
Snapshots from Las Vegas
Las Vegas smells like smoke.
Women in cocktail dresses lounge at blackjack tables and puff cigars, and they manage to make it look effortless. Like they were born to inhale chemicals and exhale laughter. Me, I just find it hard to breathe. Even outside, the air is thicker, somehow. More full.
The whole time we are there, they play pop songs in an endless cycle. The music is piped out to the street, in the malls, in every casino lobby. There is no silence, no time for rest — and why would you want to, when there is something to see on every corner? An Eiffel Tower here and a bridal party over there. Animated billboards advertising illusionists and strip clubs and Cirque de Soleil. Someone on the street with a cooler calling, “Get your ice-cold water here! One dollar for ice water!”
We buy two, and it doesn’t matter that they are lukewarm because when it is 40 degrees in the shade, you take what you can get.
In Las Vegas, everything is fake. That’s not a judgement, just an observation; everything is carefully coated in a layer of showmanship that is believable enough, if you really want it to be. We see a show and the magician winks at the audience more times than I can count. He turns to show us the palmed cards, the fishing wire, offers to let us in on some of his secrets. In this city, I suppose the best way to stand out is to admit you’re lying every once in awhile and hope people stick around anyway.
As we spend hours wandering the strip, I try to convince myself I am really in Paris or Venice or walking the streets of New York. It is a strange kind of magic, letting yourself enjoy the sleight of hand, but why wouldn’t you? After all, isn’t that what you came all this way to see?