“Pizza and a movie? But it’s your sweet sixteen!” my sister pleaded. “And you live in Las Vegas, the party capital of the world!”
“We can make it a real nice event,” added Dad, who back then in the nineties frequented casinos that rewarded him with freebies. “I bet we’d be able to get a comp for one of those duplex suites at Caesars Palace, your favorite.”
“Yes! It’ll be a toga party!” my sister proclaimed. “You’ll regret not having a big sweet sixteen like mine.”
I shrugged indifferently. Dad was right that I adored Caesars Palace with its exquisite classical-style statuary and colonnades. But as a confirmed wallflower who hadn’t hosted a birthday party since elementary school, I imagined my classmates must have something better to do on a Saturday night than celebrate a purely chronological milestone on some ridiculously grand scale with me.
My mom shared my aversion for making fusses, but before I knew it the four of us were selecting save-the-date cards with a cartoon of Nero playing a lyre. I justified the party in a few ways: Costs would be minimal thanks to Dad’s connections. My sister would take care of all the tedious organizing. And she made a good point—what if I later regretted not having a big sweet sixteen?
The plan was for the forty-plus invitees to arrive around five p.m. at the second level of the suite, where Caesars employees decked out as handmaidens and gladiators would help drape white tunics and purple togas over everybody. Next, the guests would choose from an array of accessories, including gladiator wrist cuffs, glittery snake armlets, golden laurel wreaths and sequined asp crowns. (To set myself apart as the birthday girl, I would also don a flashy amulet necklace.) Afterwards, my newly robed classmates would descend the curved staircase to the suite’s first level, where for an hour everyone would socialize and graze over light hors d’oeuvres and mocktails while a harpist, magician and mime set the festive mood. In a corner there’d be a professional photographer ready to snap guests posing with more handmaidens and gladiators against a backdrop of Corinthian columns and basins of grapes. Then at six, we’d all take the elevators down to the casino’s main level and parade to the Bacchanal restaurant (different than the Bacchanal Buffet Caesars has today) for a seven-course sit-down banquet. Finally, we’d all return to the suite and dance the evening away until it was time for cake.
Truthfully, the only part that excited me was the cake. Meanwhile at school, there was a buzz about my sweet sixteen shaping up to be the most unique ever, which just made me fret about falling short of everybody’s expectations. Home wasn’t much calmer: The party was all Dad talked about, which was touching but did little to quell my nerves.
By the day of, I figured there was no turning back, and I resolved to surrender to whatever would unfold and enjoy the ride. I kept reminding myself how fortunate I was to be able to throw a party and ring in my birthday with family, friends and peers. And due to my sister’s micromanaging, everything proceeded without a hitch.
It was amusing watching my classmates’ giddy expressions when they arrived and were immediately bedizened like patricians. Something about being in costume fostered an effortless camaraderie, and everyone seemed to be having a fabulous time. I’d invited only my junior class and a couple other kids I was friends with, but at one point I noticed milling about a popular freshman I hardly knew. How cool someone crashed my party!
Near the end of mocktail hour the photographer called me over to pose for some solo shots. Next he instructed one of the gladiators to kneel before me so I could pretend to feed him grapes. That was the closest I’d ever been to a guy thus far, and I could barely breathe. He was perfect. Considering that physique I bet he moonlighted in Thunder From Down Under, and I could hear my girlfriends squealing with delight. But then I had my first intrusive thoughts of the night: This guy is here because he’s getting paid. He’s being nice to me because that’s his job.
None too soon the handmaidens began guiding everybody out into the hallway, so I plastered on a grin as we all piled into two elevators. I managed to put the gladiator out of my mind, but when the doors slid open onto the casino floor I was instantly taken aback at the tableau before me: Four new gladiators! But they sported centurion helmets complete with cheek guards and crimson plumes, and they were towering over a chaise lounge…which was empty.
I gasped and glared accusatorily at my sister, but she just pointed at Dad, who couldn’t stop laughing.
For weeks he’d been hinting that he had a surprise up his sleeve, but I never for a second anticipated that he’d swing something this far out of my comfort zone. Didn't he know me at all?
One of the gladiators proceeded to bellow, “Hail Daria, Empress of Rome, on her sixteenth birthday! Hail Daria!”
Suddenly everyone in the casino was staring at me, and my classmates started parroting the gladiator. “Hail Daria! Hail Daria!”
I recalled my earlier promise to myself to go with the flow, so I hopped on the chaise and tried not to blush to death as the gladiators hoisted me seven feet into the air. Being carried through Caesars Palace with my classmates trailing like loyal subjects was a surreal, admittedly intoxicating blur. Still, I breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the restaurant and I could blend in with everybody again.
Bacchanal was an opulent, dimly lit space with a center fountain surrounded by long tables set up for the party. As predicted, dinner was decadent and sumptuous. However, sometime around the palette cleanser course, reality set in once more as I caught sight of my grandma, whose entire childhood was robbed by wartime atrocities and near constant hunger. She didn’t appear bothered by the sight of four-dozen advantaged teenagers thoughtlessly feasting, but I berated myself for being so insensitive and agreeing to preside over such an ostentatious food orgy.
Soon two other casino employees attired as Caesar and Cleopatra came upon the scene to deliver a kind, if corny, birthday toast. They were followed by two voluptuous “wine goddesses” who sashayed from guest to guest, spritzing perfume on the girls and performing scalp massages on the boys. “Best party ever!” I heard one of the football players groan rapturously, the back of his head nestled against his goddess’s ample décolletage. I felt humiliated for her.
Happily there were no gladiators and chaise lounge waiting when we lumbered out of Bacchanal after dessert. Back upstairs in the now darkened suite, everyone danced as a DJ spun a mix of eighties and top forty hits, though I spied a couple twosomes sneaking off into the bedrooms. Within the hour a sheet cake was wheeled out, Happy Birthday was sung, and slices were served, not that anyone had any appetite left. Then just like that, the revelry ended and room emptied. I thanked my family profusely. As we gathered our belongings, I felt jubilant, unworthy, exhilarated, exhausted, embarrassed and blessed all at once. There was no “post-party depression.” I was pleased it was over and craved a swift return to normalcy.
On Monday I received a lot of nice feedback from classmates, and one of the cheerleaders I wasn’t close to but always admired called me especially to rave about how much fun she had. But after that there was hardly any mention of the party at school, which suited me just fine. My family regularly brought it up, though, especially Dad. Anytime his friends called or came into town, he’d recount every over-the-top particular, causing me to wince. I didn’t want his friends to get the wrong idea about me, that I was someone who sought extravagance and relished being the center of attention. I would have been just as content with pizza and movie, which heralded in most of my birthdays since.
Now, more than two decades later, I’ll never know if I would’ve missed not having a big sweet sixteen, but I’m no longer conflicted about how mine turned out. Yes, I wish I had the social consciousness then to insist on a service-oriented celebration with the presents going to a worthy cause. Nonetheless, my party was a once-in-a-lifetime, quintessential Vegas experience I’ll remember forever. I feel guilty for not savoring every second of it since Dad pulled so many strings to make it happen, but Ovid himself posited, “There is no such thing as pure pleasure; some anxiety always goes with it.”
I’ve forgotten the smaller details of that night: The seven courses, the gifts, the cake flavor (my wager’s on chocolate), and the conversations I had. But I’ll never forget what Dad stated when we were loading up our car to go home: “I’m so glad I was able to do that for you.”
That’s why Dad spoke of the party so often, I recognize now. It was a point of pride for him. It had nothing to do with the things I wanted to receive and everything to do with the love he wanted to give. It was his own way of showing what I meant to him. Caesars Palace today bears little resemblance to the one of my adolescence. But whenever I drive by it and recollect my big sweet sixteen, all the lavishness, all the hedonism, all the excess fades away. What remains is the affection the party signified, and my heart swells with gratitude for my dear late dad.
In a city built to appeal to our basest instincts, for me Caesars Palace stands as a personal memorial to the selfless, inextinguishable love we’re all capable of, no matter what tragedies befall us. And if you ever get the opportunity to be carried by gladiators on a chaise lounge through a crowded casino while your family and friends cheer you on, go for it. You won’t regret it.