Life is tall and sweet, but cramped and expensive, in Strip high-rises

Braden Albert reveals where he keeps his socks and underwear. Then he closes his kitchen cupboard.

Space is much tighter in his 1,000-square-foot one-bedroom at Sky Las Vegas -- a tony high-rise built just before the real-estate boom busted -- than in the three-bedroom Summerlin townhouse he ditched five months ago. And the rent is the same ($1,500 to $2,000; he won't be more specific).

But Albert, a 30-something conference developer and bachelor from Cleveland, doesn't mind.

"I wouldn't want to live anywhere else," he says. "When you're high up, you just start thinking differently. It makes you want to elevate your own life."

Blood-curdling screams fill Shellee Renee's apartment at Allure. They do every 10 minutes, every day, for 10 hours. They come from "Speed The Ride" at the Sahara.

"I like it," says the 44-year-old and single corporate sales manager from Seattle, as the roller coaster free falls backward and through the loop again.

"It's like my own cheering section."

In March, Renee traded a three-bedroom house in Autumn Hills for one less bedroom, and a lot less space, on Allure's 31st floor.

"Besides," she says of the screams, "they stop at 10 at night."

Albert calls the nonstop freight trains and early morning traffic helicopters -- which occasionally buzz below his 32nd-floor window -- easier to sleep through than the noises emanating from his former Summerlin neighbors.

"I could hear them sneeze, cough, snore and I don't want to tell you what else," he says.

Both Albert and Renee are enamored by their views, so bright they eliminate the need for indoor lighting -- even at night.

"I can see the Hilton from my bathtub," Renee says.

They also love the lack of responsibility. Renee beams while reciting the suburban burdens off her shoulders: "Valets take my groceries up. ... I don't have to have to open the gate for the lawn people on Monday and remember to close it when I get back. ... I take my trash to a chute in my hallway instead of the curb on a specific night."

Safety is the overriding reason Frances and Richard "Mac" MacDonald became one of Turnberry Towers' first tenants in 2001. Since relocating from Philadelphia in 1959, the builders of the MacDonald Ranch community lived in several large houses in town -- until the mid-'80s, when one on Maria Elana Drive was broken into while they slept.

"A prowler pulled everything out of my kitchen and office and rummaged through it," says Frances, who recently turned 85. "Luckily, I had everything hidden. But that scared the heart out of me."

Regency Towers -- the valley's first skyscraping condo -- became their home for the next 15 years.

"And this place is even more secure," Frances says.

The elevator won't go to the MacDonalds' private floor unless a magnetic key is swiped. Guests must be checked in at the front gate and by three guards at the tower entrance.

"And working guests have to leave a license," Frances adds.

Albert's Summerlin friends tell him he's nuts, that they try and avoid the Strip at all costs.

"But I can't understand why you would move to Vegas and not want to appreciate the best thing that Vegas has," he says.

Albert is so into the Strip lifestyle, he owns no plates, forks or knives. Dinner is either fast food or world-class restaurants every night.

"I never used to do stuff like go to CineVegas or First Friday," he says. "When you live down here, you feel like you should do these things because people around you are doing them."

Renee continues the tour of her view while standing in the only tiny triangle of space available on her terrace. It's on the right side of a lounge chair she had to place diagonally, so it could fit.

"When I have a guest," she explains, "I take this out and put two chairs out here."

So as to not cramp the space she needs to do yoga in her living room, Renee doesn't own a couch.

"Why do I need it?" she asks. "I work nine hours a day, and then I go out at night."

The trade-down in space doesn't bother the MacDonalds, either. But that's probably because they reside -- along with Gigi, their teacup poodle -- in 10,000 square feet on two connected floors atop Turnberry One.

"If you're going to live in a high-rise, this is the way to do it," Frances says. (Of course, you're also going to need millions of dollars. The MacDonalds shelled out five for what in 2007 became their second Turnberry address.)

Albert's biggest complaint is how lonely it is at the top. As in the Manhattan buildings these emulate, close quarters produce an ironic result: isolation. Hellos between strangers are less likely when sharing an elevator than when walking dogs down a street.

"There are formal rules about how we interact," Albert says, "whether we want to acknowledge them or not."

Renee doesn't mind not knowing her neighbors, the few she has seen. (Allure, one of the last high-rises to open, is one of the hardest hit by the recession. A billboard front reads "builder closeout from the $300s.")

"I love empty buildings," she says. " 'The Shining' is one of my favorite movies."

The MacDonalds don't share this experience; they have plenty of neighbors, and see them all the time at The Sterling Club and around the corner at Piero's Italian restaurant.

"If we don't show up one night," Frances says, "everybody asks where we are."

In fact, there is only one drawback all our high-risers agree on: Strip traffic. Just driving to and from Albertsons on Sahara Avenue and Maryland Parkway, where they all grocery shop, can take an hour.

"You have to plan your Saturdays a little differently," Albert says.

However, as Frances points out, "Albertsons delivers."

Contact reporter Corey Levitan at clevitan@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0456.