Section 8/10 is approximately a mile square, bordered on all sides by busy, six lane, commercial streets with signals every hundred yards. There is a Harley dealership, Ernie Hipolito's Hippopotamus Dental Office, bail bondsmen, 7-11s, The Original Pancake House, Rainbow Office Park (what says RAINBOW more than the all gray, stucco arch out front?) and myriad other generic strip mall businesses everywhere you look. But as you turn left off of Buffalo and enter Section 8/10, you enter this wild residential part of town that is unlike anything else. There are multi-million dollar homes surrounded by 8 foot tall gates that share the same gravel sidewalk with a tear-down, 1970s, single story ranch house with a rusted out swing set in the side yard. Common in many parts of the country but unusual for Las Vegas is that the styles of the homes in the Section, vary greatly. There will be a Hacienda style home next to a pre-fab stucco one next to a faux chateau. The wide streets turn into dirt and rocks on the side which then turn into lawns (maybe) and then homes. If you were in the market to buy, you could tour a $5 million home or a $100k one without straying 100 yards.
My absolute favorite part of Section 8/10 is the Eldora Estates. You can see the fancy sign in marble from afar and it piques your interest. Hmm, the Eldora Estates. Sounds nice and relaxing. Probably a lot of pools and palm trees. Maybe a golf course even. You're getting closer and the sign on the stone wall is getting larger and more fancy and then you're there. You're driving by The Eldora Estates and you look through the beautiful wrought iron gate, and your hopes are dashed as you see 3 acres of gray dirt and trash and a realtor's sign imploring you to call for information about plot sales. The dirt lot is enclosed with a brick wall and backs up to one of the previously mentioned 6 lane boulevards.
Every morning as we weave our way through Section 8/10 on the way to our kids' German robot factory, I mean the Kinderschool, Ryan and Sam eagerly ask when we are going to pass The Old House. It is the last thing we see as we leave this twilight zone and join the commuters on Jones Blvd. It is quite literally an old house. It's a corner home and the signal there is often red so we get to stare at it for minutes at a time. There is a large picture window, through which you can see the spiral staircase and its missing railing, a broken chandelier hangs in the foyer, the paint is two toned - gray and yellow, and is peeling off in many areas. The yard is a weed and rock garden and there's some sort of broken fountain out front. There is a metal, bent gate surrounding the house lest anyone break in to steal the last remaining bulb in the chandelier. You can barely see into what must have been the living room through the dust film on the windows.
I have no idea why The Old House has taken on such significance in our daily commute but the girls look forward to it and ask the same questions every morning.
"Wyan, Wyan, the OLD HOUSE. Here it is!" yells Sam.
"Ooh," says Ryan. "I wonder where the people live now?"
"Why is the paint coming off?"
"Who is going to move in there?"
"Why did they leave?"
And now when the girls complain about school ("It's so much work mommy and we don't get to play at the centers, only work!") I explain to them that if they don't work hard, they may have to live in The Old House. I'm not sure if that scares them or thrills them.
