Loathing Las Vegas

I just got back from a three-day trip to Las Vegas. Before you judge me, let me expound.

I realize that anyone with an ounce of refinement does not go near Las Vegas. Not being susceptible to gambling – that is, not enjoying flushing my money down the toilet -- I managed to avoid the cry of the casinos for half of my adult life. When I reached my forties, however, peer pressure won out over good taste.

During my first exposure to the famed Las Vegas strip, I became overstimulated and appalled. This was escapism aimed at humanity’s lowest common denominator. I could not believe anyone would submit to this world of fakery, comprised of fake Paris, fake Venice, and even, fake ancient Egypt. 

Everything in Vegas is an imitation, right down to the flowers in the would-be “botanical garden” at the Bellagio hotel. 

Most of it is laughable, like Caesar’s Palace, with its bogus Roman columns and talking statues reminiscent of the Haunted Mansion. 

There is nothing cerebral happening in Vegas. It is an appeal to base desires.

Even famous restaurants are ersatz versions of the real things. You get the pale Las Vegas interpretations of prized New York eateries like Carbone or Nobu – comical facsimiles of the originals designed to churn out large quantities of pseudo cuisine for the undiscerning masses. 

This culinary fakery reached its apotheosis with a new Martha Stewart-themed restaurant, which the New York Times recently savaged.

 

Given these pitfalls, it is with no small amount of shame that I admit to visiting this epicenter of vulgarity once every year. After the Thanksgiving leftovers are gone and the snow starts to fall, we know it’s time to pack our bags and head for the Nevada desert. 

 

My excuse is wanting to accompany my husband to a mandatory annual business conference. 

 

Last year, I came down with Covid or some other nasty bug just when we landed in Hell. I spent the time quarantined in my purple and chrome hotel room, taking cold medication, and attending Zoom meetings for my old job. 

 

This year, I was not so lucky to contract Covid, and I had no job. With three days to explore, I girded myself, held my nose, and tiptoed out of the room to see if I could discover anything redeeming out there while Joe did his thing.

 

What I found was that the design quotient of this year’s hotel, Wynn, surpassed others on the strip. I’ll go so far as to say that Wynn is a beautiful resort. It helps that it does not have a childish theme like Ancient Rome or The Pyramids. Colorful, glitzy, and the opposite of reserved, the flamboyance here improves upon the usual Vegas vibe. The holiday decorations made me smile in a year when I won’t be visiting the tree at Rockefeller Center. I got a kick out of the “four hands massage” option on the spa menu – Vegas is so over-the-top that one massage therapist isn’t enough. And the shopping at our hotel was first class.

 

For all that, I am thrilled to be back in Cleveland for the duration of the holiday season. I will be snuggling with my loved ones and grateful not to spend more than three days a year in Sin City. 

 

As the Elvis impersonator crooned, there’s no place like home for the holidays.