With nearly $90 million in reserves, the $650 million people-moving system isn't in danger of shutting down, but with a tanking credit rating—New York credit firm Fitch Ratings recently dropped its bond rating from "BB" to "CCC" (B-rated bonds are viewed as undesirable investments; C-rated bonds are the lowest class of bonds), plans for a $500 million extension to the airport and an $800 million loop connecting resort-corridor convention centers are iffy. Add the lowered credit rating to a series of blunders, both forced and unforced, since the monorail opened in 2004. Modeled after the Bay Area's BART or Atlanta's MARTA public transit systems, the monorail has sput ... sput ... sputtered along. From a series of momentum-killing shutdowns caused by technical glitches and falling parts (a two-pound washer in one instance, a 60-pound wheel assembly in another) to the sticker shock of increasing one-trip fares from $3 to $5—the monorail ferries 19,000 riders daily, less than half of the body count needed to break even. Enter the hemlines. The Las Vegas Monorail Ambassadors comprise 20 model-worthy women tasked with hyping the monorail and handing out 50-page brochures touting the shopping, dining and entertainment options along the four-mile route. Five girls work in six-hour shifts, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Thursday. Theirs is a hybrid outfit, part stewardess, part Flo from Mel's Diner. You can find them at four designated spots: at Caesars Palace in the Roman Plaza area fronting the Strip; in the corridor between the Venetian and the Mirage; in front of the Mirage's faux volcano; and outside Harrah's northernmost entrance.
Or at least you're supposed to find them at four designated spots. Initially, it was a challenge to find just one ambassador. Getting on at the Sahara casino station, I rode the monorail southbound, decamped at the Harrah's station, walked to the casino's northernmost entrance (no ambassador) then across the street to Caesars Roman Plaza (no ambassador), hoofed it northward to the Mirage volcano (no ambassadors), crossed over to the Venetian (no ambassador) and, finally, strode back to Harrah's.
So I tried again.
And, again, no ambassadors.
I contacted a monorail spokeswoman, who assured me that the ambassadors were there, and set up a next-day meeting for me with Angelina Russo (designated spokes-ambassador) at Caesars Roman Plaza ...
The first ambassador I see isn't Angelina and isn't ambassador-ing, unless sitting down with your feet propped up is part of the job.
Angelina? I ask.
No, she says, but Angelina's nearby.
She gets up, puts on her glasses, grabs a few brochures and starts walking. Minutes later, out walks Russo, all blonde locks and perky attitude. Since the ambassador program started on August 17, Russo says response has been good.
Good? But ridership is down.
"It's been good in terms of letting people know about the monorail. A lot of people, visitors, are looking forward to using it," Russo says, only somewhat convincingly. "I don't have any definitive numbers on how the program is affecting ridership. Our goal is to increase awareness, to let people know the monorail is here and talk about the benefits of using it: It's really quick; there are never long lines; every six minutes a train comes by; and it's great for conventions. I had a job at the Las Vegas Convention Center [she worked as a booth hostess]. I got on the monorail and didn't have to deal with traffic."
Russo certainly has the script down. I ask if there isn't something desperate about hiring pretty women to promote the monorail, if that isn't a typical Vegas fall-back marketing ploy. "Casinos hire girls to promote their gaming cards and other events and they aren't hurting financially," she says.
Since Angelina won't crack, I try to find monorail riders to talk about the ambassador program—will it work, is T—A a bona fide part of a business plan?
Problem! If 19,000 people ride the monorail daily, 18,000-plus must do it before 1 p.m. and after 3:30 p.m., because there aren't a lot of people to choose from in that time. Two guys who got on at the Las Vegas Hilton stop are more interested in each other than women. It doesn't seem right to ask the handful of young couples who are riding. The only man on the northbound train looks like he's been a senior citizen for 20 years. Heading back to the Sahara, I have one last chance: five elderly women who certainly don't act their age.
I ask if putting pretty girls outside casinos would convince more people to ride the monorail, to which one lady pipes: "We're not here for women. We want to see men."