Freedom Beat

Freedom Beat. A name that evokes the rhythms of a nation, the heartbeats of its people. But today, it seems that rhythm has missed a beat. There’s a sense of disconnect as I stand, waiting and unnoticed, a spectral presence in a room buzzing with life.

The temptation to give in to annoyance is there. But I’m in Vegas, a city where you roll with the punches, so I divert my path towards the bar. The stools, worn from countless patrons, beckon invitingly. There’s a democracy to bar seating, a universality — everyone’s equal when perched on a barstool.

The American breakfast arrives. Eggs, sunny side up, gleaming like the morning sun. The bacon, crisped to perfection, whispers tales of smokehouses and tradition. Hash browns, golden and crunchy, hiding soft, steaming interiors. It’s a breakfast that speaks of home, comfort, and the very heartland of this vast nation.

The mimosa, a dance of champagne and orange, sparkles in the dim light. It’s bright and bubbly, the effervescence capturing the very essence of a Vegas morning — or is it still night? Time blurs in this city.

Was the oversight at the entrance a slight? Yes. But in the grander scheme, amidst the melodies of clinking glasses and murmured conversations, it’s just a single off-key note in an otherwise harmonious symphony of the Sin City experience. Cheers.