The story really starts two months earlier. I was too young to go where I wanted. So, when my dad decided we were moving to Myrtle Beach to live closer to my sister, I didn’t really have a choice. By this point, my father had been practically broke for years, but still entertained the idea that he could travel where ever he wanted. We arrived in North Carolina via greyhound. It was the middle of spring break and having no where to stay we camped on the beach for the duration of our time in the city. The camp ground was cheap but we had only brought $1,000 or so with us and the local stores, relying heavily on tourist dollars, jacked their prices up for the season. We stayed through bike week, but my dad was the only one able to find work, my brother Adam and I were to young and my brother Henry had too many tattoos and piercings to find employment in the deep south community. This led us to realize we couldn’t afford to stay in the Carolinas .

You would think at this point we would head back to Massachusetts. (By all right, we should have. Back home we had family. Dad had job prospects. Henry had an art company and Adam and me had school.) You would think wrong. It may sound mean, but my dad was never what you would call smart. A fact I’d realized years before that this trip re-enforced. He decided to take us to New Orleans, because he had never been there. I knew this was a bad idea, but I’d always wanted to see the city, so I went along with it. After a day long bus drive, we crossed the mouth of the Mississippi and soon found ourselves in the oldest city in the south. All around, I could see above ground cemeteries, voodoo shops and abandoned mansions. Again, my fathers “keen” mind came into play. Instead of taking what money we had and renting out one of the many inexpensive apartments in the city where more people were dead than alive, dad asked around for the cheapest hotel in New Orleans. I’ll say this again “THE CHEAPEST HOTEL IN NEW ORLEANS!!” the cab ride there was cool. The old, Creole cabby drove a vintage Cadillac with a cushy, red exterior. The interior was all beaded seats and fuzzy dash. The smell of marijuana and incense floated on air and the aging driver told us on the way, “ya’ll can gets whateva’ yous need in naw-lans.” I thought to myself, oh great, what are we getting into?

The Cinema hotel was an ancient French mansion converted into a sleazy inn. It was literally under a freeway and the railings of the courtyard stairs were rusted to look like coral growing on a ship wreck. The office under a big sign that stated “WE HAVE PORN!” housed a mean looking Korean woman with the personality of a hornet. She grumbled like we were bothering her by renting a room. The room was something out of a slasher flick. It was great foreshadowing for the weeks ahead. The walls were spattered in dried blood from some junkie’s needle. The sheets were covered in worse. The ceiling sported mirrors above the two beds and we had to buy cleaning products before we could even go near the shower and toilet. It’s a small wonder I didn’t catch a std just by staying in the room. The strangest thing we found was a large piece of tin foil full of what I think was angel dust in the dresser, next to Gideon’s bible. What followed was a solid week of hearing gun fights in the streets, trucks over head and the occasional sight of a police raid at a neighboring room. In one such raid the police were supposed to pick up a dead hooker the cleaning lady had found two rooms down from ours but instead busted in the next door and found a crack dealer, forgetting the body for another three days.

My father had found work a few days after we came to the city, but the wicked tempered land lady had no intention of letting us slide for a half a week. So, we had to leave.

My brother Henry and I suggested that we camp out in an abandoned building for the three days until my dads first check came in, but he said, “We’re not living like bums for three days!” and decided we would hitch hike to my great aunt’s house in Phoenix, Arizona. I think if he had realized just how long we would spend on the road, how large the four states were we were crossing really were, he would have changed his mind.

We took a bus to Baten Rouge. We split up there. It was decided that I would go with my father and Henry would take Adam. We knew it wouldn’t work any other way because Dad was stupid and Adam was spineless. Baten Rouge was a strange place. The sun was going down when we arrived and in the pools of shadow lying across the road I could see hundreds of palmetto bugs. It was during the height of the West Nile epidemic and the streets were littered with the dead cats and birds felled by it. we walked from the bus station in the center of town to the highway on ramps heading over a delta to the west. For the most part, people left us alone. The only people that stopped to talk with us were a group of crack heads that bought a lighter off of us and a Cajun hooker that tried to proposition us while we were walking under a freeway bridge.

We finally got a ride over the bridge and had to walk a few more miles before we could get another ride. We stood with our thumbs out for several hours before a sketchy, white van pulled over. The back windshield was plywood and the side windows were painted on the outside. As we entered the vehicle, the passenger, a scruffy Mexican man, said, “ hop on in, but if we see any women, you have to get out.” I thought that was a little weird but I just shrugged it off. It didn’t take long to realize we were riding with two cult members. They were heading to a commune in California and kept saying really creepy things like, “if I crashed into that car in front of us, god would forgive me.” The mattress I was laying on was folded over something that smelled dead and the inside of the painted windows were covered in decals. One sided read ‘Live with God or die with Satan.’ The other side said ‘Die slut die.’ I was really freaked out by this point and I should’ve known better but I was thirsty and I drank some of the water they offered me. I was lucky that I used to go to a lot of raves and my tolerance to the date rape drugs people sometimes put in drinks they thought were the girl’s I was with, was strong. I became unnaturally tired and things became distorted. At the next gas station, we grabbed our bags and ran.

We couldn’t find another ride and I was in no condition to stand for the rest of the night. We slept in shifts outside of an abandoned gas station down the road. In the morning a local gave us a ride to the middle of no where. We were stuck for most of the morning on a ramp outside of a big southern house. The place was falling apart and surrounded by cars from all over the place. I was reminded of Texas chainsaw massacre.

The next ride was more memorable. A crusty, old Nam vet in a beat up pickup pulled over. “Get in.” he called to us. We threw our heavy duffle bags in the back and climbed in.

“Thanks for the ride.” I said.

“Oh, I don’t mind giving rides.” He told us in a west Louisianan accent, “but…” he added as he pulled the biggest revolver I’ve ever seen from under his seat, “… I’ve been mugged by hitch hikers before an’ if you reach over here I’ll shoot you in the face.”

“Ummm… fair enough.” I choked out, a little nervous.

“The gun toting red neck actually turned out to be an interesting guy. In the two hours we spent in his truck he told us about his years at war in the Fareast, his love of bar fights and his career drilling for oil. He dropped us in Lake Charles .

It was afternoon and proving to be a hot day. I decided to dump my 90 pound duffle bag outside of a Mcdonalds, after we spent the last of our money on breakfast. We walked along the high way for the rest of the day. Lake Charles was a casino town and when the sun went down, we walked under the bright, neon lights of the roadside hotels. I was just thinking about how hungry I was when a car pulled up. It was a new Benz with New York plates. A black man with expensive jewelry and dressed in gang colors called me over to the side road.

“What you doing?” he asked.

“Hitch hiking.” I told him.

“Damn. Ya’ll white boys are crazy. I wouldn’t want to ride with no random rednecks.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I don’t really have a choice.”

“I hear that.” He said. “Listen. I’m headed the other way but here’s some thing for you.” He gave me fifty dollars. “Good luck.”

I thanked him for his help and we moved farther down the road. We spent the night between the highway and a swamp. I slept in a ditch that looked something like a freshly filled grave. This became even more unsettling the next day when a convenience store worker told us that some one had been going up and down route ten, killing female hitch hikers. I thought back to the psychos in the van and shuddered. Not long after, we were picked up by another van. This one was driven by a drunk old man. I was a little skeptical about riding with some one that inebriated but we had been stuck in the town awhile and the only way out was a huge bridge with no side walks. Before leaving town, the driver stopped for a few tall boys at a liquor store. When he backed out, I heard the scrape of metal on metal. ‘Oh, great’, I thought as I chucked my beer out the window. The driver got out and found a car parked behind him. It was a brand new sports car without any plates. When its owner came out of the store, he seemed distraught but insisted that we leave without worrying about it.

The booze hound dropped us in east Texas . Outside of a truck stop we found our next ride. I climbed in and couldn’t believe my eyes. Driving the king cab tractor was none other than the professional wrestler, Stone Cold Steve Austin. I never expected to travel with a celebrity but there I was. He told us about taking time off for an injured knee and blared ACDC while smoking like Tommy Chong. He dropped us near Houston and we road the rest of the way to the city with a drunken couple. I was beginning to realize that almost every one on this highway was intoxicated.

We found ourselves walking through the middle of Houston ’s roughest neighborhoods. The walls of buildings were marked with gang graffiti and the city’s homeless eyed us like potential sources of easy cash. I thanked my sense of style and natural, large build for making people think twice before the messed with me. Not a lot of people would start a fight with a 200 pound teen ager with a spiked green Mohawk and a giant nose ring.

On accident, we found a grey hound station and had some money wired to us. We took a bus as far west as we could go. I fell asleep on the bus and woke to a bus driver standing over me saying, “Sadona. Sadona.”

“What?” I said.

“Sadona” he repeated, “This is your stop.”

I woke my father and we stepped out into the dusty street. For the first time in my life, I found myself in the desert. Sadona was a dust bowl. The tiny town had dirt roads, a single store and houses that screamed Middle America . We walked by a high school and a down a road with cacti and tumble weeds to either side. People who had probably never left their home town stared at us as they drove by. From their looks, they must have thought we looked fairly alien.

If I learned anything in Texas , it’s this; white Texans are the least helpful people in the world. We didn’t find any rides until a group of immigrant workers drove by. We loaded into an SUV with the back seats torn out, so a dozen people could fit in the cramped space. Our next ride was from a preacher. He didn’t trust us enough to let us sit in the cab with him and let us sit in the bed of his truck. We rode for hours. We passed ghost towns, Anasazi ruins and miles upon miles of wind mills. I enjoyed the ride until we headed up a winding stretch of road on the side of a giant plateau. I read a sign that stated ‘warning! 90 mph winds. Tie down cargo.’ We had to flatten ourselves to the bottom of the truck bed and hook our hands and feet to holes in the corners to keep from flying off out of the truck and into the chasm between mesas.

The preacher dropped us in Fort Stockton . He gave me twenty dollars and said, “My generosity is nothing compared to the generosity of Jesus. Look in your hearts and see if he’s there.”

I was never a religious guy but I didn’t want the preacher to think his help was for nothing so I said something I’ve never said before and will never say again, “God bless you.”

We slept in the desert that night. We only had one sleeping bag and slept on top of it. We were dirty, sun burnt and starting to become delirious from exposure to the sun and lack of food and water. Dad’s feet were sore and he removed his shoes before passing out. After seeing a scorpion walk close by, I slept light. Several times I was awoken by passing coyotes, snakes and birds. At one point, I felt something at the far end of the bag. It was probably just one of the vultures that had been circling us since we entered Texas but that’s not was my tired mind saw. I stared down at a Chupacabra , picking at my fathers bare feet. I shoed the creature off and it flew straight into the sky like a bat. The next day, we found a ride from a Mexican trucker. He fed us burritos his wife made. He dropped us around the south western edge of Texas . As I said, we were right on the edge of madness. The brain can only boil in the sun so long before it stops working. I now know how the natives felt on spirit quests. I only vaguely remember the next week. I came back to myself in a strange situation. We were being deported. My father is half Mohawk Indian and the immigration officers didn’t think his ID was real and I was only fifteen and didn’t have any ID. We were both sun burned and very dark. So the ignorant Texans automatically assumed we were Mexican. We spent about two days trying to find a good spot to sneak back over the Rio Grande . When we did find our way across the dirty water and over the tall, barb wire fence, I made my father go to a hospital and have his now infected feet taken care of. The Mexican doctors rubbed his feet down with herbs and gave him antibiotics.

I’d had enough of hitch hiking for a life time. We found our way to a bus station, stopping only to argue with hobos who thought our hitch hiking near their bridge was an attempt to usurp their pan handling turf. When we told them we were just trying to get out of town one said, “Why would you want to leave? Don’t you want to have a drink?”

A pretty, young Latina drove us to the bus station. I got on the phone with my grandmother and had her wire us enough money to take us to Phoenix. The next day, after a circuitous ride across New Mexico we arrived in Arizona and finally got some rest. My great aunt had an air conditioned house, an in ground pool and a grille full of wracks of ribs. We were reunited with my brothers and almost as importantly, with a shower. I’d lost 40 pounds in two weeks and my feet were sore. I’d been burnt so long my skin was peeling and I hadn’t slept in a bed in what seemed like ages. After eating four wracks of ribs, I slept until noon the next day.

I walked countless miles. I faced death and bizarre situations again and again. I cook my mind in the sun and went days without food, but looking back the summer of 2002 wasn’t just an agonizing ordeal. It was my odyssey. Magellan had Africa, Luis and Clark had the Oregon trail (which has its own story for me) and I had Route 10.

Suddenly, no body gave a damn about the success of the many. The government and corporations that had supported the industrialist, capitalist way of life that had us constantly improving and reinventing ourselves to keep us above the rest of the world decided they just wanted there piece and the hell with every one else. Rather than teach kids new technology and basic skills for business, the companies shipped their factories over seas and schools stopped pushing the young to be better. Other problems also led to what I see as the possible decline of American civilization
The idea of “no child left behind”, or as I call it “it’s okay to be stupid”, was invented. Under this new system, a child could pass with straight C’s all the way through high school without getting a single paper right, as long as the showed up every day and handed in some garbage answers on their work. This eventually became so bad that I’ve heard a teacher at many high schools isn’t allowed to give an F to a student writing a paper in internet short hand.

Of course all this coincides with one of the other great ideas of the 90’s; “politically correctness”, or as I call it the “we should always be okay with everything” concept. At school, I suddenly found we were playing musical chairs with extra chairs so that “everyone was a winner.” kid’s shows stopped showing anything that resembled conflict, to protect the sensitive little ninnies being raised in our society from the harsh reality of the world. Before all this, cartoons like G.I.Joe had plots about characters turning traitor to afford chemotherapy for there dying parents. A few years later, TV for the same age group was dumbed down to songs about hugging and how everyone should always get along about everything and in no time kids up to eight were watching shows that tell a kid there a genius if they know what the color orange is. The final straw for TV helping a generation become stupider was when the new fad of cute shows where the characters make baby noises and grunts and roll around like idiots hit the networks. Imagine what it must do to a child when he is left alone in front of Teletubbies and Zoom for six hours a day during their crucial learning years.

This attitude of lets all get along is reflected in school. Besides for classifying the ever changing computer short hand (with it’s smiley faces and abbreviations) as a language, they’ve also included Ebonics (formerly Jive) and Spanglish as scripts to use on any high school paper. “Why?”, you may ask. Because it would be mean to tell them they aren’t using real languages. Similarly, you can’t tell a kid that he’s to small to be a football player. Do to lack of nurturing, (I mean talents not feelings) and the it’s okay if you can’t add fifty two and seven attitude, kids are coming out of high school fully ready to push carts for the next fifty years.

Another nail in the coffin of the communal brain of this country was when pop culture began advocating stupidity to make marketing easier. Those selling whats cool found a beautiful gem in “Gangsta Rap.” suddenly, MTV was pushing the image of an uneducated, rebellious drug dealer shooting people and robbing liquor stores so he could be new clothes and luxury cars. None of the young minds that fell victim to this logic realized that most of them were going to end playing don’t drop the soap in state prison or shot by a fourteen year old while selling him crack, rather than living in mansions and sitting in hot tubs full of champagne. The girls of my generation found their moron inspiration in Hollywood’s equivalents of the bar flies you find at any shady dive in the world. I’m speaking, of course, of the teen idols. Paris Hilton, Christina Agulara, Britney Spears and others proved that no brain was needed to be famous. All they did was lip sync and dress slutty and the whole world was open to them. This isn’t the ideal I would want a future daughter to look up to and I would like to point out to anyone that tries this will end up older, not quiet as pretty (and therefore broke) and with a sexually transmitted virus they caught off the a fore mentioned Gangsta Rapper.

Another major problem with the development of young brains in contemporary America is the concept of sheltering. Sheltering is by definition protecting kids by keeping them ignorant to the darker aspects of the world around them. Kids with heads full of misinformation and gaps in their knowledge of the mechanics of the world can only grow to make bad and uninformed decisions. I’m not looking forward to the day when people that think the world is all kitty cats and puppy dogs run the world. Book burners, censors and religious fanatics bother me as much as the ignorance the promote.

This is all based on my rather bias views of the world but I think my opinions speak for themselves. Turn on the TV and you’ll be bombarded with stupidity and half truths. Watch a movie popular with the youth of America and you’ll be confronted with thin plots and happy go lucky Emo vampires. Go online and you’ll find more misinformation than the useful knowledge it was supposedly designed to house. We’re looking at a sad and confused future. The only good thing about it is that I will seem that much smarter in comparison.

Everything in Vegas is designed for a purpose, and that purpose is to separate the average tourist from the memory that money is required for everyday living. Its flashing lights promise entertainment, riches, sex. Its streets promise the chance to run into the famous, or at least that they may run into you. Its buildings promise you your wildest dreams. And its drinks promise relief.

On my trip it was that last item that I was concerned with. In a city that has rapidly (on a global timeline) positioned itself at the pinnacle of cuisine and leisure pursuits, I realized that it would be a crime not to have some predetermined gastronomic goal for my trip. That goal, decided in a seat on the jet that was hurling my companion and me across the breadth of this country, was to drink mojitos.

First a little background on the drink that fueled my quest. A mojito is an alcoholic drink made of rum, sugar, lime juice, crushed mint leaves, soda water, and shaved ice. Originally a Cuban cocktail, the drink has seen a resurgence of popularity in America in recent years. It is a distant cousin of the Mint Julep, and of the British Navy’s “Grog.”

When properly prepared, it tastes like heaven. When improperly prepared, it tastes like toothpaste.

I had never tasted a mojito when I was sitting in that plane. I think that I had read about them in a magazine, or on some website. All I knew is that I liked lime, mint, and rum. So I decided to give them a shot. My goal was simple. Whenever they were available, I would drink a mojito. An accompanying glass of water would be asked for so that the desert didn’t make a scramble of my brain. As I sampled the wares of Vegas, I would keep simple notes. And hopefully I would come out at the end of the week with an appreciation for the nuances in what can only be described as a simple drink.

Mojito # 1 : The Awakening

After a wearying trans-continental flight, the usual scramble to gather up our luggage, catch our shuttle to the hotel, and check into our room, we of course decided to hit the strip. We were staying in what our (then) travel agent described as a “Classic” Vegas resort. After seeing the lobby, room, and casino floor, we decided to find a new travel agent. The Riviera was ancient. It may have been top of its class when the rat pack was hanging around town, but now it seemed like it was home to a different pack of rats. Ok, it wasn’t that bad. But it was not quite what we had hoped for in our Vegas experience.

We hit the strip and headed toward the real resorts. We hadn’t really eaten since about 6:30 AM and it was rapidly getting dark. Food was a priority. Not quite enough of one to eat in our own glorious resort though. We flipped and flopped about what we wanted, and passed by at least 25 choices without making up our minds. Feeling like a starving person being shown a buffet table, we just couldn’t decide.

But of course, between our dinner and us, there were the distractions. We wandered first into Treasure Island. This was a true resort. After the Riviera, it looked like a palace. (Not Caesar’s though, that is a few doors down.) Wandering through the casino I spotted my first target. A Mexican restaurant cleverly disguised as a casino bar. It wasn’t until the next stop that I actually realized it was anything other than a bar. The sign (found upon later inspection) was approximately 6 inches wide.

The mojito. On first reaction, it tasted like a rum margarita. Really heavy lime. Barely any mint. Not spectacular, but what did I know? At that point it could have been the worlds greatest mojito. It just wasn’t what I was expecting. With a growling in my stomach I had to say goodbye to this place before I really understood what I had started.

Mojjito # 2: The Sating

Don’t let the stories of Vegas fool you. Things close. Including many of the restaurants in the casinos. Our indecision, combined with a spate of closed eateries kept us stumbling around half-asleep until about midnight. Finally, tired and about to give up our search for food, we found an acceptable place. The Grand Lux Cafe in the Venetian Hotel.

This is where I consider my Vegas experience to have truly started. Seated immediately, we found the menu full of enticing entrees, so much so that my companion actually found something that sounded good (you have to have traveled with her to understand just how much of a challenge this can sometimes be).

Our waiter didn’t even flinch when I ordered the mojito, which was not on the drink menu. The resulting drink was a polar opposite to my previous attempt. Landing firmly on the mint side. It appeared that the mint had been chopped in a food processor rather than the traditional muddling. The sugar and the lime were however in perfect balance with each other. The presentation made it seem much more of an after-diner dessert drink, than an old school cocktail.

With a full stomach and a solid start to my notes, I retired to the splendid Riviera for some much-needed rest.

Mojito # ?: The Mojito that wasn’t!

While wandering the strip on our second day in town we found ourselves in the Paris hotel and casino. Of all of the newly built super hotels on the strip, this place has the most “mouse loving” major-theme-park atmosphere. A replica of the base of the Eiffel tower sits astride the gaming floor. And as with all of the casinos, there is a convenient bar.

It was at this bar that I attempted to grab my first mojito of the day. When I asked the bartender, he replied that he couldn’t make them. No fresh mint. While I can respect that this place would rather not serve a drink than carry pre-made mix on hand, the bartender couldn’t leave it at that. No, he then decided to give me a lesson on the drink that I had ordered.

Here is a tip for all of the aspiring service workers out there. When a person asks for a drink/food item by name, they probably know what they are asking for. Trying to explain what it is to them is probably going to piss them off. Doing it in a condescending tone is definitely going to piss them off.

Now this fine young man told me that if he had mint on hand he could make one. After all, as he explained to me, “A mojito is just a mint julep with rum instead of bourbon.”

As I previously said, the drinks could be considered cousins. Even going as far as saying a mojito is a descendent of the julep. But for a bartender in the “City of Sin” to not understand the difference in two very standard drinks where (completely different) preparation is the key to both, well, that was unacceptable.

I ordered a Guinness and left.

Mojito # 3 : McMojito

No, I didn’t get my next mojito at McDonald’s.

Our next stop was at the New York, New York Hotel and Casino. At a restaurant called Nine Fine Irishmen. We took a break from sightseeing, and losing our cash out on the floor, to lose some cash for a good cause.

The restaurant is beautifully decorated with dark woods, shelves of books and statues of its namesakes, and a huge bar. After my failure earlier in the day, I was prepared for the inevitable Guinness. After all, this was obviously an Irish pub. There was no way they were going to prep a mojito, right? Wrong. There it was, staring at me from the menu. Simply labeled “mojito.” No funny flavors. No Irish Whiskey mojito. No Guinness mojito. This place just made a regular mojito. I was shocked.

So I ordered one. It came out in a teardrop goblet, and it looked beautiful. It tasted the same. Perfectly balanced mint and lime. My only complaint was that it could have used a tablespoon more simple syrup to suit my sweet tooth. But this was by far the best I had tried. To think, I had to go to an Irish pub to find a good Cuban cocktail.

Mojito # 4: A Taste of Heaven

Billboards from the airport to the strip advertise the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay resort and casino. So in our travels we decided to stop in and check it out. I am not ashamed to admit that I am a nature geek. I get giddy like a five-year-old at the thought of zoos, aquariums, and natural history museums. I watch a ton of nature shows. I love the stuff.

So I was really looking forward to this place. Sadly the excitement didn’t last very long. Getting in was expensive, required standing in a long line, and having our souvenir picture taken at the entrance in true theme park fashion. Once inside, we followed a winding walkway through several exhibits of various wildlife. Each exhibit was interesting, and the place showcased the animals beautifully. The problem was that it was over before it started. It took all of 15 minutes to walk through the entire place. Maybe I was expecting more than I should have been. But the cost and the hype led me to believe that I was in for a treat. I was pretty disappointed to say the least.

But the failed endeavor led me to what I believe is the jewel of the city. To get to the aquarium from the front door of the resort, you must walk through the gaming floor, a shopping mall, and what seems to be a never-ending corridor. It was in this corridor that I found a treasure. The Border Grill. A Mexican theme restaurant and bar. On the outside there was a to-go menu. And the word mojito seared itself into my brain. We stopped in and took a seat at the bar. And I opened up their menu. I found not one mojito, but half a page of them. They had variations on the choice of rum, additional fruit choices, and all were still respectful of the classic drink.

Thinking I had finally found a base of operations to continue my research I decided to throw caution (and my wallet) to the wind and go for the most expensive mojito on the menu. A traditional made with 12 year old Montecristo rum.

The bartender made the drink with care and precision. Using an actual muddler to blend the sugar and mint, adding the limes just before the end. Letting the rum soak up the flavors for a while before adding the soda. I watched and waited with anticipation.

It was perfect.

The four flavors were all in absolute balance. All were playing their part exquisitely. The first sip told me what I had been waiting to hear. The reason expats like Hemingway decided to stay once they got there. This was what a mojito should taste like.

Realizing that there was more of the town to see, I had to leave the Border Grill’s other mojito choices behind. But I made a note to return.

Mojito # 5-8.5: Variations on a Theme

On our last full day in Vegas I had to say goodbye to my companion for a while. To be honest, the real reason we were in town was for her to work. Vegas may very well be the conference capital of the country these days. She was there for a dental conference, and today was the day.

We took the monorail from the Hilton next door to our hotel down to the lower end of the strip and we parted ways at the conference center stop.

Now I was going to be alone in Vegas for at least 6 hours. Whatever shall I do? So many choices. But knowing many of them would end up with me flying back home alone, I decided to do what any good boy would have.

Get stinking drunk and lose the last of my money.

And if I was going to get drunk, I knew exactly where I was going to do it. At the bar of the Border Grill.

After swapping from the city based monorail, to the hotel owned one across the street, I finally ended up at Mandalay Bay. Sadly it was about 9am by this point. And though I had no problem staring my day that early, the Border Grill wasn’t going to help me. They didn’t open for two more hours.

But the great thing about Vegas is that you can always kill time. If you have the money that is.

Flash forward two hours. I had lost quite a bit at the Bellagio, tried and failed to ride the roller coaster at the NY, NY, and wandered the Luxor and Excaliber’s gaming floors without managing to lose my shirt.

I arrived at the Border Grill as they were opening the roll doors. I took a stool at the bar and prepared for a good day.

The best news I had received that morning was that it was May 6^th. I had lost track of the days, as I often do on vacations. Realizing that I had all afternoon to sit at the bar and watch TV, I was happy to find out that it was Kentucky Derby day. Not a horse racing fan, but big spectacles of any genre always interest me.

Bonus – As I started watching the event coverage, they gave a demonstration on how to make a Mint Julep. Ha! Take that, bad bartender guy!

I ordered an early lunch and my first cocktail. Having tried what I considered to be the best mojito I was going to get outside of Havana, I decided that the day would be spent trying variations of the drink. And the bartender was more than happy to help me out.

The night before, the bartenders had decided to mess around. They soaked an entire pitcher full of sliced cucumbers in vodka overnight. And their special of the day was, you guessed it, Cucumber Mojitos. After my initial revulsion, I settled into the thought. The fact that they used vodka instead of rum was a smart choice. I rolled the thought of cucumber and mint around my head. I added in some lime. The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. I went for it.

My imagination was working pretty well that day. The drink tasted pretty much exactly as I had envisioned. They went light on the sugar, letting the crispness of the cucumber carry the drink. It was a drink that I would keep in the back of my mind, ready to break out for a summer cookout. Light, crisp, cool. Not a “mojito,” per se, but a damn fine drink nonetheless.

As I enjoyed my fajitas, I began chatting with the bartender. I explained my research and she told me flat out, she makes the best mojitos in Las Vegas. She said her secret was that she loved to drink them. Hence, she made little else for herself when she was drinking.

For my next choice I had the house mojito. Made with Cruzan rum. Nothing special. It was better than any of the non-Border Grill mojitos I had sampled. But still not spectacular.

Buy this point people were starting to flow into the bar and restaurant. The interesting dynamic that I had not noticed up until this point is that Vegas’ lack of open container laws make bartenders very lonely people. I saw at least 10 people come in one after the other and grab their drinks to go. No chatting, little tips, and a lot of rudeness.

So I made a point to chat as much as I could. I am a bit of an introvert, so this didn’t come easy. But with two drinks and a belly full of lunch in me, I was in an especially good mood this morning. I decided to let the bartender play. I seen her talk a patron out of spending $40 on a shot of top shelf tequila, instead giving them one half the price and much better quality, explaining that it should be sipped, not slammed. So I knew I was in good hands.

I told her that I would try any mojito she wanted to make. As long as I got a glass of water with it. It was after all, just after noon.

As she was preparing my drink, the bartender was telling me that she had another mojito that she had always wanted to try, banana. I really dislike bananas. I haven’t eaten one since I was about ten. Rather than offend, I explained to the bartender that I would really need to drink the one she was making before she made me another. Hopefully she would forget before it came time for my next.

When she turned around and placed the glass in front of me, I was worried. It was orange.

She explained that she had never made an “Orange Creamsicle” mojito before now, but that she had always wanted to try. I am please to report that she did well. Made with orange and vanilla Cruzan rum, the drink mimicked its namesake surprisingly well.

As I took the first sip, a young lady sat at the other end of the bar. She told the bartender that she wanted something but didn’t know what. Seeing her opening, she offered this new patron her famous banana mojito. The unsuspecting young lady accepted graciously.

A half a minute later I found a rocks glass half full of banana mojito sitting next to my orange. Along with my new friend, the bartender, asking me if it needed anything. I had to say, it didn’t. In retrospect I have decided that a shot of pineapple rum could have made the drink something really special. But as it was, I was (drunk and) happy that I actually enjoyed something with bananas in it.

Taking my time with the two drinks in front of me, I tried to focus on the horse race. Anyone who has ever watched the Kentucky Derby knows that there are hours upon hours of pre-race coverage. And now that I had started, I was damn sure going to stick around for the race itself. The problem was, at the rate I was going I was never going to make it. So I ordered some chips and salsa, sat back, and relaxed my pace for a while.

Around 2pm I decided that I could only handle one more mojito for the day. The bartender took down the Montecristo, and made me yet another perfect drink.

I asked for the bill in order to make sure that I would’t decide to have another. Here is a little inside info. If you are ever in Vegas, talk to your bartenders. Lunch, 4.5 drinks (one top shelf), and chips and Salsa came to $30. My friend got a damn good tip.

I savored my last drink while watching the horses prepare for the race of their lives. I don’t have any idea which horse won the race. It didn’t really matter. I had found what I was looking for.

Chris Nopper is a world traveler and alcohol enthusiast with a tentative claim to a baronage under the Holy Roman Empire. His new goal in life is to visit Belgium to imbibe beer made by the Trappist monks at the Abbey of St Sixtus of Westlvleren.

We pulled it off.

As some might say, we did it by the skin of our teeth.

The event kicked off in Adams, MA, when 5 adventurers piled into a mini-van with a cooler of water, a laptop, and matching T-shirts. They had a fair amount of confidence that it could be done. But none of them knew what was in store.

12:55 PM
City Steam Brewery
Hartford CT

After one extra trip around the block the group found its way to their first stop. Jammed in the middle of downtown Hartford is the City Steam brewery. A bar, restaurant, and night club, this place was huge. And it was empty. I guess the people of Hartford have a thing or two to learn about getting started early.

Their beer is excellent. Adding any more than that would be robbing people of a chance to enjoy some of the best beers that I have ever tasted.

The venue itself was a sight to behold. The brewery uses steam to run its brewing process. And, as our bartender was happy to show us, they also use it to entertain. Steam powered whistles, both inside and outside, are controlled by various knobs and pull chains behind the bar. Our only complaint about this place is that we were there too early. All of us would have loved to see this place in full swing.

We spent a bit too much time at our first stop. That would later come back to bite us.

Rating – 5/5
What food we had was excellent.
What beer we drank was unrivaled
The staff and the venue were top notch

4:05 PM
Trinity Brewhouse
Providence RI

After a long journey across the state of CT (And any of you who have ever done that drive know just how much the time can slip away from you) the group arrived at Trinity.

The group didn’t have much to say about the place itself. It was a little dark, a little quiet, and a little uninteresting.

Again, the group hit the bar before it got into its evening mode. Though I have to note that just a block down the street was a small pub with tables on the sidewalk and two guys on guitar harassing passers by with their mocking improve songs. So there was no real excuse for Trinity to be as empty as it was. There are people out having a good time in Providence at 4PM on Saturdays.

Trinity’s beer selection was good. With quite a few to choose from. Overall I think they fell a little flat on taste. After the shock of City Steam, we could have been expecting more than could be delivered. On any other day, I think we would have enjoyed their beers just fine.

Rating – 2/5
No food sampled at this location.
Beer was good, but nothing spectacular.
Service was slow for the place being as dead as it was.
Would be willing to go back when the place was hopping to see if any of these things change with the atmosphere.

7:00 PM
Salem Beer Works
Salem MA

Now we’re getting into evening mode. The place was packed. And I mean packed. Saturday night. Tourist town. End of summer. Packed.

We were told that there would be an hour wait for a table. And with the group picking up some friends, who live locally for this stop, there was no room for the 8 of us at the bar.

Panic set in. Salem was planned (a bad move on my part) to be our dinner stop. I have had the Beer Works’ food before and the timing seemed right on for good grub. But an hour wait for a table, then however long it was gonna take to get food, was going to devastate our timetable.

So we decided to try the “Special Treatment” bait. I sent our best confidence man up to the hostess station. I equipped him with one of our flyers detailing our trip. And I told him to smile.

It seemed to have worked. 15 minutes later we were sitting at a table for 8. Drink orders placed, drooling on our menus.

The manager on duty come over and introduced himself. He asked us about our mission. And wished us the best of luck in completing it. Excellent treatment in a place that was so big, that we would have never noticed had none of it taken place.

Rating – 5/5
Their food is always top notch.
Their beer selection is huge. Every one of them is excellent.
Service and atmosphere went above and beyond what we thought possible. I have had mixed experiences at the Beer Works at Fenway Park. But after this trip, I would forgive them all.

9:20 PM
Portsmouth Brewery Restaurant
Portsmouth NH

Now for the fun part. It is getting late. We are getting tired. And we are only halfway done.

Including Salem, these few stops are all relatively close and easy.

We zipped across the border into NH and just an exit away was Portsmouth. A booming New England downtown, with brick buildings and little storefronts everywhere. And coming as a shock to someone who grew up in western Mass, they all had stores in them. Another interesting note about this quiet little shore town. It was full of people. Thousands of people under the age of thirty were walking from one bar or restaurant to the next. Spilling out into the street, the masses seemed to love this place.

The bars were packed. At our destination, the bouncers gave us a quizzical look as we filed in with our matching T-shirts and, by now, exhausted faces.

We really were trying to put the spurs into the trip at this point so we wasted no time squeezing into the bar and flagging down the bartender. To our shock, as she was pouring drinks at about the speed of sound, she actually stopped and took a moment to read our flyer (which we handed her to read later at her leisure) and ask us how the trip was going.

Several patrons then took an interest, and we found our selves having to cut conversations short in order to move on to our next stop.

In all of this I think the only problem was, we never really got to enjoy our beers. This really was an indicator to how the rest of the night was shaping up. And for that I am sorry to the others on this journey.

I can say with confidence that the Portsmouth Brewery’s beer selection deserved more time than we could give it. If you are in the area, please stop by and try them out. (And let me know what you think)

Rating – 4/5
Great crowd
Great Beer (What we could try of it)
Excellent response from a service staff that was absolutely swamped!

10:00 PM
Shipyard Brew Pub
Eliot ME

Maine! At this point in the trip it was really starting to set in that we were trying something ridiculous. It was dark and we were a long way from home.

After going about 3 miles past our destination on a small road (much of it in the woods) we finally found the Brew Pub. An unassuming little place nestled in a strip mall. Walking up to the door, we are all apprehensive about going into what appeared to be a dive bar. Shipyard brewery is not a small-scale outfit. Their beers are sold all over New England. So I was shocked to say the least that this was the place I had read about. And I was hoping for the best as I opened the door.

The best is exactly what I found inside.

When we entered, everyone (and I mean everyone, there were about 10 people inside) turned to check us out. They saw our shirts first I think. As we approached the bar, the bartender asked us directly, “What’s with the shirts?”

We explained the mission. And the manager (who was sitting at the bar, apparently off shift) said, “Well then, I think we better pick up their drinks for them…”

Unlike most places I have been to in the past, no one at the bar (or at the table for that matter) turned back to their drinks. They all got up, came over, introduced themselves, and started giving us directions!

I really have to stop for a moment and say thank you to all of the people we found in that bar that night. From the employees to the patrons, you were the highlight of this trip for all of us! The welcoming atmosphere, the camaraderie, that stuff just doesn’t happen at my local bar.

After lots of directions on how best to get to Vermont, we enjoyed our beers quickly. To many cheers of “Drink Faster!” and “You better hurry up and drink that if you are gonna make it in time!”

We thanked our hosts and made for the van.

Side Note: They even asked us to autograph our flier so they could frame it and give it to the brewmaster. Again, you guys rock!

Rating – 5/5
We didn’t have a chance to try any food.
The beers we had were superb! (Though we drank them too quickly to really get to enjoy them.)
The people at this place were the best by far of any place on this trip. Quite possibly the best bar crowd I have ever been around.

1:12 AM
McNeill’s Brewery
Brattleboro VT

And now for the final stop. I have been dreading this.

As we set out from Maine, shooting our way across southern New Hampshire, we quickly realized that making it to McNeill’s before midnight was out the window. We accepted that and all came to the conclusion that we weren’t going to let that get in the way of us completing our mission. After all, it was our mission, and we could change the rules at any time.

So as we shot past Manchester, I called once again on our confidence man. He was tasked with finding out when McNeill’s stopped serving. After he hung up the phone, we were relieved to find out that they served until 2:00 AM

Now I have to repeat that. We called McNeill’s, and were told that last call was at 2AM. 2AM.

Looking at the clock, we had plenty of time to do the hour and a half or so of driving left. So I asked our designated driver to take it easy. We were on unfamiliar roads, in the dark, in wooded New Hampshire. Who knows what kind of furry (or otherwise) life forms could jump out into the road? I wanted to end the night with a celebration. Not with a trip to a hospital.

We arrived at McNeill’s just after 1AM. We parked the van and all headed around the corner for what we thought would be our great victory.

As we walked into the bar, the bartender took one look at us and said “I already called last call, you can stand around if you want.”

I think my jaw hit the floor. I took a moment to let it sink in. Here we were, standing two feet from a beer tap that marks the end of a journey of epic proportions. And it is dry. My heart broke. Not for me, but for the group. These people who I had spent weeks getting excited for this trip. Talking them into spending the better part of a day in a 9’ x 5’ box.

I quickly moved into disbelief stage. A patron turned around to ask us what was up. I must have sounded like a 5 year old at that point. “We came all this way and now she won’t give us our beer!”

So once again (hey, it worked before) I sent the man with the big smile up to the bar. Armed with a flyer, and the knowledge that we had confirmed last call.

The bartender stopped what she was doing and listened to him tell our story.

She then threw the glass she was drying into the sink (Hard enough to elicit jeering and “ooohs” form other patrons) and poured a beer. Putting it on the counter and walking away muttering something under her breath.

Well, folks. This was it. Our moment of triumph. All taking a sip from the one beer that the bartender was gracious enough to give us.

To her credit, she did come back as we were sharing our final beer. She asked us “Is there anything else you need from me for your little project?” It was said with the level of contempt usually only heard from the mouths of people who like watching puppies getting kicked.

I replied. All I will say is that my reply was far friendlier than she deserved.

We tried so hard to feel good about finishing our quest. But every one of us felt defeated. We piled back into the van that had carried us to so many great places that day. I spent the next hour fuming. But eventually I got to a point where I could reflect on what we had done. Setbacks and problems aside we had done it. We had finished our quest. And we found great beer, great places, and some of the greatest people I have head the pleasure of sharing a drink with!

Rating – 0/5
I will not rate beer that was consumed in the fashion described above. The beer doesn’t deserve it.

On a postive note:
You can read about what beers were sampled at each location, was well as getting more info on our route at:

2007 Great New England Beer Run

To the participants of the 2007 Great New England Beer Run, you have my thanks! You made this event happen.

And to everyone else, thanks for reading! Be on the lookout for our next beer run. We learned a lot about what works and what doesn’t. And we hope to put an even better run together next year!