family's been a Coke family for as long as I can remember.  The only carbonated beverage my mother ever let into the house was Diet Coke.  She hated the taste of Pepsi, and regular Coke, she said, was just "too syrupy."  So if it wasn't water or juice, the only thing we'd drink growing up was Diet Coke.  (I'm not quite as high strung about this as my mother, but even today, ordering a Pepsi feels a little like blasphemy.)  

I don't say "pop" or "soda."  When people came over, I offered to "get [them] a Coke."  And on the rare occasion we had something that wasn't Diet Coke in the refrigerator, it would be "a Coke, or something."  Now, I just offer "something to drink," and hope that something is a Diet Coke.

So it wasn't a surprise to anyone when, once we realized that Atlanta was the perfect half-way point for the long drive between Florida and Home, my mother announced, "We're going to the World of Coke." 

Before we're even allowed into the museum proper, a helpful young woman in a bright red shirt describes the rooms we're about to see.  A short animated film, commercials from around the world, Coke Art, a "4D" movie (the kind where your seats move and the chairs in front of you blow water past your ears), advertising, advertising, and more advertising.  She excitedly tells us about the last room, the Tasting Center, which features Coca-Cola products from all over the world, making special mention of the Italian specialty.  "The Beverly from EEE-taly," she says.  "Say it with me now."  Beverly from EEE-taly.  

(The woman in the next holding room, the one who points out some of the more significant museum artifacts, also mentions the Beverly, as does the animated short we're made to watch.  When one computer-generated Weeble wryly drawls to the other about "grapefruit rinds," I think, as I'm sure those around me thought, "Grapefruit rinds?  That drink must be terrible!  I can't wait to try it!"

The museum, once you can actually get into the museum, is kind of fascinating, if only to see just how far the company's fingers reach.  The World Cup.  The Olympics.  The Space Program.  There's a leaf of turn-of-the-century sheet music (that's 20th century, not 21st) with the Coke label on it.  In walking through the rooms of memorabilia you realize that, if a thing has ever existed in the world, there's a version of it complete with the famous Coca-Cola script.  

The "Pop" art exhibit is great, although the portrait of Mickey Mouse made out of Coke logos is almost on the wrong side of the hipster ideal.  The rest of it is...I hesitate to say reverent, because it's a word I use a lot and it's perhaps a bit extreme for the situation, but there is a sense of genuine respect in the pieces.  There's nothing superficial about the use of Coke imagery in this art, no cynical commentary of the state of commercialism in America.  Just a sincere love for a brand that happens to be a little bit universal.

I think that's why I like the rooms full of old advertising.  There's nothing jaded or boisterous about the campaigns.  No bravado, and few gimmicks.  None of this "The other guys suck, and you should drink us because we'll make you awesome!" nonsense.  Just "Drink Coke because it tastes good, and that will make you happy."     

And there's just something about coke advertising that gives me the warm fuzzies.  I used to get so excited when the winter holidays rolled around, knowing that polar bear was sure to make an appearance.  Those commercials always flash me back to my younger days, when I'd wake myself up earlier than I needed to for school, just to be the only one up when the house was dark and quiet.  And to pass the time until the bus came, I'd watch the kind of terrible cartoons they only show at 6 a.m. on a weekday.  Things at that hour always have lots of commercials, and once we got into November, my mornings were filled with frolicking polar bears.  Sometimes even the hint of the Coca-Cola theme sends me to those mornings in my father's easy-chair, wrapped tightly in the big blue blanket, trying to stay warm because he'd turned the heat down that night and the house hadn't had a chance to warm up yet.

Okay.  I'll say it.  Coca-Cola makes me think of home.

The last room before the gift shop/exit is the tasting room, with its plastic sample cups and variety of international Coke products.  The African and South American drinks are refreshing and fruity, while Asia has a sharp, citrusy bite that I halfway expected.  There's a big crowd around the Europe station, no doubt for the siren call of Beverly from EEE-taly, and with all the hype, I can't say I blame them.  I even stand in line for it.

If you've ever had a glass of orange juice after brushing your teeth, and found you didn't like the taste, perhaps you should skip the Beverly. 

And at the very end of it all, you get your very own bottle of Coke, filled on the day of your visit in the slow moving factory display on the first leval.  I assume it's Original Recipe Coke, but I couldn't tell you for sure.  It's not like I'm going to drink it. 

I walk through the gift shop searching for a few pins to add to my collection, still sucking bits of Beverly out of my teeth, and yes, even feeling a bit nostalgic.

Take Extra Care With Strangers; Even Flowers Have Their Dangers

A first look at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens.

I've been to parks and gardens before, but none of them have been quite this big.  The Atlanta garden sprawls.  I could (and probably will) feature it for days.  There's simply too much to put into one post.  There's almost too much to see in one day.  And somehow we managed zip through it in one morning.

The first big feature is the Canopy Walk.  It reaches out to you the second you move into the garden, the big metal structure disappearing into the trees.  We'll find a sign later, set into the flowers down below, that claims the steel supports were designed to mimic a dancing Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.  If you squint from ground level, you can almost just see it.  Ah, yes.  There's the kick of Fred's heel.  There's the flair of Ginger's dress.  "Dancing through the trees," they call it.  Some people are so innovative.

The forest rises around you, leafy branches reaching out to tickle your face.  The structure is huge, alien, but moves between the trees with such an easy fluidity it's hard to imagine the walkway ever not being there.  

Below, the garden buzzes.  I could hang my head over the side for hours, just to watch the wind rustle the underbrush.  People pass through the shade and don't even glance above their heads.  The sun paints the ground Seurat, peppering light where it can through the gently swaying trees.  It's an ever-changing canvas.  And there's still so much more to see.  

After the Fire, After the Rain

Home again!  Home at last.  I spent three days on a Florida beach, and relished the opportunity to see nothing.  I spent one day in Atlanta, and feel like I still haven't seen enough.  It was a full day, and we had to choose our destinations wisely, but the one place I knew I wanted to see was Centennial Olympic Park.

Up until 2004, I didn't really care about the Olympic games.  I'd watch the opening ceremonies (though I'd usually fall asleep during the parade of nations), catch the odd event across the two weeks, and then completely forget about the award count or closing ceremony or who won that amazing race last Monday.  Yes, I do still have my autographed photo of '96 gymnast Dominique Dawes from that time she did the singing in the mall Galyans, but over all, I didn't quite get it.  I wasn't really a sports fan, so the Olympics were just this thing that appeared every couple of years, exciting for a moment and quickly forgotten.

I was in Paris in 2004.  July, barely a month before the Athens games would start.  We just happened to be in that city the day the Olympic torch was meant to be passing through on its way to Greece.  So we at lunch in a Planet Hollywood, staring out the window until someone said "The torch is coming!" and we ran out to the street.

I expected the line of cheer-happy onlookers.  I didn't expect the celebration.  And standing on that Parisian street, pushing my way through the sea of bodies to catch a glimpse of the flame as it passed, it suddenly all made sense.  What was about to happen in August wasn't just a game.  It was a coming together of nations and a celebration of people, something I hadn't ever really considered before.

And it was great.  I'm still not much of a sports fan, but as it turns out, I love watching people win gold medals.  And I welcome the opportunity to be patriotic in a very nondestructive way.  I can celebrate my country's wins, and that's okay.  And I can mourn their losses, and that's okay, too.

I watched time stop when Greece won the gold for synchronized diving, and Thomas Bimis and Nikolaos Siranidis waved their flag from the diving platform in front of a screaming crowd of international supporters.  I learned everything I ever needed to know about curling during Torino when Team Fenson played their way into a bronze medal.  I awed over the vast majesty of the Beijing stage, and booed the seemingly endless stream of controversy (and yes, I sat on pins and needles waiting for Michael Phelp's eighth gold).  And while watching close to 90% of the broadcasted Vancouver games (I swear, I said "aboot" for nearly a week after the closing ceremony), I learned that cross-country skiing can be pretty damn exciting.  I've got a closet full of stuffed mascots and a handful of pins painted with the rings, and though London is still two years away, I'm counting down the days.

Centennial Olympic Park is almost a memorial.  Some of that may be because there's an actual memorial on the grounds, to honor those caught in the bombing (our friend Steve points to an innocuous patch of grass and says, "It happened right there.").  There's something quietly reverent about that stretch of land between the Georgia Aquarium and the World Of Coke museum, as if they knew, like I know, that the Olympics are not just a sporting event.  It's one of those indescribable things.  

At the far end of the park, away from the noisy street and giant Coca-Cola bottles, there's a dancing fountain, where children in bathing suits run over the inset rings surrounded by the flags of nations.  When they scream, it sounds like cheering crowds.  Somehow, it couldn't feel more appropriate.

Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

I feel like this guy:

Apparently, I'm of two minds about road-tripping.  When I'm behind the wheel, I love them.  I like feeling the road vibrate under my fingers.  I like rolling the window down and turning the music up.  I feel relaxed.  I can keep one eye on the road and the other on the signs, watching for something interesting and unusual.

But when I'm in anything other than the driver's seat, I loath travel by car.  It's cramped.  It's either too hot or too cold.  Everything flies past the window faster than my eyes can see it.  I don't want to stop anywhere.  I just want to get to where I'm going.

Of course, when the Oz at the end of the yellow brick road looks like this:

there's no good reason to not be in a hurry.  It's almost worth the nights spent on the rollaway bed.  Thank goodness for vacation!