By

Sept. 4, 2018

“Back of my hand. Back of my hand …” The young T.S.A. agent’s tone is matter-of-fact yet soothing, particularly as she struggles to get a blue-gloved finger between my waistband and my waist, a space we both agree is confoundingly snug. I have arrived at the Austin airport with only a temporary, wholly insufficient paper copy of a recently renewed driver’s license, and thus my journey to Las Vegas begins, appropriately enough, with a thorough pat-down. Emily, my already reluctant traveling companion, looks on with dismay. It’s an inauspicious beginning to our in-depth investigation into the phenomenon known as Las Vegas pool culture, a project to which we, avowed Texas river rats, have affixed the label Fear and Bathing in Las Vegas. Little did we know.

Over three days we would abase ourselves before khaki-clad, earpiece-wearing room-key inspectors (those we didn’t sneak past, that is), run in inadequately soled sandals down sidewalks baked by 111-degree heat (slightly preferable to navigating the air-conditioned but endless Kubrickian resort-casino corridors of the Strip), pay handsomely for the privilege of having our belongings searched and our bodies wanded, and espy more butt cheek than we ever thought possible. You know those insufferable inspirational messages plastered across Instagram photos and tote bags, the “Oh Hey Vacay”s and “Not all who wander …”s? I saw one that really resonated with me in Vegas: “Travel leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” I’m not sure about that last part, but the first is right on the mark.

Saturday, June 23, 11:30 a.m., Encore Beach Club, Encore: Our first stop, after a buffet breakfast of smoked salmon, mac and cheese, liquid courage and other unnatural pairings, is Encore Beach Club, 40,000 square feet of capital-P pool party. We are throwing ourselves in the deep end, so to speak. Except there is no deep end, of course, nor diving boards or anything else that might not mix well with a Jeroboam of Ace of Spades rosé ($25,000). No mere hotel pool, EBC is one of the heavy hitters of Vegas day clubs, which, if you’re not familiar, are pretty much exactly like Vegas nightclubs, except with sunshine and water and less clothing. The emergence of the Vegas day club is largely attributed to the Hard Rock Hotel, whose execs apparently figured that access to an Ibiza-style pool party brimming with babes and bros and booze was the kind of thing people already living it up in the land of no limits would pay for. The appropriately named Rehab, the “party that started it all,” was launched one Sunday in 2004, and it was off to the races.