Peanuts In My Pocket

I visited what I think of as a horrible place on Super Bowl Sunday. Not horrible because it’s dangerous or ugly. No, it’s horrible because it feels like it was designed specifically to irritate me. And I mean me in particular, though I’m sure there are others like me who find casinos to be the perfect storm of crowds, noise, and anxiety. I have issues, and casinos check every box.

I dropped my wife and her mother off at Yaamava’ Resort & Casino. The plan was simple. Drop them off, drive over to Yucaipa Regional Park for a few hours of birding and a quiet picnic lunch, then return for pickup and head home. Most of that plan worked, except the birding, which was disappointing.

Driving in, it felt like I was being funneled down a dead-end road with a massive hotel and casino complex at the end. That turned out to be accurate. The road feeds directly into parking structures and two drop-off areas. I fought a light crowd and made a painless drop-off, then escaped easily. As I drove away, my wife texted, “It’s so loud in here.” For her to say that set off alarms. If it was loud for her, it would be intolerable for me.

I spent three or four hours birding in solitude and silence. Eventually, I stopped for lunch and enjoyed the most peaceful twenty minutes of my day. I didn’t see another person or a single bird during the meal. It was perfect. After that, I called it a day and headed back to the casino, where things went sideways.

The same road was still there, but now traffic was backed up almost to the freeway. That dead-end drive took twenty minutes, which should have warned me about what was coming. I parked and made my way toward the bridge entrance from the parking structure. The elevators were poorly designed, with no clear way to tell which car was active. A minor annoyance, sure, but to me it felt like hostile design. Or negligence.

At the entrance, there were metal detectors. I had to walk back to my car to drop off my ever-present pocket knife. My mistake, but it did raise my appreciation for the casino. They care enough to keep weapons and underage kids out. That counts for something.

Once inside, I was immediately uncomfortable. The noise near the entrance was enough to put me on edge, and it felt like that funneling road had simply continued indoors, pulling me deeper into the heart of the place.

The noise was awful and grew with every step. I didn’t have earplugs with me. Well, I had one, but I dropped it on the parking structure floor and threw it away. I checked a noise app. Ninety-eight decibels, with spikes up to 105. It was loud.

I descended from the second-floor casino, which I didn’t explore, down to the ground floor. That’s where the sensory assault really began. It was so crowded that walking without bumping into someone was nearly impossible. Most guests appeared to be seventy or older and under five foot six. I was a giant by comparison, ping-ponging off people and fixtures while trying to find my wife in a confusing, chaotically colorful maze.

My search failed. They were there, but blended in so completely that the only way I was going to find them was if they found me.

I wandered for ten minutes, stress climbing steadily, until a woman stopped me and asked if I needed help. A few minutes later, a man asked the same thing, adding, “You look confused. Are you okay?”

I wasn’t.

My fight-or-flight reflex was screaming for fresh air. I don’t do well with confined spaces, crowds, or noise. My wife texted that we should meet at the food court. I asked a dealer for directions. He pointed across the casino. I’d been searching in the wrong area.

I bumped into a few more people on the way, then all but gave up when I still couldn’t find her. She eventually found me. I was visibly relieved. One look at me and she suggested we head home, unless I wanted food. That wasn’t happening.

On the way out, I accidentally shoulder-checked an older walker. Then did it again a moment later. Not my finest hour.

We eventually escaped the maze of the casino and then the parking structure. The drive home was long. We all agreed we didn’t need to return. There are other options, like Pechanga Resort Casino, which takes just as long to reach and has better birding nearby.

Later that evening, as we watched a thoroughly uninteresting Super Bowl, my wife mentioned we might need to go back. She’d forgotten to cash a one-hundred-dollar winning ticket.

I suggested donating it to one of our older relatives instead.