Tour Audio di Reno: Auto, Cattedrali e Casinò—La Storia Dinamica del Centro

Take a good look to your right at that wild golden dome perched almost like a spaceship landed in the heart of Reno. Pretty hard to miss, right? This is the Pioneer Center for the Performing Arts, though locals have a special nickname for it: the Golden Turtle. Can you see why? The building emerged in 1967, back when peace, love, and bold architecture were all the rage. The designers wanted a roof with real flair, so they went with a geodesic dome-think Buckminster Fuller, the mad scientist of domes. Don Richter, one of Fuller’s students, was behind the project too, so you know it’s legit. That roof? It’s made of 500 golden panels, and the theater itself dips underground-so the dome nearly grazes the ground at the corners. If you see folks squinting, they’re probably just trying to figure out how the heck it’s standing up. And here’s a curious twist: they salvaged a 1939 pioneer family statue from a demolished state building and named the theater after it. Not Apollo, but Pioneer-it fits, don’t you think? When you’re ready, head southwest for about 2 minutes to find the Riverside Hotel.

Alright, look to your left-that’s the Riverside Hotel. These days it’s apartments and artist studios, but if you want to find the spot that put Reno on the map, you’re standing right in front of it. Picture the scene back in 1859: a rough log building here, run by a guy named C.W. Fuller, feeding and sheltering gold-seekers-all those folks rushing *east* for a little something called the Comstock Lode. So, instead of chasing dreams in California, a wave of hopefuls was heading this way, and this spot became ground zero for Reno’s first boom. Things only got more interesting from there. Myron Lake grabbed hold of this property in the 1860s and ran a hotel called Lake’s House until the 1880s. After he passed, his daughter and son-in-law took over and renamed it the Riverside. Later, Harry Gosse gave it a brick makeover, but unfortunately, fire had other plans. By the time George Wingfield-a local powerbroker with deep pockets and, how do I say it, a creative approach to hospitality-got involved, the stakes had gone way up. The Riverside you see now was dreamt up in 1927 by Frederic DeLongchamps, Nevada’s most prized architect and a former mining engineer who clearly knew how to build things to last. Six stories tall-practically a skyscraper by local standards back then-the Riverside showed off flashy red bricks with cream Gothic details. For a few years, it was the tallest thing in Nevada until another hotel stole the title four years later. Here’s where the plot thickens: Once Nevada’s divorce laws went liberal in 1931, the Riverside became *the* address for folks hoping to ditch a spouse with efficiency and a splash of style. Wingfield slapped a massive neon sign on the roof-subtlety not being his thing-blazing “Riverside” across the skyline for every divorce-seeker (and newspaper reporter) to find. The newspapers basically set up camp here. “Renovation,” they called the divorce scene. Between the celebrities, the legal eagles, and the heartbreak, this hotel was headline city. Even writer and congresswoman Clare Boothe wound up here, shivering through a blizzard in 1929, only to get a closet-sized room because her suite was double-booked. So much for VIP treatment. Suites here were decked out for the well-heeled, with actual kitchenettes, connecting rooms for kids and staff, and, get this-refrigerators cooled by circulating brine from the basement. That was the luxury version of climate control in the roaring twenties. The casino? That’s another chapter. Big names ran games day and night, the kind of place where fortunes-and sometimes reputations-could get lost fast. Wingfield opened a bank in the lobby, and a few enterprising casino operators figured out they could fleece more visitors in the vault than at the tables. At the Riverside, a little luck could make-or break-you overnight. The casino changed hands, expanded, survived scandals (including a dice-cheating debacle that cost them their gaming license), and even brought in the first hotel pool in town, before finally closing for good in the mid-80s. So, this spot really is Reno in a nutshell: wild swings of luck, colorful characters, and a knack for reinvention. Ready for Comstock Hotel & Casino? Just walk northwest for 6 minutes.

Alright, on your left is what was once the Comstock Hotel & Casino-a spot that liked to mix the thrill of cards with the bold lines of modernist architecture. Picture the late 1970s: disco balls, clacking slot machines, and hotel rooms that probably had a pretty good view of the neon downtown. This place opened its doors in 1978, with 160 rooms and a whopping 325 slots. Back then, which is the era of bell-bottoms and eight-tracks, a few million dollars went into this project-think well over $10 million today, just to give you a sense of the scale. The folks behind it? Multiple investors, including some local heavy hitters and a group called Fiesta Corporation. The management grip was solid at first, but the casino went through its share of ownership shuffles-including a moment when Judah Hertz got denied a Nevada gaming license. That’s as close as you get in Reno to being told you can’t join the party. Today, lucky dice have been swapped for condos inside the Residences at Riverwalk Towers. Funny how fast a place can go from jackpots to jacuzzis. Alright, when you’re ready, First United Methodist Church is just two minutes south.

Alright, on your right you’ll see the First United Methodist Church-one of Reno’s oldest spiritual beacons, right here since 1868. Imagine this spot back then: dusty streets, wooden buildings, and a tiny congregation led by Reverend Thomas McGrath, who was basically the “welcome committee” for anyone spiritually inclined in early Reno. Back then, the first church meetings were squeezed into a schoolhouse. By 1871, the congregation scraped together enough for their own place-a wood-framed church, costing maybe what a few months' rent would get you today, but in 1871 dollars, it was a mountain of cash. Now, look at the building in front of you-the grand concrete structure with those classic Gothic Revival arches. Finished in 1926, it was pretty high-tech for its day: poured concrete before it was cool. The parish house joined it about 15 years later, and the church kept growing, eventually adding classrooms and a fellowship hall in the '60s. Through booms, busts, and Reno’s city wildness, the church’s doors have stayed open, serving a close-knit group of about 400 folks.

Alright, look just to your left-there’s Arlington Towers, standing tall with a little swagger, like it’s still the new kid on the block. Back in 1965, this was THE project in Reno. Folks around here watched as workers poured record-breaking amounts of concrete-first 750, then 1,150 cubic yards in two separate, breathtakingly BIG pours. That’s the kind of day where your boots end up a permanent part of the sidewalk. Now, for a bit of drama, picture a massive 40-ton climbing crane, so expensive you could buy a big house with its price tag: $80,000 back then, which would be somewhere north of $750,000 today. This beast sat right in the building’s elevator shaft, helping the crew tackle a new floor every week-until, of course, reality stepped in. Labor strikes hit, turning those construction plans into a waiting game. At one point, just 85 workers tried to keep the place moving, when there really should’ve been three times that. All told, more than four months of lost work dragged out the completion date. At one stage, only ONE of the promised elevators was up and running for this skyscraper-so, if you lived here back in ’67, you were either patient, or very fit. Arlington Towers opened in 1967 as the pride of Reno-22 stories, roughly 260 feet high. That might not sound like much if you’re from a city with more glass and steel than sky, but here, this cast a LONG shadow. For a couple years, it outranked everything else around, until a rival casino tower stole the title in 1969. At night, I imagine it glowed like a beacon-fresh, modern, and just a little bit ostentatious. The original setup was roomy apartments, shops, and offices on the first two floors-about 11,000 square feet each, so plenty of space to stretch out. In 1980, Arlington went from apartments to condominiums. Units went on sale just as the economy took a nosedive-never perfect timing, is it?-so sales started slow. Still, these were some of Reno’s most desirable addresses: downtown, views of the city and mountains... and you could even spot the tower in the 1973 film "Charley Varrick." Not every building gets a Hollywood moment. Fun sidebar: After selling the tower for $9 million in 1969-about $70 million today-the Cavanaugh family found themselves in a bizarre tax tangle with the guy who bought it. Whoever said real estate was simple has never dealt with the IRS. Arlington Towers might not be Reno’s tallest anymore, but it’s still iconic-one of those places everyone in town seems to have a story about. When you’re ready, our next stop is Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral-just head north for about four minutes.

Alright, look to your left and you’ll spot the Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral-Reno’s own time machine in stone. Now, on the outside, it’s got that quiet dignity of a building that’s seen a century of Nevada sun... and a few wild nights too. The story kicks off in 1906, when Catholic leaders snapped up a house on this corner for $10,000-about $330,000 in today’s cash. Not just pocket change. Within two years, they’d replaced the old home with a church big enough to fit Reno’s growing Catholic crowd, and dedicated it in 1908. However, Reno life wasn’t all smooth hymns and gentle prayers-a brutal fire in 1909 took out the ceiling and nearly the entire building. You can still imagine the flames licking upward, right here at Christmas time. But, showing true Reno grit, the community rallied and had it back open in just one year. By the 1930s, the place was no longer just a parish church. Thanks to Pope Pius XI and a fresh bishop, it became the official cathedral of Reno. As a bonus, they installed the bishop’s chair-still sitting up front, as if waiting for its next occupant. Step inside, and you’ll see the real showstopper: a wraparound mural painted in the 1950s by the Piczek sisters-a duo famous for their church art. The mural’s a who’s who of saints, Jewish prophets, and even a modern family, all centered around a glowing lamb. It’s considered one of the finest of its kind in the country. Okay, time to keep moving. When you’re ready, just stroll west for about four minutes to reach the 20th Century Club.

Let’s take a good look at the building on your right-the 20th Century Club. Or, as some locals might say, “Reno’s original women’s power station.” Back in 1894, when Reno was still dust and ambition, eighty-four women, led by Mrs. Walter McNab Miller, decided the city needed more than saloons and mining deals. They wanted libraries, kindergartens, scholarships-a shot at the future. Their vision was huge. By 1901, these women weren’t just talking about change-they were making it. They literally started Reno’s first circulating library, and even pushed lawmakers to create public kindergartens statewide. Imagine convincing folks at the turn of the last century that toddlers deserved an education--that was no light task. Now, the building itself is a stunner. Built in 1925, it’s a blend of Classical Revival and Prairie School architecture-a little “Great Gatsby,” a little prairie prairie. It was the scene for just about everything-a who’s who of gatherings: dinner dances, weddings, and enough civic meetings to make your head spin. Back in the club’s heyday, membership topped 1,000 women-picture it, a thousand voices planning, laughing, plotting the next cause. They had their fingers in all sorts of pies. War efforts, social causes, and even laws about... spitting on the sidewalk. Hey, civic progress comes in all shapes. Speaking of progress, their scholarships began in the late 1800s-$100 back then, roughly $3,500 today. Now, they give two $2,500 medical scholarships each year, plus $20,000 to charity. Not bad for a club that started in a parlor. Alright, time to head west along the river. The First Church of Christ, Scientist is just a 2-minute walk from here.

Take a look to your left, and you’ll spot the former First Church of Christ, Scientist, perched quietly above the Truckee River. It’s easy to see why Anna Frandsen Loomis, a lady with both deep pockets and strong beliefs, wanted THIS spot for her congregation back in 1939. Now, $120,000 was a hefty sum then-think over $2.5 million today. Let’s say Anna wasn’t pinching pennies. She didn’t just bring any architect on board, either. She hired Paul Revere Williams, whose name you’ll find in the history books as the first Black member of the American Institute of Architects. Williams designed this classic beauty in the neoclassical style-think columns and symmetry that would make ancient Greeks do a double-take. After almost 60 years as a church, the building found a new life, thanks to another generous donor, Moya Lear. She helped transform it into the Lear Theater, let’s call that the ultimate encore. Today, with a spot on national and state historic registers, the old church continues to stand watch over the river-quiet, graceful, and full of stories.