Going up was fine. It was when we stopped at the top of Liftoff, a 150-foot-tall open-air elevator of sorts that resembles a space-age hot-air balloon, that the nerves set in.
“Don’t look down,” I told myself.
That was the easy part. The twinkling neon and bright lights of Las Vegas had me fixated.
Sure, my seat had nothing but a waist belt to secure me. The unusually windy evening whipped my hair aloft. My feet dangled with nothing below them — explaining why, down on the ground, I had seen signs banning flip-flops.
But I had a paper cup with an Irish cream-spiked hot chocolate for liquid courage, and a 360-degree view of the Strip’s lustrous radiance.
More nervous than I was, one of my companions gripped his seat and winced the whole five minutes we spun slowly around, like we were in a nightmarish version of a revolving restaurant. Sensing his fear, my other friend started to get jittery, too.
“When you’re this high up,” she said, “there needs to be a floor.”
How about 64 of them?