Journeying by Train to the Wrong Las Vegas

My adventure started in New York and wrapped up about 700 miles east of my target destination, Las Vegas, Nevada. It all kicked off with a weekend in NYC with some grad school buddies, where we indulged a bit too much. In fact, my passport managed to pull off an impressive disappearing act.

As an international student from England, losing my passport was especially tough. To make matters worse, my brother and some friends were planning to visit in a couple of months (far too soon for the complete passport replacement process), and we had already arranged to fly to Chicago and then Las Vegas for a road trip through the Southwest. But without a passport, flying was no longer an option.

Nevertheless, we promised to make it happen. We celebrated in my New England college town, then headed to Boston, where the partying continued. They hopped on a plane to Chicago, reaching it in under three hours. Isn’t modern technology amazing?

I traveled to Chicago by train, taking just under 28 hours. Isn’t transportation rooted in industrial revolution technology remarkable?

Upon finally arriving in Chicago on Easter Sunday, we explored the city and visited some bars; Chicago truly is a fantastic metropolis. Then, we got ready for the next leg of our journey.

Our ultimate destination was Las Vegas, where we would rent a car and tour the magnificent American Southwest. We had breakfast with a grad school friend, Keith, before our respective flights and 19th-century travel. Keith kindly offered to walk me to the station. We chatted along the way:

Keith: How long is your train journey?

Me: Approximately 2 ½ days.

Keith: Are you certain? It seems like it would take longer.

Me (with a hint of arrogance): No, look at the ticket. It clearly states it.

Keith (uncertain): Well… I guess it must be true then.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Still, I enjoyed a fairly pleasant ride through the vast, ever-changing landscapes of America. I traveled through cornfields, mountains, and deserts. I shared a seat with a taxi driver who had left his job due to the racism he encountered. He was on his way to Vegas, hoping to strike it rich.

Our journey on the train was painfully slow. The nagging suspicion that something was off intensified. I scrutinized my ticket repeatedly: Arrives at 10:30 a.m. There had to be a mistake, but how could we cover the distance in such little time?

On the morning I was supposed to arrive, I checked the map and realized we were nowhere near our destination. So, I asked the conductor for a larger, more detailed map.

The map revealed the nearby stop: Las Vegas, New Mexico. New Mexico? New Mexico? I was heading to the wrong Las Vegas.

I disembarked in a quiet, remote town that felt like a scene from a Sergio Leone Western. Surrounded by desert, the saloon doors swung open, revealing a man casually holding a rifle over his shoulder. This was not the Las Vegas I had envisioned.

I quickly purchased a ticket for the next train to Las Vegas (Nevada), but it wasn’t departing until the following day. I called my friends, claiming my train had broken down, planning to meet them later. I thought it better to fib than to become the subject of endless jokes. After finding a hotel room, I took a nap before heading out to find a bar.

With great satisfaction, I pushed open the saloon doors and took a seat at the bar. I ordered a beer, raising my voice just enough for others to catch my British accent. Heads turned, and I soon found myself recounting my story to the locals.

That hazy evening was filled with events, and I made a host of fleeting friends. There was a charming older couple at the bar, a delightful younger pair—one of whom jokingly offered me his sister for the night (thankfully, she was out of town)—and the town’s wrestling champion (seriously), along with a rugged, scarred man missing the tip of a finger.

Later that night, a man I hadn't interacted with glared at me from across the bar for what felt like an eternity. Sensing he wasn’t exactly friendly, I innocently inquired with my new companions if I might be in trouble. They had a word with him, and he swiftly apologized.

The night concluded with one of them proposing we head back to his place for some cocaine. I politely declined, as is customary for an Englishman.

The following morning, I departed from Las Vegas (New Mexico), met up with my friends a few hours later, and grumbled about my train’s breakdown. We rendezvoused halfway between the two Las Vegases and drove to the Grand Canyon.

Years later, I still haven't visited the real Las Vegas, and my friends remain oblivious to the truth.