In Vegas, everyone and everything is pretending to be something they’re not. Middle-America sized bodies are stuffed into glittering dresses, the casinos have all the taste of a Carnival Cruise ship, and the volk is trying to look “fancy”. The facades are literal facades but everything else is also facade. Nobody in Vegas is hot shit. Everyone’s trying to look like hot shit.

But that’s the first night. The second night is different. You see something else on the second night.

The sun has set a long time ago but it’s still warm, you’re never more then thirty metres from a cheap cold beer, and anywhere you look is some entertainment vying for your attention. You can walk for miles without escaping the sound of laughter and partying. The gambling floor sounds like happiness and the highest budget arcades in the world. Put some money on the line and feel that tenseness of uncertainty followed by victorious euphoria or hollow dejection. Both are worth savouring. Relax your shoulders, accept it all, and submerge yourself in the sensory experience.

But beyond the raw pleasures, there’s the vibe. You get to see the heart-warming confidence of strangers in their best outfits strutting around feeling like a million bucks. Bands of bros talk shit while vaguely looking at the bar TV, strangers ask each other where they’re from over blackjack, and the white girls party as white girls are wont. The couples are the most lovely: you can see in their smiles and how they turn to each other that it’s one of the most glamorous and romantic nights of their lives, and they both know they’re about to have hotel sex.

Everyone on the strip sets out to have a good time, and goddamn you can feel it in the air. Thirty million Americans visit the Las Vegas Strip every year, and the Strip dutifully manufactures glamour, escape, thrills, and highs in the American style. Budget-friendly, tacky, and fun. It’s a marvelous thing. God Bless America.