Sin City to SLIM CITY: From kayaking to spa treatments, health is the new wealth in Las Vegas

Vegas, baby, Vegas!” That’s Vince Vaughn’s legendary line in Swingers as he heads to town where he doubles blackjack and chases women. Because that’s what Las Vegas is all about, isn’t it?

Vegas is for roulette drama, neon dreams up in smoke and too many whiskey hunters. It’s to ride the Strip in a gold limousine at six in the morning.

It’s time to tuck into an Octuple Bypass burger at the Heart Attack Grill. It’s to rave to the beats of a superstar DJ. It’s for hasty decisions in the Little White Wedding Chapel.

Las Vegas, in short, is hedonism, excess and regret. If there’s one thing we can all agree on that Las Vegas isn’t, it’s health and wellness. But that’s exactly what I’m here for: to discover the city’s lesser-known health benefits.

As someone whose lifestyle fluctuates between that of green-juice Gwyneth Paltrow and nocturnal Ozzy Osbourne, the prospect of a “wellness” vacation in Vegas is a pertinent conundrum.

This week I wouldn’t be Raoul Duke – the fictional journalist sent on assignment in Hunter S. Thompson’s drug-ridden Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.

But as we land on the runway, the burning landmarks of London, Paris, and New York all light up like skyscraper hotels, and I can’t help but wonder: Can Sin City really be done virtuously?

Yes, but at first it requires a little detour. Shortly after arriving we are whisked away from lasers and lights and transported to tranquility – but not that far from the neon madness, only 40 miles or so.

Beyond glassy Lake Mead, one of the largest artificial lakes in the world, we find ourselves in the Black Mountains of the Sierra Nevada, whose craggy red peaks and dramatic canyons look straight out of a spaghetti western.

See! Hoover Dam: a formidable feat of Depression-era engineering, over 700 feet high. We step into the shadow of the colossal concrete arch to board a raft on which we float down the Colorado River for the next three hours.

For 12 tranquil miles, we’re virtually the only souls in the vast Black Canyon, as we watch diving double-breasted cormorants, bufflehead ducks, a red-tailed hawk, and a pair of bald eagles.

Arizona is on our left, Nevada on our right. We sail through a remote cacti-dotted, coyote-strewn landscape – Clint Eastwood is nowhere to be seen, though we do witness a Hollywood drama of sorts: a police helicopter practicing a search and rescue mission, flying so low it’s fanning white water before it thunders away.

We float past kayakers basking in springs heated by volcanic rock, which the Navajo Indians believed was a sacred gateway to another dimension. We spot the ’emerald green cave’, where bathers can bathe in ethereal green water through a trick of light.

Kathleen, our guide, who has known these parts for decades and whose grandfather worked on the construction of the Hoover Dam, says, ‘Vegas is Vegas. But there is so much beauty in the area.’

She is right. But then it’s time for a Cosmopolitan.

No, not the citrusy vodka cocktail, but the glitzy, chandelier-adorned Cosmopolitan Hotel in the heart of the Strip, where I do an intense workout of 60 spirited minutes of grunting, jumping, and sweating.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be doing burpees in Vegas!” beams Palani, our muscular fitness instructor. No, Palani, I certainly didn’t.

At the Venetian Hotel, I pass the mock gondolas for my next blast of “wellness” far from the frenzy of the Strip: a private yoga class with deep breathing and stretching.

Next, at Cosmo’s spa, I’m immersed in monsoon downpours and icy fog chambers. At Caesars Palace spa I lose myself in a deep tissue massage. At Resorts World’s Awana Spa, I detox in a crystal salt room.

It won’t be long before I’m drunk with good vibes. Did Hunter S. Thompson ever discover that it’s possible to overdose on relaxation?

As many as three-quarters of a million Britons visited Las Vegas each year before the pandemic, and with ten-hour direct flights from Heathrow and Gatwick, numbers are on the rise again. You don’t have to be a high roller to make the pilgrimage. The average room rate is £140 per night.

Many come for the shows. I meet Gary from Wolverhampton who says his family often watch four shows in five days before flying home. Within a week you could see Katy Perry, Sting, magician David Copperfield or any of Cirque du Soleil’s acrobatic spectacles.

At the Bellagio Hotel, we’re treated to the last of these, Cirque’s amazing ‘O’ show, in which performers tumble 60 feet into a pool.

Others come for the sport.

Vegas has long been known as the capital of world boxing fights, but next year will also host the NFL Super Bowl – the biggest event on the American sports calendar. Meanwhile, a Formula 1 Grand Prix will be held in Sin City in November.

We dine with Lip Smacking Foodie Tours to try out their concept of three courses at three restaurants – all surprisingly chic.

But we’ve been beaten by the American reality of three huge meals, not three courses. Javier’s Mexican serves us trays of stuffed enchiladas before we head to Julian Serrano for a Spanish tapas feast. By the time we get to Mastro’s Ocean Club, we’re stuffed to the gills and can’t even try the 28-day aged steak.

Our American cousins ​​are stunned when we Brits dismiss mountainous slabs of cheesecake and warm buttercake. “You’re not even going to try?” asks one of our bewildered table companions.

But the accompanying margaritas, sangrias and lemon martinis are starting to work their charms and beckon further temptation.

In the underground depths of the Resorts World Hotel is a place called Here Kitty Kitty Vice Den. On the other side of the casino floor, behind a door disguised as a wall, is a red-lit den of iniquity.

I should be here for zen and vitamins, but the temptation is too strong. Suddenly it’s bourbon cocktails, peanut butter beers, $80 lost in eight blackjack minutes, and Saturday night in Vegas. Then it is daylight and I wake with two most unwelcome companions: fear, in the form of alcohol sweat running down my back, and disgust, at the prospect of the journey home.

I also hate leaving Sin City’s healthy side, its hidden natural beauty, and its unexpected health benefits – even if I ruined it last night at the Here Kitty Kitty Vice Den.

It all gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Viva Las Vegas’.