Monday, June 26, 2 p.m. "Did someone order the chilled Evian spray?" I'm not sure whose hand flies up first, mine or Tina's. I stand up to my full height and stretch my arms out before a hunk in a white, monogrammed polo shirt and crisp, white Bermuda shorts. (Who ordered him?) Brandishing two ice-cold cans of aerosol Evian, he hits me with a good, cool mist on my back and extremities. A girl could get used to this kind of treatment ... especially since I should be working right now.
It's a delicious sort of feeling, playing hooky. Dangerous and sweet, like finding your hidden birthday presents as a child. When I was growing up, both my parents were teachers so skipping school was not exactly an option. But how could I now pass up the opportunity to try this summer's crop of weekday pool parties? And besides, Monday is Saturday for some: Club industry workers who toil all weekend need some sweet relief on their days off, no matter what days of the week those may be.
In the white-on-white oasis of olive trees and date palms, the Venus Pool at Caesars, operated by Pure Management Group, is one very elite place to strip and dip, almost as hard to find as it is to get into. Canvas cabanas and sprawling day beds beckon lounge lizards to bask in the sunshine for a change. Chaises creep right up to the water, inviting toes for a dip. And thanks to a whole lot of seclusion, European-style (read "topless") sunbathing is welcome. But despite a recent trip to Italy, I still haven't become accustomed to seeing tanned orbs bobbing with nothing between them and the water but a thin layer of oil. There are at least three pairs afloat right now. While I avert my eyes to protect the modesty their owners obviously don't have, others don dark sunglasses so as to appreciate them further without attracting attention.
Also attracting much attention from the crowd—large enough for there to be something going on but small enough to enjoy the pool, as the designers and management intend—is the staff. One blonde server in a white bikini and sheer sarong is so tall, firm and slender that her muscles seem to be stretched over her core like canvas on a frame. With each protracted step across the deck to deliver a tray of mango mojitos, her hips rock in time like a metronome to the Latin-inspired light trance music, the motion hypnotic to any male.
Lightly lunching on the white ceviche, I order a caipirinha and pay the full $15, even though the Brazilian cocktail was not made tableside from one of Venus' movable carts. It's light, a cross between a minty mojito and a limey margarita. An unseasonable humidity has settled on the pool area, making the backs of my knees sticky, but my Evian-wielding hero returns, armed with refreshing, frozen hand towels for us, and later, chilled orange slices. Upon leaving, I have that relaxed and energized feeling of having been at the spa all day, and the accompanying goofy grin, as much inspired by the European bathing as the midday cocktail and the drowsy heat.
At the Hard Rock a few minutes later, I discover there is life after Rehab. On Relax Mondays, the pool area is scattered with tourists and locals, a fraction of Sunday's thousands-strong madness. The first man to pass out Sunday night has re-emerged from his darkened room; the last man standing is still awake. The party vibe is still here, thanks to DJ Shift, but is taken down just a notch. Today's hazy, hot and humid soup must make the East Coasters feel right at home. Grateful smiles spread across their tanned faces as they kick back in the pool and around the sandy beach with their magenta tiki souvenir bottles. Relax's promoters float by, singing all the words to New Edition's "Every Little Step."
Perhaps it's all a little too relaxed. I don't think I could get a camo-clad server to approach me if I was wearing a thong made out of $100 bills but the warm sunset feels so good on my skin that I don't move a muscle until Officer Green Polo Shirt indicates with his walkie-talkie and invisible watch that the pool closes at 6:30 p.m. Revived, pampered and with the weekend bleached out of me, I think I can finally take on Tuesday.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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