Let's get away from it all: how one couple did Vegas, Death Valley, and Palm Springs in a week—and made it swing, baby

  Let's leave our hut, dear
  Get out of our rut, dear (a)

Late afternoon. A weekday. I am floating in a saltwater pool at Palm Springs' Orbit In with a sake cocktail in hand. Palm trees stretch to a blue curacao sky. The rocky San Jacintos rise beyond, bronze in the day's last light. My gal, Red, idly reads in a white chaise longue. Tonight, a great dinner out. Tomorrow, we'll stop by Dino's house, then maybe Frank's.

At one time, we were just like everyone else. But that was before I told Red, Come fly with me, baby--let's get away from it all. Before we set out on our fast, crazy Las Vegas-Death Valley-Palm Springs road trip. Before we decided to live as large and gorgeous and audacious as the ever-swinging Nevada-California desert.

That was before we experienced the Snap.

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Let me explain. You can't think about a road trip to Las Vegas and Palm Springs and the desert between without thinking Rat Pack, Ocean's 11, '50s and early '60s Hollywood. This was the playground of the stars.

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And those great, great songs ... My friend Mark, a San Francisco crooner, says this about the perfect swinging tune: "It all starts with the Snap--yes, the Sinatra-cool finger snap, but more than that, it's the pull of the swing rhythm, which is at the heart of American jazz. There's a technical explanation, but it's easier to think of it as the thing that makes your insides feel like they're being twanged.

"Snap, baby."

  Let's keep this party polite
  Never get out of my sight
  Stick with me, baby
  I'm the fella
  You came in with
  Luck be a lady tonight (b)

We rumble out of McCarran International Airport in our rented muscle car and hit the Las Vegas Strip. We're spending some cash on this once-in-a-lifetime trip and have chosen the Venetian Resort Hotel Casino as our refuge. As we head down its drive, the buzz of Vegas dies away, and we buy into the resort's over-the-top, even theatrical, salute to the Old World romance of Venice. Well, more or less. Red shakes her head at the gondolas making their way through the resort's canals: "They're so cheesy!" (I vow to get her on one before we leave town.)

There are only a few things you have to do on a romantic getaway to Las Vegas: Get in some serious lounging-by-the-pool time, spend a night at a club or two, and enjoy an evening with a big dinner and a big show. Throw in some shopping, gambling, and, yes, a little Vegas cheesiness, and it's mission accomplished.

We waste no time getting to the pool, where Red cheekily asks a neighboring Italian, resplendent in long sideburns and tattoos, how the Venetian holds up to the real thing. "You know, it's like New York New York is to New York," he says. "Italians might say, Why come here when we have Venice three hours from where we live? But it's the service," he says, then pauses, searching for the right words. "Las Vegas is fun, and then--stop," he adds, and laughs. The Venetian towers above us, its windows reflecting the drifting clouds so perfectly it seems we're looking through a giant facade to the sky beyond.

Item number two on our list takes some work. Finding the right nightclub in what's such an ephemeral scene gives you about the same odds as roulette. We're on the money with Treasure Island's Tangerine Lounge & Nightclub, which, we learn, follows the current Vegas dance club mode: Cordon off a lounge with a huge stylish curtain, pump up the music, and place a couple of dark-suited bouncers at the head of the line to jettison the rubes in white sneakers. Tangerine features more cute navels than a Riverside orange grove and offers a great view of the Sirens of TI show out front in the hotel's cove (which is sort of a good thing).

The next morning we make amends for our late night with a workout and a healthy breakfast at the cafe in the full-featured Canyon Ranch SpaClub at the Venetian. We wander the Strip for a few hours, indulging at the Bellagio's Jean-Philippe Patisserie chocolate shop and enjoying a nature break in the conservatory.

And then we head back to our hotel for, yes, a gondola ride. "I can't believe we're doing this," Red says as we get in line behind three women from Minnesota who are on a "husband break."

The Venetian has outdoor gondolas, which are okay if you just want some fresh air. But the ride through the resort's shopping district, a Disneyish version of Venice, is the way to go. Our gondolier is Francesca, born on the Adriatic coast of Italy, raised in Southern California. She encourages us to cuddle, noting that kissing under every bridge brings luck. "Just no make-a babies," she warns. By the time we've glided under the first bridge and begun our search for good fortune, Red, snuggling into my side, is clearly in a Venice state of mind. Francesca, in a deep, rich voice, serenades us in Italian. After she's done, she translates for us: "Above all that is precious, there is you."