Nevada Motels

Rancho Sierra Farris Motel

As it happens, Reno and nearby Sparks still have their charms. For every tacky motel forced to deface itself for municipal uniformity in places like Anaheim, California and Times Square, New York, at least two neon throwbacks endure in Reno. And do these folks know how to celebrate the starburst icon and sputnik light! Those quirky icons of the 1950s and 60s, now stripped of their cold war connotations, remain prevalent as ever in this so-called "biggest little city in the world." Roll down Fourth (the Interstate 80 business loop) from the west side of town toward Sparks and get your camera ready: the Rancho Sierra and Farris Motel (to the east of town) await. Along the way, check out the references to Highway 40. Before the age of interstates, the Victory Highway cut through Reno, not too far from the railroad. Stop by the Sparks historical society museum to learn more; the folks are plenty friendly.

Co Ed Lodge Savoy Motor Lodge

Intersecting Fourth is Reno's other great cross-street, Virginia. From the Co Ed Lodge to the Savoy Motor Lodge near the university, through the glittering strip that manages to hide the Heart o' Town Motel, head south to the Ho Hum Motel.

Heart o' Town Motel Ho Hum Motel

Before long, the strip reasserts itself in a new wave of colossal temples to El Dorado like the Peppermill. Sure, you can stuff yourself at a buffet that resembles a Caribbean rainforest, but the buck-ninety nine steak you may remember is history. If you're staying the night, the Sandman on Fourth is your best bet, just a few blocks down the road from the Sage Motel. You'll find no phones, rabbit ears on your TV, and furniture out of a 1940s issue of Better Homes and Gardens - but also a clean room and close proximity to the strip.

Sandman Motel Sage Motel

During our first night at the buffets and free shows at Circus Circus, we stop by the Thunderbird Motel across the street from the Silver Legacy. A hundred fifty a night, and you don't even get a watered-down White Russian! Nope, head out a few blocks from any point on the strip and the prices return from the stratosphere. For us, the Sandman is tops - and, as a bonus, it's just down the road from the glowing Pony Express Lodge with its neon cowboy racing a hail of arrows. The next morning, we check out the relic of the Restwell Motel, now resting in peace - its rusted sign a lonely reminder of a motel long gone.

Pony Express Lodge Restwell Motel

If you're in the mood for adventure, head down Second Street, past the lonely, screaming man who was probably an accountant in Iowa a couple years back, and pull into the Downtowner Motel ("This area is monitored by video surveillance"). This is the Reno for folks who've stayed one hand too long, where penny slots and discarded tickets stubs still hold the promise of your next big break. Better yet, pull into the parking lot of the Tarry Motel, catch a breath, survey the horizon, and hit the highway south to Vegas. Maybe your luck will improve.

Downtowner Motel Tarry Motel

For all of its gaudiness, the unbelievable wattage, and the vast opportunity to lose your shirt, Las Vegas ("We buy postdated checks!") is essentially a town full of people trying to get by. Cruising in from the desert, we agree with one author who compares the arrival to this neon town to that of flying into an airport. The streets are runways, but the landing lights are steady only in their constant movement. It takes a little searching, but we find a strange and beautiful collection of motels along the wishbone of Fremont Street and Las Vegas Boulevard. At Fisher's Inn we visit an office that features the largest collection of Reader's Digest condensed books I've ever seen. A Chihuahua crosses my path. I'm not sure if that's good luck or bad. In front of the building is a tangerine orange Chevolet Bel Air. Next to the office is a stretch of astro turf looking material and two exercise bikes.

Fisher Inn

Down the road, the Lucky Cuss gold miner points toward its glowing office. Mediaeval looking numbers on the doors suggest more class than the cracked pavement of the parking lot admits. On the door: "fur coat, see the manager." A guy saunters over with a riding crop under his arm. "Can't park here," he announces. We believe him. Further along, we visit the Capri, its sign the sound of a fly buzzing, and the Walden. There, I meet Gary as he digs for cans in the dumpster. He tells me that between 22 and 24 cans will get him a pound: "I got fifty cents for 'em the other day, but today they were closed."

The Valley Motel boasts a three handed cowboy - or so it seems. Apparently, he's caught between two types of wave. In the office, you can play a miniature slot machine, but I inquire about that sign. "Why doesn't it move?" I ask the manager. "I don't know. I never noticed." At Fergusons Motel, we learn about the age of the motels on this strip: "We had a Canadian tourist come in with a postcard from 1957 - and the place looked the same. Sure, the surrounding area was different, but the motel looked the same. Just throw in some old cars and you couldn't tell the difference." In the distance, searchlights and gleaming edifices continue to pour light into the night sky. On Las Vegas Blvd, we discover the Gateway ("Erotic films midnight to 5 am"). Its office is accessible only through a tiny window slot. In front of one of the rooms is an ice cream truck, but we don't stick around to meet the driver.

Fergusons Motel Gateway Motel High Hat Regency

Instead, we head over to the High Hat Regency and meet Jeff who's sitting on a stool by the door: "Lessee, you got pirate ships, a huge sphinx, a pyramid - the self promotion of this place is incredible. Me? I don't even go into the casinos anymore. That sound --" his pony tail bobs to the memory, clang! -- "that's the sound of other people making money." In the middle of our chat, a working girl in a tank top stumbles by. She asks with no small sense of desperation, "Hey Jeff, you got any superglue?" Across the street, at the Little White Chapel, a busload of touristas disengorge, cameras flashing.

We cruise up and down the main drags, gasping at the sights and smells. We're in search of one of those cheap steak dinners we've always heard of. In Las Vegas, they say, you can get a full meal for a couple of bucks in one of those casino hotels, just so you'll gamble. The stories are all true, and the steak isn't bad, either. Just before we call it a night, we stop at the Tod Motor Motel. A guy who looks like he stepped out of a marine recruiting poster ambles by. On closer inspection, I notice that he's wearing boxers, not shorts. Even without my tape recorder, I can remember this story pretty well, because he told the same one to Jenny: "I blew all my money gambling and drinking and I just pulled out when my damned u-joint fell out. I had a vest and a nice pair of slacks, and already sold them." He asks if we'd like to purchase a nice fuel tube for three dollars and two cents to help him pay to get his car fixed. He's just about got all the cash he needs. Later, I ask the manager about his motel's name. He won't come to the door, but says, looking behind me, "ask him." I turn around, but no one's there. The door slams and we continue on our way. Just about the only thing, other than the lights, that Vienna remembers is that her daddy gambled in Las Vegas. I'd always wanted to. So, with ten dollars, I hit the slots. I made a profit of one dollar and, losing the rest of my winnings, called it a night.

Return to the lobby.

Last update: December 2, 2000. All photographs copyright © Jenny Wood. Text copyright © Andy Wood.