“How was Vegas?” I was asked upon my return to real life.
How to answer?
Do I talk about how long it’s been and how good it was to see the people who I have grown to love and cherish since meeting them online 13-ish years ago? About how damn easy it is to be around them, how I can be as close to my true self as I can be in public and get away with it?
Do I talk about the moments of delight: of finding the Art-O-Mats, old cigarette vending machines that have been repurposed to give you art for $5; of the sudden sight of a 2-story metal praying mantis that shoots fire out of its antennae in time to AC/DC; of being able to see the Kusama Infinity Room in a near-empty Bellagio Art Gallery; of old neon signs, horses in front of a biker bar, and cocktails in the speakeasy at the Mob Museum; of sitting in Elvis Presley’s booth, and seeing a chair that looked like the Bobs in Mirror Mask?
Or do I talk about the bad poker, the over-stimulation, the cocktails, the casinos, beer with friends, long conversations and loud laughter, people watching, missing absent friends, the triggered memories, the bad moods, the good moods, the food, the changes in the 7 years since I was last there, the glorious feeling of being with people who get me, warts and all?
“It was fun,” I reply.