If you’re like me, the last thing you want to do while casually perusing this publication is to wrap your mind around a word problem. While this is completely understandable, bare with me for a minute, you don’t have to be a Nobel Prize contender to figure this one out. What do you get when you combine a lively group of 16 college co-eds with a week’s worth of vacation time and throw them into a city swarming with activity and void of an open container policy? In case you haven’t already guessed, I’m talking about perhaps college’s best-loved and longest-running tradition – spring break. Sure, I bet you had the time of your life slurping down key lime pie shots out of an unmemorable blonde’s navel in Punta Canta. Guaranteed you felt giddy after a few decidedly delicious brownies in Amsterdam. I don’t doubt the feeling of white, sandy beaches underneath your toes in Miami was your version of paradise. But did you follow a dentally-challenged man who told you to call him Uncle Jerry down dark alleyways to end up at quite possibly the most frightening casino in America? Not unless you were one of the fearless (or fearsome, in the case of good old Uncle Jerry) men and women on jetBlue flight ****bound for an infamous destination in southwestern Nevada. To quote the late, great Elvis Presley, “Viva Las Vegas.” The other 15 trip-goers and I are quite close friends. So tight in fact, that we refer to ourselves as “The Family.” We travel in packs and live by a saying made popular by the MTV reality show “Rob and Big.” When last October rolled around, and the thought of a week completely free of the drudgery of campus life was a mere glimmer in our undergrad eyes, we knew we had to plan something epic. We knew we had to “Do work.” A Facebook thread was started, and not long after, one of the 16 suggested the so-called city of sin as a perfect place to drown ourselves in all things excess. After months of money collecting, talks with contradicting hotel receptionists and more hours logged on yelp.com than with our noses in textbooks, the day finally arrived. We floated rather seamlessly through Logan Airport’s check-in and security, (except for one of us who forgot that liquids over 3.4 ounces have to go in your checked baggage, ahem, Matt) and met at the gate. A quick, group hand-holding session and pep talk set the tone for what would be the trip of a lifetime. Here’s a brief run-down of the week’s events; what can be remembered of them, of course. Saturday: We touch down at approximately 11:30 p.m. Vegas time. A quick cab ride to a Motel 6 behind the strip and we’ve officially arrived. 2 prostitute sightings, three slot machine sightings in the next-door 711, and a 2 a.m. trip to the nearest casino. Later, we lock our doors and sleep sans bedspread with one eye open. Sunday: With one of the most unmerciful slumbers of our lives under our belts, we hop in four cabs, endless luggage in toe, and set out for the Stratosphere, our hotel and home for the next week. Trip member Chris recommends we go to Harrah’s, where we dance ’til we drop (literally) to the music of a live band at an outdoor concert and bar. It’s here that many of us consume $35 long-island iced teas complete with neck straps for easy drinking, make a very old man’s wildest dreams come true, and gain a mother figure in a sassy older woman who tries to take us under her wing. Perhaps most importantly, we make a confidante in Tammy D., the limo driver, who promises to cart us around all week at a discounted rate. Monday: St. Patty’s day. We don our green and take an early afternoon limo drive to the heart of Las Vegas: the Strip. Some of us gamble at the MGM Grand, some of us take down Irish car bombs at the New York New York hotel. All of us think it’s a brilliant idea to stop at a liquor store and consume bottles of wine and 24 oz. beer cans while dining at our two favorite Vegas eateries: McDonald’s and Fatburger. A quick pit-stop back at the Stratosphere for a power nap (or to pass out for the night, Kelly) and we’re back with Tammy D. for a short drive to the old Strip and the Freemont Downtown Experience. A chance encounter with Uncle Jerry lures us toward dollar beers and dollar shots. Our fate is sealed for the night. Tuesday: We ask our hotel’s concierge if they have any free passes to big-name Vegas clubs. Dressed to impress, Tammy takes us to the Palms (made famous as the home of one of MTV’s Real World casts). In no time at all, we’re in the Playboy Club being served by bunnies hand-picked by Mr. Hefner himself, then club Moon, gazing out at breathtaking views of the city. It doesn’t get much better than this. Wednesday: We decide to see the celebrity-impersonation show “American Superstars,” conveniently located just up the escalator in our hotel. A few of the guys find a potential mate in Christina Aguilera, and all of us are amazed by Michael Jackson’s dance moves. It is here that I truly realize, yes, we are actually in Vegas. Tammy’s waiting, so we hurry downstairs and over the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. After giving the bouncer $100, we are begrudgingly let into the ultra-hip, ultra-snobby Body English nightclub, a favorite of Ms. Lindsay Lohan herself. Thursday: We decide to stick around the Stratosphere, spend some time at the roulette table, and then meander over to Polly Esther’s, a nightclub on the main floor. No one lasts very long among the mostly middle-aged crowd, and it’s not long before we’re shoving spicy chicken sandwiches in our mouths somewhere around 3 a.m. Casualty of the night: one of trip member Erica’s big toenails. Her white, patent-leather high heel is covered in blood, the victim of an overly passionate dancer. No worse for the wear, she’s good to go in no time. Friday: Dinner at Jimmy Buffett’s restaurant Margaritaville, then a walk down the strip to see the fountain show at the Bellagio. The prospect of an open bar for ladies and a beautiful outdoor patio beckons us to the Hawaiian Tropicana Bar. We’re amazed by a street magician and it seems as if the majority of us are ready to depart Vegas after a long week in the desert. Saturday: We pay extra for late check-out and are whisked away to the airport at around 8 p.m. We arrive in a zombie-like state back to Logan at 6:30 a.m. Boston time after a cross-country red eye. “Too much Vegas” seems to be the general consensus, but make no mistake ? we had the time of our lives. Though it wasn’t what most would consider a typical spring break in terms of location, we wouldn’t have had it any other way. Fourteen of us are seniors, and with the thought of graduation in the very near future, it was a great way to bond before we’re separated and face full-time jobs and full-time responsibility. Would I do it again? In a heart beat. If you ever make it to Las Vegas, you can find Uncle Jerry at the Golden Spike hotel and casino. Tell him the kids from Boston sent you. Then again, don’t confuse him. After all, he didn’t know Massachusetts is a state. Skye McIntyre can be reached at [email protected].