Perhaps unsurprisingly, by the time I was on the plane out west, I was. Which helped. Why would anyone want to spend a trip talking to a stranger? I thought. When confronted with Las Vegas, the famously cool den of depravity that I had never before visited, I finally understood the business trippers and solo travelers looking for generous permanent residents.
After wading through a handful of people who wanted to go on an actual date fair enough , I locked in meetups with three guys who both seemed normal and promised to show me un-Googleable Vegas hotspots.
Notepad in my hand and my heart in my mouth, I headed to Sin City ready to see some deeply weird shit and maybe do a smidge of sinning myself. Cam, age unlisted, was the first and best candidate for this story.
Clean-cut, responsive, and smiley, not only did he immediately and enthusiastically respond to my Tinder DM, he emailed me a five-part itinerary within hours.
I love a hustler! We narrowed our agenda down to two of his five suggested spots. Cam ended up being a year-old with distinction: He is one of the youngest commercially certified hot air balloon pilots in the world. He arrived at our date with his hair slicked down, wearing black chinos and a maroon button-up bearing the logo of the hot air balloon tour company he co-owned, the aptly named Vegas Balloon Rides.
