Living in a city like London can force you into a rut. Coming as a tourist, it’s a big city of a thousand attractions, bars, restaurants and buses. Sometimes, living here is like being run over by a bus made of smog and being dragged through a crowd of constantly disapproving people in suits, who are also made of smog. You need something to pull you out of the haze.
I needed a jolt. I needed a place so ridiculous, so perfect in its absurdity; a place literally made of electricity. Las Vegas.
The city could provide the shock to the system my jaded gay brain sorely needed. Las Vegas is like a city made on a dare. Las Vegas was where I needed to be.
Las Vegas is a City of Resorts
I spent the entire taxi ride from the airport to the hotel with my face pressed against the window. Severely jet-lagged – my body thought it was midnight when the blazing Nevada sun was telling me something different – the upcoming towers looked like a mirage.
In Vegas, you need to throw away all your hang ups about inauthenticity. I don’t care if you only go for the finest Colombian fine grain coffee in your favorite artisan coffee shop, that’s not what the City of Lights is about. It’s pure showmanship. It’s brash in the most extreme possible way. You’ll only enjoy it if, like Ripley at the end of Alien 3, you dive straight into this boiling hot nonsense.