Today, when visitors approach Las Vegas, most descend toward Harry Reid International Airport into the shimmering Vegas Valley, the glitter of the Strip heaped up in the center like a towering pile of pirate loot. But for decades, most tourists arrived in their cars, winding through the desert’s brazen sun or inky dark. The motels along the highway gradually faded into view, blooming into a series of neon-lit oases, advertising respite for weary travelers.
If they came from California, traveling north on Highway 91, they’d pass the jumbo pink elephant outside the Diamond Inn Motel and the white pillars and black shutters of the Colonial House Motel. Coming south from Utah or Oklahoma, they’d be greeted by the stardust sign of the Strip 91 Motel and Yucca Motel’s midcentury angles wrapped around the rustic Little Chapel of the Flowers. Heading in from Arizona, they’d take Boulder Highway to Fremont, sliding past the low-slung Spanish Colonial comfort of the Ambassador East Motel and the tractor-beaming flying saucer of the Orbit Inn.
“Motels were a response to the growing popularity of the automobile, which stimulated the popularity of Las Vegas as a tourist destination,” says Mitch Cohen, a Nevada Preservation Foundation board member. “Motels and the city really grew up together, and today they symbolize what the city was before the interstate, before chain hotels, before the Strip gained dominance over everything.”
Motels stand as small monuments to American culture. The world of motels was one of mom/dad/kids families like on TV and traveling businessmen like in the movies — but also the alternative cultures found in volumes like On the Road or The Green Book, as well as on the radio stations playing as folks pulled in to check in. They’re also a catalog of twentieth-century architecture: the quaint Mission bungalows of the Monterey Motel, the fairytale cottages of the Peter Pan Motel, the streamline moderne glass blocks of the Cactus Motel, the Hollywood Regency extravagance of the Monaco Motel.
Where more than 100 motels used to line the roads leading to Las Vegas, only a few dozen remain today. But as some have tumbled into disrepair, disuse, and vacant-lot status, their signage has risen with Phoenix-from-the-ashes fire. Thus far, the city has restored and relocated 15 motel signs around central Las Vegas — the gaudy Googie sign of the Clark Inn’s welcoming arrow now points at the Lloyd George U.S. Courthouse, while the celestial pinup girl of the Blue Angel Motel pirouettes above a car wash on Charleston Boulevard. Some have been projects of the Neon Museum and the City of Las Vegas, others the work of the Downtown Project (now DTP Companies) or under the auspices of the private/public partnership, Project Enchilada.
Such lavish signage attached to small motor courts may seem a fluke unique to Vegas, but it was common (if not as extravagant) across the nation. Before the internet, travelers usually decided where they were staying the night about 10 seconds before they pulled into the parking lot. A big hunk of sparkling neon could be a powerful draw.
Another lure for the tired desert driver: swimming pools. “You almost couldn’t have a motel without a pool,” Cohen says. “It’s 100 degrees in July; you’re going to want a pool to dip into at the end of the day. They put them in the front, too — now you wouldn’t enjoy swimming in the middle of the parking lot but back then it was an advertisement.” Indeed. How many Death Valley-weary travelers gazed longingly through the six-foot windows surrounding the Glass Pool Inn’s pool and decided to pull over and check in?
In our retro fetishist/boutique hotel era, you’d think the quaint cottages of the Gables Motel or the Southwest art deco of the Travelers Motel could find new life as posh little getaways, as in Austin or Palm Springs. But the Las Vegas motels experiencing a rebirth are those that have transformed their original purpose, such as Fergusons Downtown, a motel-turned-multiuse-center on Fremont Street. Where there once was a parking lot, there is a tiered lawn for yoga or bands. Where there were hotel rooms, there are boutiques, salons, and studios. Tori Fangman, Fergusons general manager, calls it “a compelling case study for the viability of other motels.” She adds, “Cities can breathe new life into neglected neighborhoods while preserving their architectural heritage by reimagining outdated spaces as mixed-use developments that combine commercial, residential, and cultural elements. “
The Holiday House/Fun City Motel, now the techie-oriented BLVD apartment complex, and the Safari Motel, which has become transitional housing, are among the motels that have been restored to new life. There’s an empty patch of gravel where the La Concha Motel used to be, but its Paul Revere Williams-designed lobby now serves as the lobby of the Neon Museum.
Motels rose to meet a need in a culture that was moving and changing. It makes sense they would move and change with it. Cohen supports doing “anything we can do to keep them, because they are really endangered,” he says. “We’ve seen them turned into shops, restaurants, entertainment venues, art spaces, residences. I’d like to think that motels aren’t just part of our history but could be part of our future.”